“He didn’t!” silver bells, and cockleshells, and pretty maids all in a row, the dirtiest blonde lifts the tangle of chiffon, bloody handprints on peach skirts, to better steer over the motionless limbs of the perishing vampires’ soon-to-be pile. She has a dancers agility and ease of direction in times of anxiety, she trots like a trained lioness in cadence over the twitch of the dying monster’s knee, relieved it doesn’t reach out to grab her, and arrives, carefully, standing alongside Eli's aiming arm. She's staring between this stranger, and down at the ruby mess that is her companion, her favored, and every fiber, every ligament of her, she wants to help him... wants to help him now...
… but she knows why this man is asking him that question. And this becomes obvious.
“I saw—it has only fed—you arrived thereafter. I promise you!” the testimony littered with a French gallop in tone.