“Would you wait outside for a mo?” I turn my back and bend over the laundry basket again, trying to pretend I’m not bare-ass naked. “I fell in someone. I’m filthy.”

“Why didn’t you say? Wait a second!” She turns and hoofs it up the stairs, and returns while I’m hopping around with one leg in a pair of boxer shorts, clutching a bath sheet. “Shower. Now. You’ll feel ever so much better for it.” She throws the big towel over me, then gets a good look at my dirties. “Eew. You’ll have to tell me all about it!”

“Why so lively?” I complain, fighting back another yawn. “Can’t it wait?”

“I was dozing on the sofa, with Spooky. Who has been demanding unconditional love and complaining about your absence all day. I was waiting up for you.” She’s flittering about, casting shadows, getting on my tits. I can’t cope with people who are bouncy at four o’clock in the morning. “What happened?” she chirps.

“Ops clusterfuck.” I turn and head upstairs, climbing slowly. “There’s going to be a fatal incident enquiry tomorrow. I need to get some sleep first.”

“Ops? Oh. Oh dear. Anyone I know?”

I bite back the urge to snarl probably and close the bathroom door. I lean my forehead against the inside of the door with my eyes shut for a minute, but push myself upright when I feel myself beginning to slide. She’s right about the shower. I shed the boxers and towel and step inside, then turn it on from cold. The water warms up quickly enough but the initial icy shock is positively painful, and goes a long way towards temporarily descrambling my brain.

After a couple of minutes I’m done: squeaky-clean but exhausted. I step out of the shower, towel myself dry, then wrap the bath sheet around me and step out onto the landing. “I’m going to bed now,” I tell the airspace above the staircase. “Help yourself to tea and coffee.” I turn the landing light off, shuffle into the bedroom, then drop the towel and slide into my regular side of the bed, which is clammy in the predawn chill. My eyelids slam shut as my head hits the pillow—

Delicate fingers form a cup around my balls, as a lithe, warm body spoons up behind me, flattening her breasts against my spine and sliding a knee across my hip. “Gotcha!” She breathes in my ear.

I’m so drained I barely twitch. “Not funny. I want to sleep. Go ’way,” I grunt. It’s Mhari, of course. Who is no less unprincipled than ever, if somewhat more single-minded and a lot less obviously crazy—vampiredom suits her down to the ground. But she’s always had a hotline to my libido, and she’s rather good with her hands: I may be sleepy, but my wedding tackle isn’t.