I thought of Ian’s mouth on Cricket. I thought of the scabs and bruises on her body from the times he’d fed on her. I imagined them having sex and I felt ill and angry and miserable. “Sure, Wil, let’s go.”

Wil’s flat was the top floor of a three-story row house. I barely paid attention to the interior, but my general impression was of a smart dude’s place: piles of books, papers, and magazines as well as surf gear and posters.

We made it to the bedroom and fell onto the bed. Wil’s elbow jabbed my rib, and then his arm came down on my hair, tugging it. “Ow.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said as I tried to pull his shirt off. His torso was lovely, narrow and smooth, and he had a tribal tattoo of a snake on his pec. The scent of his sunscreen aroused me, and when he peeled down his jeans and snug boxers, I was pleased to see how pleased he was.

“Strip for me,” he said, and leaned back against the pillows. He turned on his sound system, and Jimmy Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” blasted out, which seemed really funny.

I gyrated around the bed, slowly taking my clothes off. When I was in only a purple leopard-print bra, panties, and my heels, Wil’s expression changed and he groaned and rubbed himself as I teased him by dancing just out of reach.

When the song was over and I stood naked in my heels, he said, “Come here, you,” and took my hand.

I tried not to compare Wil to anyone else, because he was wonderful. He was young and single and enthusiastic and fun.

I wanted to be the girl I was before … before the vampires, and I was glad I could control my reactions so that I didn’t automatically fling Wil across the room when he picked up a small knife.

I took his wrist carefully so I wouldn’t crush the bones and pushed his arm back.

“Why not?” he said.

“Too soon.”

Wil lay back on the bed, breathing heavily, and I thought I might have hurt his feelings. But he dropped the knife on the floor and said, “Do you want to tie me up?”

We improvised with bungee cords and surf leashes, and I took him at my own pace, for my own pleasure, which was also his. When I was finished, I slid atop his sinewy, sweaty body and said, “Cowabunga, dude.”

“Damn, Mil, that was crazy good. I’m totally noodled.”

After I untied him, we sat on the bed, ate currant yogurt, and watched videos of Wil night surfing in Cornwall.

He massaged my lower back. “It’s a rush knowing that I was snaking the Dark Lord’s chick.”