"I'm going to be a vampire, Daddy."
He could not find his voice. There were no spit in his mouth. "Put your clothes on, Jessy." It was a dry whisper, weak and useless.
"I'm going to bite people, Daddy. Im going to feed on them. I need blood. Hot...rich...red blood. I need your blood, Daddy. I'm hungry. Your Jessy's hungry. Come to me."
He did not know how he got to the bed. Surely if she had cajoled so, if she were not his daughter, his only joy, if he had not always tried to give her everything she asked for... surely if he had lain with some other woman in the ten years since Lydia was gone... surely then, if the ache in his groin had not come bursting forth, he would not have let her lay him out and undo his trousers and straddle him, slipping around him as smooth and tight as sea anemones. Surely he would not have groaned and squeezed her heavy soft breasts between his fingers and thrust up and up into his daughter's wet-velvet heaven until she bent over him and he felt a metallic sting as a razor blade beneath his jaw. Jessy fastened her lips there. He felt her throat working as she swallowed. Then a black crimson mist began to drift into the edges of his vision.
He woke up tangled in Jessy's rumpled sheets that smelled of girl-skin. There was a nick on his throat, no worse than a bad shaving cut, smeared with dry blood and spit. He did not wash it. Jessy was gone.