His hand wavered, floating two centimetres above the lacquered wood of the door. Coming back here was a mistake, everyone thought he was dead, he was finally free. Yet the weight in his backpack reminded him why he was doing this. It was penance, he had no right to complain.

His fingers wrapped tighter around the motorcycle helmet he was holding and knocked, anxiety curling up in his chest like a ball of thorns, part of him wishing no one would answer. It's been two hundred years since he left, it wouldn't surprise him if it happened, but the door in front of him did open, except the face that greeted him was not the one he expected.

"We have a door bell, you know," the woman in front of him said and he looked at her, confused by what he was seeing.

"May I help you?" she asked just as confused, measuring him. She was young, or at least she looked young, mid-thirties, but her eyes were red and sharp fangs peeked through her parted lips. And yet she looked so much like her. The same thick hair, although hers was dark not silver, the same petite stature. Even the way she studied him was the same.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low, cautious voice. “I’m looking for Elena Aman. Does she still live here?”

“She does, but she’s not home right now. I’m not sure when she returns.”

He was disappointed and relieved at the same time. He found himself not knowing how to proceed.

“I was hoping to see her, but I cannot stay.”

He could stay. He just didn’t want to, because he might want to not leave.

“Could you... perhaps give her this?" he asked placing his helmet down on the ground. He started rummaging through his rucksack until his fingers touched the thing he was looking for. His prison, cold and heavy in his hands. He started pulling it out, the round silver box shining in the muddy light. The woman stared at the coiled dragon resting on the lid, her mouth hanging slightly ajar.

“I can… ” she stuttered, her eyes glued to the box. She knew what it was. “I can pass on a message if you want. I’m sure grandma will contact you.”

Grandmother? He dropped the urn back in his backpack.

“You’re Peter’s daughter?”

What is left when we are gone? What remains in our wake when our bones turn to dust and the last memory of us fades? Do we just disappear like the fragile flame of a candle. Or do we linger for a while, like the plume of smoke that rises from the burnt wick?

Elena hadn’t asked herself these questions in almost six hundred years, yet today, as she pushed open the heavy wooden door of the church, they came to her again, like an omen of the times that laid ahead.

She stepped inside, limping through it like through the skeleton of an old forgotten creature—with tall arcades and bone-coloured pillars, sitting lonely on a cold and steep hill. Lying in wait to devour whoever dared to trespass. Faint images of saints judged her from afar, the betrayal of her faith, the choice to abandon her beliefs and the promise of Heaven.

The air inside was stale with rot and mildew. The uneven sound of her footsteps on the stone pavement disturbed the stillness, her movement leading wisps of dust into a chaotic dance through the sparse rays of light that managed to slip into the murky room. One thing that immortality didn’t cure was her limp, after so many years she still dragged her left foot. The one she broke years before she became a vampire. There were other things that immortali-ty didn’t heal.

She adjusted the black handkerchief that kept her long grey hair tied neatly underneath. She searched the room, her emerald-green eyes landing on the figures standing still in front of the altar. A crease deepened in between her eyebrows and a tinge of alarm started to form in her chest. She stopped walking.

“Good evening, Ovidiu,” she said.

Six bald heads turned towards her. Aligned in two rows of three along the nave, the creatures looked at her with expressionless red eyes. They opened their parched mouths and uttered in unison:

“Elena? What a surprise!”

Followed by a male voice:

“You’re here.”

A tall figure emerged from behind the altar. He walked slowly towards her, his steps careful and heavy. A grey arm with sharp nail peered out of a long and unkempt robe and pulled the hood off his head, revealing a grotesque bust with tufts of long greasy hair scat-tered on a mostly bald head.

“You’ve invited me,” she said.

“I didn’t think you’d come. It’s not the first invitation I send your way.”

Elena nodded, looking at the bald creatures, now immobile, their eyes dead, like pup-pets that had their strings cut off. She’s been invited here many times, but she didn’t feel like it was ever a good moment to honour the invitations. Her dissatisfaction with his actions had lasted a long time.

“After your last stint, you should be glad we’re still on speaking terms.”

“I know,” he replied and invited her to sit on the few chairs next to the wall, that some-how survived the passage of time.

“It took a long time to decide if I should come here at all,” Elena confessed as she tried making herself comfortable on the decrepit chair with very little success.

“Yet here you are, against your better judgment.” He smiled, his shrivelled-up lips stretched and parted to reveal two fangs instead of his front teeth.

“I’ve never been known for my better judgement.”

“I’d beg to differ.”

“Everyone expected a harsher punishment for you. And maybe I should have applied one. But I understood,” she said then gathered her hands in her lap, her fingers intertwined and started twirling her thumbs around each other.

“I just wanted to bring him home. It’s not fair that our maker spends his eternal rest among strangers.”

Elena sighed. “He’s dead. That’s what Vlad truly wanted. I don’t think he cares where he rests.”

“I was so close. I had him in my hands, the cold metal of his urn has graced my fin-gers.” He looked at his hands holding an invisible object.

“I know. But you were caught.” She cut his reverie short, because that train of thought was dangerous, she knew that first hand. Her eyes bolted to the six shadows near the altar. “Your failure almost killed us all. If not for my research—”

“And for that I’ll forever be grateful. The others should be too,” Ovidiu said and placed a shivering grey hand over hers, stopping the anxious rotation of her thumbs.

The others had no idea. They knew she gave her research to the humans, they thought it was only to save him, but it was to save them all. The danger they were in, she kept it a secret, to keep the peace, to not cause panic in a community that was already fragile. The deal she offered them was one hard to pass. It was after all a fair trade.

“What they are trying to do is traitorous. If only they knew what you did.”

“Why? To keep a position they don’t want me in?” She shook her head. “No. It’s not worth it.”

“So you will let David take the reins? He’ll destroy everything you’ve built. He wants to take the rights for your blood research back. And to let everyone hunt again.”

“That bloody idiot!”

Ovidiu’s hand gently squeezed hers before he released it and stood up.

“That’s what he told me. As he was trying to buy my vote,” he muttered under his breath. “He was so proud. Said he was going to do everything you were too scared of doing.”

Elena scoffed.

“I am on your side, I hope you know that.”

“I appreciate it,” she said, but his support did not matter. Not with everything going on.

“The other Elders underestimate your importance.”

“I have no importance. The secrets I keep on the other hand… ” she said giving him a pointed look and her thumbs began spinning again. The sharp edges of the chair were starting to dig at her sides.

Ovidiu started pacing, as if he felt her unease.

“You are the oldest. You are the first. Dracula left you in charge for a reason.”

That he did. A very good reason, just not the one they all thought.

“Vlad isn’t here any more. Our kind can go on without me. You know that as well as I do.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “We should treasure you! Like the library that you are. You—unlike them—learned and evolved. I envy the knowledge you possess.” He spoke with such reverence that it almost frightened her.

“It came along with making a lot of mistakes,” she tried to put the praise to rest.

He stopped in front of her, looking down.

“No wonders are created by perfection.”

She stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I am not a wonder. And mistakes have a way of coming back to bite you when you least expect it. If David tells you anything else, let me know.”

“Of course,” he bowed his head. “If I can do anything about it…”

Elena looked again at his queens, waiting for their master to give them life again, then shook her head.

“It won’t be necessary. Thank you for your invitation. I should go now.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Always a pleasure to have you.”

Elena smiled and started walking slowly towards the door. Her hands clasped in front of her waist, relieved she could go, but her body still searching for comfort in this unwelcom-ing place.

“Grandmother… ” Ovidiu called just as she prepared herself to step outside. She looked back.

“You are a wonder. Send regards to my sister.”

Elena nodded and crossed the threshold to the outside world. She took off her hand-kerchief. The sign of respect to a divinity she has long forsaken.

It was quiet. In the distance, the neon-lit silhouettes of the giant holographic ads of the city shimmered and moved through the murky air.

She took a deep breath; the air was humid and warm, and it smelled faintly of dried grass. She closed her eyes, letting the last rays of the evening sun grace her skin. She won-dered why it felt like the end. If only that night she had accepted her fate.

February 1477 - Comana, Giurgiu County, Romania

It rained heavily. The gloomy grey clouds made the early morning as dark as dusk. The village was silent still, with only the croak of a disoriented rooster echoing somewhere in the distance.

She should have stayed at home today; her old bones really disliked the rain. Especially her left foot, the one she broke last year while going down in the basement to get some pick-led cabbage and wine. But it was the anniversary of her husband’s death, and his soul needed at least a candle being lit in his name and some alms given to the poor. Especially now that their son was missing as well, yet to return from the war. She was beginning to believe he will never return but she was determined to hold on to even the faintest of hope. Dying alone was not a future she looked forward to.

The cold autumn air pricked her cheek as she walked back home, the thick mud from the alley sticking to her shoes, making them a burden to carry.

A harrowing wail coming from the side of the road made Elena’s heart stop. She gasped and then spat three times in her blouse, trying to make out what or who made the awful sound.

She took a step closer to the edge of the road, in the direction of where she thought it was coming. Another whispered whine convinced her she was going the right way, so she continued to walk until she began to distinguish the shape of a man crawling in the dirt. Her hands flew to her mouth when she saw the state he was in. Almost naked and writhing in pain, with so many swollen wounds and bruises on his body that he barely looked like a hu-man being any more.

He turned on his back with an agonising cry, his long dark hair covering his face and tangling with his muddied beard. Rain poured, washing away the mud, and exposing multiple areas where red, angry flesh bloomed like a macabre flower. It was as if he had been cut off into pieces, and then someone tried to put him back together but forgot to finish the job.

“Help!” he cried and his lungs wheezed.

Elena crouched next to him, trying to find a way to lift him off the ground without hurting him further.

“Do you think you can walk? At least a little bit? I don’t live far from here, but I can’t carry you alone.”

The man took a few shallow breaths, placed his hands in the dirt and pushed himself upright. His right palm slipped, and he fell back with a loud groan. He tried again and this time Elena rushed to help him. She managed to get him back on his feet and then they slowly made their way towards her house.

She was a strong woman, she still carried her own wood back from the forest, but the human body had a way of becoming heavy and unyielding when inert. She prayed to God he wouldn’t faint.

Weeks had gone by, and Elena continued to care for him, dressing and cleaning his wounds daily. It kept her busy, kept her from thinking what might have happened to Peter, if he was even still alive. The man that was now occupying his bed, fell in a deep coma. The on-ly moments she was certain he wasn’t dead were when he was drifting in and out of fever dreams. He spoke then, but none of the words he said made any sense. She started to think he might not make it.

It was the first snow of the year when he finally woke up. Large flakes of snow were whirled in all directions by the wind that was howling outside.

He woke up to the sound of fire crackling in the stove and the smell of freshly baked bread invading his nostrils. When he opened his eyes he saw an old woman sitting on a small stool next to the stove, spinning a spindle of wool. Her mind seemed far away and her head slowly bobbed side to side to the rhythm of the song she was humming.

He waited for her to finish her song revelling in the melody.

“That was beautiful,” he said, but his voice was barely audible. His throat was dry and coarse like sandpaper.

“There’s water next to the bed,” the old woman told him, still working the spindle.

He looked to his side and saw a clay mug filled to the brim with water. He reached for it with shaky hands and brought it to his lips, letting the cold liquid soothe his aching throat.

“Thank you,” he said after he finished drinking. “For everything.”

“I only did what anyone would do.”

“It was kind.”

“What happened to you, son? Who did that to you?” she asked, worry in her voice thick like honey.

“I... I don’t know,” he answered looking at his bandaged wrists. “I don’t remember.”

“Do you remember who you are?”

“I’m—”

And for a second the thought was gone and panic started to set in. Then it came back. “My name is Vlad. Vlad Drăculea.”

The woman looked at him like he has gone insane.

“That’s impossible. Țepeș is dead. I’ve seen them bury what was left of him in that cemetery… ” she trailed off. She stopped, then slowly, with careful words “Outside of which I found you.”

They were both reaching the same impossible conclusion. But how? He was standing right there. There was no way he was dead… but there was also no way he had survived.

The memories started flooding back in, like a river through a broken dam. He was on the battlefield. He had just won his crown back. Basarab Laiotă, the one he had taken his reign back from, backed by a Turkish army, cornered him and his retinue in a field not far away from here. They stood no chance; they had double the numbers and the advantage of surprise. They were slaughtered like cattle. He fought, but they had captured him. They tied him to a tree and started carving. A long and thin knife entered his flesh, slowly and method-ically loosening his joints. The blood pooled at his feet until he finally fainted. But the pain of each limb being detached from his body woke him up, only to succumb again and again, until the image of the forest faded to black as his head rolled on the floor, no longer attached to his body.

Basarab Laiotă won. Mehmed won. He was no longer a prince, he was—

“Dead. I died.” He lifted his hand to feel at his neck, finding another cloth there. Un-derneath he could feel the burn of another cut. “How am I alive? Am I cursed?”

The old woman crossed herself.

“I’m sorry.” he said, panic slowly settling in. “I think I might have brought evil into your home.” He started removing the layers of bedding that were keeping him warm, trying to get up. The woman placed the spindle on the floor and got up holding on the edge of the stove. She sat herself down on the side of the bed at his feet, holding her hands in her lap.

“Evil has haunted this house a long time. It has taken my husband, and now perhaps my son. You were given a second chance. I’d hardly call that a curse.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he said quietly. “Or perhaps neither God nor the Devil wants me.”

“Don’t talk like that.” She scolded him and gently swatted his leg, careful not to harm him. “Are you hungry? I have some fresh soup and some warm bread.” She asked and got up from the bed.

“I’d love some.”

That night he found it hard to sleep, and he doubted he’ll ever sleep again. He raised his hands, studying in the pale light of the gas lamp the thin red lines that circled his wrists. The last time he looked at them was when they were severed from his body with a rusty dagger. He remembered the burning pain, but he endured the entire ordeal without making a sound.

He shuddered, closed and opened his eyes, then looked around the room to make the images go away.

It was a modest house, and it smelled like freshly made bread. There wasn’t much deco-ration except for a few pieces of hand-sewn tapestry hanged on the walls. The few pieces of furniture, a small table and two chairs, were crowded around a mud stove placed on the other side of the bed.

When he finally drifted to sleep, what sounded like muffled screams woke him. For a few seconds, he didn’t know what was going on, but then he heard two men talking.

They sounded drunk. Very drunk. He raised from the bed, careful not to make too much noise. He knew very well that he wasn’t in the best shape, but the element of surprise would give him an advantage against the two. When he reached the hallway, he could see Elena sprawled on the ground, with a wound on her head, and one of the men crawling with his pants down over the woman’s still body, as the other searched the room for money. He could feel the rage boiling inside of him, and with the rage, something else surfaced… hun-ger, scraping at his insides as if it wanted to get out. And he had to let it out. He could feel his body contract, and his bones crack under an invisible force. His wounds began to glue themselves back together, and the skin started to rip, peel, and fall off his body revealing a new, almost green one underneath.

The two men heard him writhe and they both turned to look in his direction. Nothing could match the look of terror on their faces as they stared into the two red eyes that watched them from the hallway. Vlad stepped into the room, revealing himself in the pale moonlight that seeped through the small window. His battle-hardened body shone, wet with the fresh blood of the skin he just shed, his head could almost reach the ceiling now, and sharp fangs peeked through his slightly parted lips.

The intruders didn’t even have time to scream. With inhuman speed, he tore into the men, sharp teeth ripping their throats open, sucking them dry. And only then his hunger suc-cumbed.

When he was done with them, he slowly approached Elena.

“I don’t want to die,” she said in the agony of delirium. He knelt next to her and ripped his wrist open with his teeth, letting his blood flow freely into her mouth. It seemed like the right thing to do. Multiply.

Joanna stopped scrolling on her phone and looked up at the ceiling, then out the small window on her right. The sun was hiding itself over the horizon, painting the smog filled air in purple hues.

She looked around the room, looking for something to do, before the sofa she was sit-ting in would start growing thorns. The little alcove the living room was located in didn’t have much that would count as entertainment. It was the only room without a bookcase of some sort. There was a coffee table with a copper tea set, that was only there for decoration and some old magazines she read a million times. There was also a TV. but watching it was out of the question. The news were only more anxiety inducing, and the mindless AI generat-ed slop wouldn’t keep her thoughts busy for even a minute.

So she went back to her phone and sent a message to her brother:

“Hey. What are you up to? Will I see you in ‘After’ today?”

She looked at the screen, waiting for the familiar dots to show up, but her brother didn’t even see the message. She groaned, putting the phone on the coffee table and running a hand through her dark, wavy hair.

She was waiting for the time to pass, she promised Jane she was driving her to work to-day, and now she was stuck unable to start anything that would matter.

And then there was that knock on the door.

The man waiting, one she didn’t know. She studied him through the peephole, tall and well built, holding a motorcycle helmet in his hand, and a backpack slung on his back, he was looking at the sunset, and didn’t look at all lost.

When she opened the door he turned and frowned. He had a handsome face even if he looked to be a bit past his prime. She wasn’t a young woman, but he was much younger, he was human, his smell hanging heavy between them.

He was looking for her grandmother, to her surprise. She never mentioned any human friends or acquaintances outside the ones they were working with at the lab. But when she saw what he was carrying she understood why he was here. Dracula’s ashes. His urn. The one her father bragged about putting him in. How did he have that?

And then he mentioned her father.

“You know my father?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The man straightened up, the box all but forgotten. She took half a step back, fighting the urge to flee.

“Is everything alright here?” the saving voice of her grandmother spoke from behind the man. She was slowly climbing the few steps that lead to the entrance, holding onto the railing to balance herself. The man turned slowly towards her grandmother.

“May I help you?” she asked the man, and he tilted his head.

“It’s good to see you again, Elena,” he said, but his voice sounded completely different now. Deeper, darker. And her grandmother’s face changed with recognition and something else. Shock. Like she saw a ghost. It was only there for a second, but she caught it nonethe-less.

“It’s been so long,” her grandma said. “How—”

“Not here,” he stopped her and she nodded. Jo just stared at them.

“Follow me to my office then.”

“Is everything okay, grandma?” she asked when her grandmother squeezed past her to get inside the house.

“Yes, love. I just… didn’t expect him, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s a friend,” her grandma replied and her voice softened a little. She looked back again then entered the house. The man followed her without saying a word. Her heart jumped to her throat when he passed her and the haze of his blood enveloped her. Why was it so fa-miliar?

Elena closed the door behind them, locking it for good measure, sealing them from pry-ing eyes. Seeing her again. This house. It felt unreal and stifling. It was a big room, but he couldn’t run or hide any more. The bookcase filled walls felt too close and too tall, like they would close in and crush him down.

“You’re alive,” Elena said. They sat down across from each other, a large wooden desk between them, like a wall, to protect them both.

“You know I cannot die.” She of all people should know.

She shook her head.

“It’s been a hundred and twenty-one years. Don’t you think that’s enough to believe you truly are, Vlad?”

He lowered his head. It was indeed a long time. It felt like millennia to him. But she needn’t know that. He was here with worse tidings.

“Why did it take you so long to come back this time?” she asked.

He carefully took the box out of his backpack and placed it on the table. He slid it over to her.

“I was in here. I think I couldn’t get out.”

The older woman pulled the box over to herself, surprised to feel the weight of it. He swallowed the knot that formed in his throat. Her hands slid over the lid, then over the dent on its side.

“Someone dropped it,” she said.

“I assume so.” He nodded. “That’s when I got out.”

“When was that?”

He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. He expected her not to be happy with the timeline.

“Seven years ago.”

“Seven years… ” she whispered. “It took you seven years to come and tell me you’re alive.”

“That’s not why I came.”

Her brow furrowed.

“When I got out of that box, I didn’t even remember who I was. And when I did—I’ve killed everyone that put me in there. I never intended to return here.”

“And yet here you are. Why?”

He was. He looked at the box that was now standing between them.

“Because I’ve killed everyone that put me in there,” he repeated, hoping she would un-derstand what that meant. Hoping she knew what happened.

“The box isn’t empty,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“You deserved to know what happened to your son.”

Elena hummed in acknowledgement. It wasn’t exactly the reaction he expected. She loved her son so much she forgave all his misdeeds, and his misdeeds were many. Yet there were no tears, no screams, not even a silent sob.

“I didn’t even know he was missing,” she admitted with a sort of resignation that made no sense to him. “I’ve kicked him out of the village a long time ago. Haven’t heard from him ever since.”

“And you didn’t look for him?”

“No. Why? Has he ever done something for anyone other than himself? All the times I had to fix his mistakes, cover up his mess. He betrayed you. He fathered two children and left them both on my doorsteps. He—” She didn’t finish the sentence.

“Thank you for bringing him home,” she said, but pushed the box to the side.

He just stared at the box. It took him months to talk himself into coming back here. His morals won in the end but was convinced he will break her heart. That him killing her son would ruin every bit of trust and care she had for him. Instead she looked like she didn’t care. If only she pretended to or not, he couldn’t tell.

“I didn’t recognise you,” she said.

Instinctively he ran a hand through his much shorter hair, even if he knew that’s not what she meant. It was the colour of it, now almost fully grey, and the deepness of the wrin-kles that decorated his face.

“You’ve aged,” she voiced his thoughts. “And you smell human. Are you—?”

“Mortal?” he asked almost laughing. “No, no. I still crave blood, I just… I haven’t in-dulged in a long time.”

“How long?” she demanded.

Of course she thought that was the culprit. It was logical, they had to feed.

“Since I got out.” He tried to sound matter-of-factly, but his voice broke despite it. He was so very hungry.

“What are you doing to yourself, Vlad?”

“It’s not like it’s going to kill me,” he argued.

“Of course not. Arthritis sounds like a good thing to have for the rest of eternity. Or perhaps you were hoping for Alzheimer’s?”

His jaw tightened, he felt like a child being chastised. But he had lied and now had to deal with the consequences of that.

“For fuck’s sake, son, you’re missing a few screws, but you’re not stupid.”

“You know I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have a good reason,” he argued. “Staying weak, staying human, ensures I don’t kill anyone else. And if I do, that I can be stopped.” That at least was true. He could see the resolve leaving her features. But it was replaced by worry, and he didn’t deserve worry.

“What if you get older?”

He wouldn’t. At least not by starving himself. He wrapped his hand around his forhead and started massaging his temples. A slight buzz began to form in his head, he had to calm down.

“Then perhaps I do get Alzheimer’s. Perhaps my brain will degrade enough for me not to care that I’m alive.”

“Son—”

Don’t. It matters not.” He rose to his feet; he was starting to feel nauseous. It was too much. It made him angry that she still cared, care he had no right to. It was a mistake coming back. “I have to go now. I did what I came to do.” He started gathering his stuff from the floor.

“Stay.”

“I can’t. And please, don’t tell anyone I’m alive. I enjoy my peace.”

Elena stood up as well, her look was stern and it stopped him in his track.

“And the solitude? Do you enjoy that as well?”

He straightened up, leaving his belongings where they were.

“I got used to it.”

“But do you enjoy it?”

“Of course not,” he replied through his teeth, not happy that she pried it out of him. But it wasn’t about enjoyment. He had to get used to it because that was what his future looked like. Eternal solitude. Because when the world would have long ended, when the sun would have scorched the earth and there was nothing but dust, he would still be here. The carcass of a man on the carcass of a planet.

“Stay the night then,” she insisted. “You will read a book, you will get some rest, and then we’ll talk again in the morning. I have some things to discuss with you before you leave us again.”

Vlad sighed. A book did sound good. They were so hard to come by. And he was so tired, a night of reprise before travelling again, even if he wouldn’t sleep. One night wouldn’t hurt before heading back to England. To his very large and very silent estate.

“All right,” he said.

Elena smiled. “Good. I have some things to take care of, but I’ll ask Jo to take you to the guest room.”

“Your granddaughter?”

“Yes.”

“Was she born a vampire?” he asked knowing how unbelievably rare it was for a vam-pire to procreate, let alone give birth to one of their own. He asked because of that sense of familiarity that overtook him when he saw her. At first he put it on her resemblance to her grandmother, but it wasn’t quite that.

“No. She was turned.”

“Did you—?”

“Does it matter?” she asked raising her eyebrows slightly.

It didn’t matter. She shared his blood, where she got it from was of less importance.

Elena came over to his side of the desk and placed a hand on his shoulder to guide him towards the exit. He had to fight the urge to rip himself away from her touch, but she still felt his initial jolt. She didn’t ask, but he read the questions in her eyes, questions he had no an-swers for, because if she knew the truth she would not let him leave.

“Jo?” she heard her grandmother call from the hallway. She was in the kitchen now, taking some blood bags from the freezer. She intended to restock the fridge in the infirmary as they were running low. They weren’t using the infirmary as much, so the blood kept spoil-ing. Still, she liked having a fresh supply in there, just in case.

“Jo, love!” Elena called again.

“In the kitchen,” she replied adding two more frozen bags to the pile of three that she was already holding.

Her grandmother appeared at the entrance of the open kitchen with the human in tow, he was standing a few centimetres behind her. For a moment he looked very intently at the packages in her hand, then averted his eyes, suddenly fascinated by the tiles under his feet. She guessed seeing that amount of blood bags was not a normal occurrence for humans, and smiled.

“When you’re done here,” her grandma started, “will you please take my friend to the guest room, please?”

“He’s staying?” she asked, dropping the bags on the kitchen table a bit unceremonious-ly. “A human? In a town full of vampires?”

“A guest. In my house.” Elena cut her off. “He’s not dinner, he’s family.”

She wiped her wet hands on the hem of her plaid shirt, eyeing the human, which some-how, even if he was towering over her grandmother, seemed to have shrunk into himself.

“He’s only staying the night. Just take him to his room, he doesn’t need babysitting.”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “Where are you going?”

“I need to make a few calls.”

Jo frowned. “Is everything alright?”

She knew something was wrong by the way her grandmother carried herself. Like something heavy was hanging on her.

“Politics.”

“Really? Can you be a bit more specific?”

“Not now, love. Do what I’ve asked.” Her grandma cut her short, weirdly, looking at her human friend.

“Sure,” she replied, albeit a bit taken aback.

Elena left the room without another word. It was very unlike her grandmother to be-have like that. She usually would have asked for her input in matters such as these. Was the human she was worried about, or did things go so awry that she was trying to mitigate things on her own? Which, now that she thought about it, was also a thing she did, and most likely the case.

She snapped out of her thoughts and hurried to pick the blood bags up from the table.

“I’ll take you to your room in a moment,” she said. One of the frozen bags slipped from her hand, hit the table and then slid on the floor far enough to make her groan thinking she will have to pick it up. The man bent down. His long fingers wrapped around the pack, and then carefully placed it on top of the pile in her arms. Her eyes locked briefly with his and that feeling of familiarity struck again, along with something that made the small hairs on the back of her neck raise. Something so akin to fear, it made her bolt out of the room faster than she would have liked.

The infirmary was only opposite to the kitchen but having a wall in-between her and that man was the barrier she needed while she tried to make sense of what just happened. She inhaled deeply, trying to settle the knot in her throat. Why was she suddenly scared of him?

The sterile light didn’t help much in a room that was basically just a box. It had no win-dows and the furniture was just as confining, just an electric semi fowler bed, a tall cabinet, a small refrigerator and a chair. She pushed the chair out of the way and opened the fridge, careful not to drop the bags again, then she restocked the blood and removed the old one, throwing it in a specially designed container that was sitting at the foot of the bed, near the fridge.

The menial work of just removing the old bags and placing the new ones, one by one, in neat little piles helped a little. But the conflicting feelings stayed with her. What the hell was wrong with her? He was just a man. Her grandmother’s friend. He was human.

He was human…

And maybe that was the problem. It was just trauma coming back, because she did feel attracted to him, and maybe her brain was just trying to protect her. To keep her away from harm.

She had to get a hold of herself. She was going to take him to his room, go pick up Jane, spend a few hours at the bar, and never see him again. He was leaving in the morning, and she didn’t plan to bid him farewell when he did.

Deep breath, and back to the kitchen she went.

He was waiting for her, just where she left him, backpack slung on his back, helmet in hand. He hadn’t even removed his jacket.

“Follow me,” she said leading him up a cramped flight of stairs.

At the top of them, there was a small landing with two doors which then led into a longer hallway where there were other rooms. They stopped at the first two.

“This is where you’ll stay.”

Jo opened the door and touched the light switch, flooding the room in warm light.

“The bathroom is next door. And you can find fresh towels in that cabinet.” She point-ed to a chest of drawers at the foot of the bed.

The human entered the room, looked around for a moment then placed his stuff on the floor inside the room.

“Thank you,” he told her in the same soft and low voice with which he spoke to her grandmother earlier. That feeling of unnatural fear completely disappeared, replaced by a sort of quiet comfort.

She bowed her head.

“Have we… have we met before?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Two lines formed between his brows.

“No. I don’t think we did.” He seemed so certain about it.

“I’m sorry. You just seem familiar.”

“No need to apologise. I could be wrong.”

“No, no. You’re right. I would have remembered you.”

She cringed at the words the moment they left her mouth. They were true, but it made it sound like there was more behind them. Like she was interested. Fortunately, he either didn’t catch it, or he didn’t care.

Good.

She didn’t need complications. What she needed was to get out, her phone was vibrating in her pocket, and she was late. Jane was going to rip her a new one.