Jean-François burst apart in his hands, the vampire’s body collapsing into a tumbling, jumbling mass. As Gabriel staggered backward, pink froth at his lips, he realized he was holding only the vampire’s feathered mantle and frockcoat; dark velvet embroidered with golden curlicues. A horde of rats was swarming about his feet now, spilling from the legs of the historian’s britches, the sleeves of his fine coat, rushing in a flood from the cell. Meline had rolled to her feet, clutching the historie to her bosom as she dashed from the room and slammed the door, a few rats chittering and squealing
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