When we got closer, the answer became apparent. The owl was the thing Cornellio knelt next to. One of its wing was broken and laid in an unnatural position, and its feathers were smeared with blood. Cornellio was trying to pour his blood that flowed freely from a wound on his wrist into the bird's beak, but it was too weak to swallow.
He was muttering something under his breath in Finnish in an urging tone, and had the most distressed expression on his face.
I could see the life that the vampire's blood was full of, and how some of it got into the owl after all, not letting it die here and now. I could also see the impurities in it: bits of someone's memories, personalities, auras. No wonder a vampire's blood could turn a person mad.
Without prompting, I knelt next to the owl and moved some things around. Impurities to one side, the pure life force inside of the poor animal. At my efforts, it shifted slightly and opened its eyes.
