My hands had suffered more. They were darker than my face, and very human-looking, with many little creases, which put me in mind at once of how many fine wrinkles mortal hands do have.

The nails still glistened in a manner that might alarm humans, but it would be a simple thing to rub a bit of ash over them. My eyes, of course, were another matter. Never had they seemed so bright and so iridescent. But a pair of smoke-colored glasses was all that I needed there. The bigger mask of black glasses was no longer necessary to cover up the shining white skin.

Ye gods, how perfectly wonderful, I thought, staring at my own reflection. You look almost like a man! Almost like a man! I could feel a dull ache all over in these burnt tissues, but that felt good to me, as if it were reminding me of the shape of my body, and its human limits.

I could have shouted. Instead I prayed. May this last, and if it doesn’t I’d go through it all again.

Then it occurred to me, rather crushingly—I was supposed to be destroying myself, not perfecting my appearance so that I could move around better among men. I was supposed to be dying. And if the sun over the Gobi Desert hadn’t done it … if all the long day of lying in the sun, and then the second sunrise …

Ah, but you coward, I thought, you could have found some way to stay above the surface for that second day! Or could you?

“Well, thank God you chose to come back.”

I turned and saw David coming down the hall. He had only just returned home, his dark heavy coat was wet from the snow, and he hadn’t even removed his boots.

He came to an abrupt halt and inspected me from head to toe, straining to see in the shadows. “Ah, the clothes will do,” he said. “Good Lord, you look like one of those beachcombers, those surf people, those young men who live eternally in resorts.”

I smiled.

He reached out, rather bravely, I thought, and took my hand and led me into the library, where the fire was quite vigorously burning by now. He studied me once again.

“There’s no more pain,” he said tentatively.

“There is sensation, but it’s not exactly what we call pain. I’m going out for a little while. Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be back. I’m thirsting. I have to hunt.”

His face went blank, but not so blank that I didn’t see the blood in his cheeks, or all the tiny vessels in his eyes.

“Well, what did you think?” I asked. “That I’d given it up?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, then, care to come and watch?”

He said nothing, but I could see I’d frightened him.

“You must remember what I am,” I said. “When you help me, you help the devil.” I made a little gesture to his copy of Faust, still lying on the table. And there was that Lovecraft story. Hmmm.