Marcella’s horse clopped along the bleach blue sands at a lazy gait. Sister moon lit up the Sonora. She was thankful for the poetic light. The cry of an owl lit ears up and there he was. The silhouette stood ten paces away; leaping distance. “Harland?” she asked, with a cool smile. The man’s paper white lips curled, revealing two, inch long fangs. “Been following you for a while now,” she rasped, drawing the pistol as the clouds snuffed out moonlight.
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