Mhari squeezes, and I groan quietly. “Not cool,” I say. I can feel her presence, both with my skin and with an inner sense—the inner eye, dark-adapted and far more penetrating than before. And I can see what she is, the dim red spirals in the void behind her eyes. I begin to struggle, finally waking up and resisting: “No, seriously, I want you to stop now.”

Her hand stops moving. “Bob, what’s wrong?” she asks, sounding confused.

I want to say, I’m married and unavailable. And I want to say, What we had has been over for years. It’d be better to say, I think you misunderstood the context of my invitation, but that’s too complicated a construction for me right now. What comes out is, “I’m exhausted and a bunch of my friends are dead and I don’t want this.”

“Poor Bob—”

“And my wife gets home tomorrow, and it’s nearly tomorrow already.” I yawn. “And yesterday I killed a vampire-hunting psychopath and then an ancient and powerful vampire, and I feel ill. Mental indigestion.”

“You killed . . .” She pauses. “Oh my. God. Bob.” She’s shaking; I can feel it through my misery. “What have they done to you? What have they turned you into?”

“We can’t go back. Can’t rewind and become what we might have been if we’d done the last decade differently. Please get out of my bed, Mhari. The thing that wanted you dead is gone. You’re safe. You should go home now. It’s not safe for you to be here. Make sure you get under cover before dawn. If you don’t go you’ll be stuck here all day tomorrow.”

A moment passes, then she lets go of me. I feel the covers peel back, and she climbs across me. I feel her brief, cool kiss on my forehead before she leaves. Then darkness descends, leaving me alone in the night with my despair and the memory of her lost humanity.

Even if I wasn’t married, I don’t think I could sleep with her now.

Something in the back of my head thinks she’s the sort of thing I eat.

• • •

DOORS SLAM: “HI, HONEY, I’M HOME!”

I open my eyes on darkness. The bedside alarm says it’s six o’clock; thanks to Mhari I’ve had only two hours of sleep. I try and shake my head to clear the cobwebs, then blink painfully. My eyes are sore. “Hi?” I call out, rolling over towards the edge of the bed. I tend to sprawl in the middle when I’m alone. Except I’m not alone: something warm and furry chirps indignantly and jumps out of the way. Blasted cat. At least Spooky doesn’t seem to be a face-hugger. (Mum’s old cat used to do that: sneak into the bedroom and sleep on my pillow. Sometimes she’d fart in my face.) “I’m up here,” I add.