Emilie was dying, this much she knew. She only wished it would happen faster. With an immune system as wrecked as hers, the cold she'd been taken by was doing some real damage. Her eyes were far more shadowed than normal, her skin so pale it was almost gray, and beneath the generous curve of her breasts were the sharp ladder of her ribs that grew more and more pronounced by the day.
But Rodeo was coming to see her, and that was enough to make Emilie crawl out of the hell hole that was her nest, arm still weeping blood and puss from the recently infected injection site, but that was easily covered up by the intricately designed leather of her jacket. Her fingers were also infected — three of them wouldn't move on their own anymore, but her gloves hid that too.
When she received the text, she actually smiled.
Before long, she'd be a corpse just like the shamblers but, fuck, she wished it wouldn't be such a slow death, and she didn't quite have the courage to simply draw a blade across her throat and end it all in one glorious gash of red.
She moved silently and easily through the tunnels, a shadow in leather, and before too much longer she breached the mouth of the staircase. "Your Majesty," she greeted, her voice hoarse from the screaming fit she'd been thrown into the night before. "Missed you." With that, she extended a leather-bound hand and waited for him to take it.