The turning rites
"Well, well, well," he drawled, circling her slowly like a vulture eyeing its prey. "If it isn't the prodigal daughter of the great Shelly clan. Tell me, dear cousin, how does it feel to be cast out from your birthright? To be relegated to these...humble accommodations?"
Rose met his taunting gaze with fire in her eyes, refusing to be cowed by his mocking words. "You would do well to mind your tongue, Marlowe," she warned, her voice low and laced with quiet menace. "I may have fallen from grace in my mother's eyes, but I am still a Shelly. My blood runs truer than most in this forsaken place."
A harsh bark of laughter escaped Marlowe's lips. "Your blood?" he sneered. "What good is the blood of a turned wretch like you? You're little more than a stain on the proud Shelly name."
He leaned in closer, his fetid breath hot on her face. "If your father hadn't already gone to his eternal sleep, you'd have him to contend with as well for your transgressions."