Behind my back, I cross my fingers. “Yes,” I say firmly. Because it is true. (Even though a suspicious little corner of my mind is reminding me that I didn’t offer Mhari the living room sofa, I offered her the spare bedroom, and what is she doing still here? You invited a vampire into your home, it nudges, you deserve the consequences.) It’s not the whole truth, but it’s the truth, and the full truth will have to wait until the weapons are safed and the tempers are tamed.

Mhari shuffles backwards into the living room and from Mo’s disinterest and the rustling sounds I gather she’s pulling her clothes together in a hurry.

Mo continues to watch me. “You didn’t email,” she says, deceptively calmly.

“I thought you were on a—” My eyes involuntarily track towards the living room door. (Mhari has no need to know.) “Out of contact.”

“That’s not the point,” Mo says, her voice even and controlled. She’s at her most dangerous when she’s like this: chilly and judgmental and poised and calm. Like an angel of vengeance. “You invited that—thing—into our house.” The violin turns away from me, facing into the living room. The ring around my finger throbs: I think even the brief note Mo drew before I shouted at her to stop may have injured Mhari. She whimpers quietly, afraid.

“She’s a member of non-operational staff who has contracted an unfortunate but controllable medical condition, Mo. We have a duty to look after our own.”

“Yes well, I can see exactly how important that is to you.” Mo abruptly glances away from me. “You,” she hisses. The bow rests lightly across the violin. She tweaks gently, between two fingers. The instrument moans like a soul in torment, shivering very quietly. “Keep away from him, you bitch.” Another note, another moan—this one from Mhari. The ring throbs, fiery pain that feels as if my finger’s about to fall off. My skin crawls and my hair begins to lift. Static electricity everywhere.

“Stop hurting her,” I hear myself saying.

Mo’s fingers continue to move. She looks puzzled.

“Stop,” I say, and step towards her.

“I can’t—” The bow drags slowly across the strings, and Mo’s left fingertips begin to bleed. The strings are glowing now, and Mhari screams in pain. Mo’s eyes widen. “It won’t let me!” The bow is dragging her hand: she fights back but she can’t let go.

I reach deep inside myself and speak again, dredging up a memory of an ancient language that I didn’t know I had: “Stop.” As I say it I reach out and grab Mo’s right elbow, pinching it right around the nerve plexus. I’m terrified; terrified for Mhari, terrified for Mo, terrified for me: but most of all I’m terrified of the violin. To touch it is death. To hear it is death. And it wants to feed.