Chapter 25

“Don’t stay there, Morgan,” Gran said, clearly wishing the opposite. “Come join us.”

The soft taps of her brown ballet flats joined the beeps of Buffy’s heart, but somehow, Aunt Morgan’s walking sounds had overlapped everything. My ears and all that was sensory in my body were solely focused on her. I was like a lion prowling quietly, waiting and sensing every move she made, and once she came into view, watching warily every curve and hollow that made her what she was: an aching reminder of death.

“How is she?” Aunt Morgan asked. She stopped at the foot of the bed and stared at Buffy. The glint of sadness, and something more that I would’ve bet was guilt, shone behind black rimmed, squared glasses.

“All her vital signs are good,” Gran said, looking at an angel-faced Buffy sleeping. “She just needs to come back from wherever she is.”