Time for a story?

“You do the same,” Rebecca retorted. Of Laurie’s two preferred methods, Rebecca had chosen the one that didn’t rely on her charming her way into strangers’ homes. She didn’t like it. She didn’t have Laurie’s innocent elegance, and, well… She was more of a flirt than Laurie. It was hard, having to choose between kissing and biting. And as a vampire the line between people being genuinely charmed by her or falling under her Sway seemed so thin. Too thin. Besides, she could never forget the first time she had fed. Not from Laurie, but the first time she had fed to still the hunger. It had been satisfying to see the fear on the face of the man that had chucked that bottle at her head. She had laughed at the irony of someone so vile still tasting good.

“There are better ways—” Laurie began, but Rebecca interrupted her.

“Why does it matter?” she demanded, sitting back and letting her knees lower, shaking off Laurie’s hands. The way Laurie was looking at her made her squirm inwardly, but she refused to feel guilty. She didn’t feel guilty. Not for those people, not for turning predators into prey for once. She doesn’t kill, she didn’t maim, she didn’t overdrink. She just made the threat on the streets a little more equal.

“It matters,” Laurie said earnestly. “Because it’s not good for you.” Before Rebecca could argue she grabbed her hands and said pleadingly: “You’re so low, Rebecca. And it gets worse after you’ve drunk, I’ve seen it happen. Feeding is supposed to make us feel better. It should be…a positive thing.” Her dark eyes were large and concerned. “I am not blaming you. For anything. But you are exclusively feeding in violence and maybe… Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Rebecca looked down at Laurie’s hands clasping her. They were still paler than hers, always had been, always would.

“We have to feed,” Laurie said quietly. “But however we do it, it has consequences. Every time you hunt, you seek out the absolute worst among the people around us. The exceptions. I feel like you’re starting to forget that they are exceptions. I’m just worried, Becca. I don’t want you to—” She fell silent for a moment. “I want you to be happy.”

It was impossible to argue with Laurie’s affection. Rebecca still wouldn’t meet her eyes, but she couldn’t help thinking that Laurie might be right. She didn’t enjoy hunting anymore. Not really. As soon as the high wore off the idea of it repulsed her. “Then what am I supposed to do?” she said. Her voice sounded rough.

Laurie squeezed her hands and Rebecca finally lifted up her eyes to look at her. “You could feed on animals,” Laurie said seriously.

Rebecca frowned. Laurie couldn’t stand the thought of feeding on animals. “You hate that.”

“What’s right for me isn’t necessarily what’s right for you, Becca,” Laurie said gently.

Drinking from animals had never been as distasteful to Rebecca as it was to Laurie. She had done it before, when they were in more rural areas. It had never occurred to her to drink nothing but animal blood though.

“Animal blood isn’t as potent as a human’s,” Laurie said, cautiously gauging Rebecca’s reaction as she spoke. “But you can drink from me if you ever need to get your strength up.”

She sounded so careful and worried that Rebecca made an effort to grin. “That sounds like bribery to me.”

A smile flashed on Laurie’s face. “You know you only ever have to ask,” she said affectionately.

Rebecca nodded silently and considered it. Maybe… Maybe this would be better. At least for now. She could just try it out. “Okay,” she said, meeting Laurie’s eyes again. “Alright.”

Laurie looked so relieved her entire face seemed to light up. “Thank you,” she said, lunging forward and wrapping Rebecca in a hug.

Rebecca wanted to argue, because it really shouldn’t be Laurie being thankful, but instead she just hugged back and muttered: “Thanks for looking out for me.”

Laurie pulled away and nodded, eyes glistening rather damply. “Let’s both not to do that anymore.”

“Hey,” Rebecca said, raising her eyebrows. “What happened to ‘what is right for me isn’t right for you’, hm?”

Laurie puffed up her chest a little, searching for a retort. “Well…” she said. “What’s bad for you is bad for me too.”

Once again, Rebecca didn’t argue, she just smiled.

First things first, I alwasy start with my trusted Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs.

Briggs calls the kelpie "the best-known of the Socttish water-horses" and says that it "haunted rivers rather than lochs or the sea" and could "assume human form, in which he appeared like a rough, shaggy man" but that "his most usual shape was that of a young horse", which shape he uses to trick people into mounting him and then "rushing with them into a deep pool, where he struck the water wih this tail with a sound like thnder and disappeared in a flash of light. He was suspected of sometimes teaering people to pieces and devouring them." She also mentions that a kelpie sometimes has a magic bridle that can be stolen to gain power over the kelpie, or that putting a bridle on an unbridled kelpie might "subdue him to [your] will". (Briggs, 1976, Pantheon Books, p 246)

The each-uisge is called "the fiercest and most dangerous of all the water-horses" and Briggs states that it differs from the kelpie because it haunts "the sea and lochs, while the Kelpie belongs to running water". It can change into a handsome young man, but is most often seen as a "handsome horse" by whom everyone who dares to ride it "is carried at headlong speed into the lake and devoured". Notably the liver of the victim (and sometimes the heart and/or lungs) will later wash ashore. Examples of the each-uisge's powers are riders sticking to its back, it's back stretching to accommodate more riders. (Briggs, 1976, Pantheon Books, p. 115-116)

Alright, so far the only confusion might be that "loch" and "lake" are used for the each-uisge and that the kelpie goes into a "pool", not a river. But calling a loch a lake is a common anglicisation, and if kelpies live in rivers it's not unreasonable to find them in the pools that the river feeds. However, when I go to the books Briggs herself refers to (J.F. Campbell's Popular Tales of the West Highlands and G. Stewart's Popular Superstitions) it does not get more clear.

John Francis Campbell, in his largely orally collected Popular Tales of the West Highlands, originally published in 1862 in Edinburgh, considers the kelpie and the each-uisge as one and the same:

These shew that in the Isle of Man, and in the Highlands of Scotland, people still firmly believe in the existence of a water-horse. In Sutherland and elsewhere, many believe that they have seen these fancied animals. I have been told of English sportsmen who went in pursuit of them, so circumstantial were the accounts of those who believed that they had seen them. The witnesses are so numerous, and their testimony agrees so well, that there must be some old deeply-rooted Celtic belief which clothes every dark object with the dreaded form of the EACH UISGE. The legends of the doings of the water kelpie all point to some river god reduced to be a fuath or bogle. The bay or grey horse grazes at the lake-side, and when he is mounted, rushes into the loch and devours his rider. His back lengthens to suit any number; men's hands stick to his skin; he is harnessed to a plough, and drags the team and the plough into the loch, and tears the horses to bits; he is killed, and nothing remains but a pool of water; he falls in love with a lady, and when he appears as a man and lays his head on her knee to be dressed, the frightened lady finds him out by the sand amongst his hair. "Tha gainmheach ann." There is sand in it, she says, and when he sleeps she makes her escape. He appears as an old woman, and is put to bed with a bevy of damsels in a mountain shealing, and he sucks the blood of all, save one, who escapes over a burn, which, water-horse as he is, he dare not cross. In short, these tales and beliefs have led me to think that the old Celts must have had a destroying water-god, to whom the horse was sacred, or who had the form of a horse. (Campbell, 1890, Vol. I, p. lxxx-lxxxi)

He even reiterates in Volume II:" There is no word in Gaelic that could be corrupted into Kelpie, but he is the same as Each uisge." (Campbell, 1890, Vol. II, p. 207).

W.G. Stewart's The popular superstitions and festive amusements of the Highlanders of Scotland, first published in 1823 in Edinburgh, also groups them together:

WATER-KELPIES. In the former and darker ages of the world when people had not half the wit and sagacity they now possess, and when, consequently, they were much easier duped by such designing agents, the “Ech Uisque,” or Water-Horse, as the Kelpie is commonly called, was a well-known character in those countries. The Kelpie was an infernal agent, retained in the service and pay of Satan, who granted him a commission to execute such services as appeared profitable to his interest. He was an amphibious character, and generally took up his residence in lochs and pools, bordering on public roads and other situations, most convenient for his professional calling. (Stewart, 1851, Part IV, p. 101)

Stewart did his research primarily among what he called "the most celebrated professors of traditional lore" and he was possibly the first to attempt a somewhat comprehensive work Highland folklore. He includes a marvelous tale about a kelpie getting its bridle stolen, told to him by Mr. Mac Grigor Willox, a descendant of the tale's hero.

So far, then, we have Briggs who makes the distinction between the (water-)kelpie and the water-horse, and the two sources she cites who do no such thing.

However, looking at another source from around the same time, Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland by John Gregorson Campbell—which was based on information he collected solely from oral sources between 1861 and 1891—does give the exact distinction that Briggs does:

The Kelpie that swells torrents and devours women and children has no representative in Gaelic superstition. Some writers speak as if the Water-horse were to be identified with it, but the two animals are distinctly separate. The Water-horse haunts lochs, the Kelpie streams and torrents. The former is never accused of swelling torrents any more than of causing any other natural phenomenon, nor of taking away children, unless perhaps when wanted to silence a refractory child. A Shetland friend writes: “Kelpies, I cannot remember of ever hearing what shape they were of. They generally did their mischief in a quiet way, such as being seen splashing the water about the burns, and taking hold of the water-wheel of mills, and holding them still. I have heard a man declare, that his mill was stopped one night for half an hour and the full power of water on the wheel, and he was frightened himself to go out and see what was wrong. And he not only said but maintained that it was a Kelpie or something of that kind that did it.” (Campbell, 1900, p. 216)

But it is very hard—and may be impossible—to tell whether the difference between a kelpie and a water-horse was universal in Scotland or whether it differed from region to region, or whether there never was a real distinction in oral tradition and it was applied retroactively by folklorists.

The only older use of the word in print that I've found so far is in Sir Walter Scott's 1802's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border: Consisting Of Historical And Romantic Ballads, Collected In The Southern Counties Of Scotland; With A Few Of Modern Date, Founded Upon Local Tradition. In Three Volumes.

In Vol. I he mentions: "Shellycoat must not be confounded with Kelpy, a water spirit also, but of a much more powerful and malignant nature." (Scott, 1806, p. cxi). Vol. III includes a poem in "Lowland Scottish" by Rev. Dr. Jamieson of Edinburgh, meant to imitate "the classical compositions of our ancient bards". This poem has the kelpie coming out of a river and diving into a pool (which my Scottish does consider part of the river) and states that when someone drowns in a pool or river ford, it's sure to be the kelpies doing and that both rivers an wide waters obey the kelpie's law, from the very source of rivers down to the sea (Scott, 1806, p. 383-391). So while this kelpie is certainly connected to a river (the South Esk to be exact), it seems to imply you might well find one in a loch.

While the poem does not specifically describe the kelpie as a horse, it does say that if you manage to but "bit and bridle" on it, it will be forced to work for you, which does imply it is at least horse-like. In the footnotes Scott adds: "It is believed in Angus, that the spirit of the waters appears sometimes as a man, with a very frightful aspect; and, at other times, as a horse" (Scott, 1806, p. 392).

Lysander stared at them. He did not look so dreadful as he had done last night, but his face was still hollow, his eyes still sunken.

“I know it won’t be good,” they said. “But if you can drink it, it should help. Somewhat.”

They had heard of vampires that did drink animal blood, they were sure, but they didn’t know if that was universal. It probably wasn’t.

Lysander’s expression was very difficult to read. It looked somewhere between uncertainty and disgust. Then, after what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, he stepped forward and took the thermos from their hand.

He sat down on a gravestone and Harper made an indignant noise at the back of their throat.

“They don’t mind,” he deadpanned. “I asked.” And before they could argue he put the thermos to his lips and drank.

Harper felt all the nerves they had ever felt before starting a patient on a new treatment compounded together. There were no protocols or colleagues to fall back on here, and nothing but anecdotal evidence. “Is it alright?” they asked after a fraught moment’s silence.

Lysander paused for a moment and while his voice was strained he did not look unwell. “I can keep it down.”

“Is it helping?”

“It’s not hurting.”

Of course he didn’t need to breathe, but Harper could only imagine that the speed at which he was drinking was to get it over with as quickly as possible. He looked so much like someone hastily knocking back coffee that they could almost forget what they really gave him, but whenever he lowered the thermos to compose himself there were the red stains on his mouth and the metallic scent of blood thickening in the air. They swallowed and tried not to breathe too deeply.

“You look like you’re gonna be sick yourself,” Lysander remarked with a wry smile. “I’m a vegetarian,” they defended.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I know.”

Harper gave him a level stare, but decided not to ask. Their anxiety was subsiding and they managed not to keep looking at him quite so obviously while he emptied the thermos. At last he closed it with shaking hands and let it fall down onto the grass. They cautiously reached out to take it back and Lysander shuddered.

“You alright?”

He made an ambiguous movement with his head and half turned away from them. Harper quietly screwed the top back onto the thermos, wondering how it was that even after so many years in the medical field they had still not learned to meet the imperfections of any attempt healing with anything other than indignant resistance. While they put away the thermos Lysander had dug a large cloth handkerchief out of his coat pocket and was somewhat obsessively wiping his mouth. They did not ask again, but clearly their expression had been loud enough, because after a while he said, without looking at them:

“The stuff from the clinic, that’s dead by the time I drink it, sure, but this— I don’t like drinking from butchered animals.” Harper looked at him with a sharp jolt of alarm. Dead blood; he had used that term before, but they had presumed it was just about the taste. But then, what had he said the night he confronted the slayers for them? Something about not liking the taste of fear. “Oh god…” they muttered, feeling queasy again. “I’m sorry.” He shrugged and half shook his head. “Can’t be helped, on occasion.” They tried to study for any improvement in his appearance without staring. He did look a little less gaunt, less faded, but it hadn’t done as much as they had hoped. “Is it the fact that it’s from an animal or that it’s not fresh blood, that makes it less nourishing to you?” they asked slowly. He might not want to answer that. “Both.” The lines around his mouth had lost much of their tightness. “It’s wasteful. I must have downed more than a litre just now and it’s done no more than take the edge off.”

Something slotted into place in Harper’s memory with dreadful comprehension. “Is that why you feed off people in clubs? So you don’t have to— So they’re too buzzed to know anything about what you’re doing except that they’re having a good time?”

“Maybe,” Lysander said with a very poor attempt at snark. “Or maybe I just like getting high on your patients.”

The tone of his voice barely registered through the exhaustion and distaste still visible on his face. They had been so furious when they finally put together why so many people suddenly came in with low haemoglobin. Furious about their foggy memories and the barely visible marks on their necks. Too furious to care that apart from the fatigue all of them had reported being completely fine. Well, maybe they had cared, but only enough not to bring any garlic.

“You still look like shit,” they said gruffly, resolutely pulling up the sleeve of their oversized jacket. “Take some of mine.”

Lysander froze, but he did not recoil like last night.

“You’re not starved now,” Harper pressed him. “It’s not like yesterday. I trust you to have the necessary control now.” That was the reason their offer had startled him so much, they were sure of it now.

Lysander made a hoarse noise that sounded something like “trust”, but he still hadn’t moved an inch. Only his hands were gripping the edge of the gravestone and his head was lowered as he stared at them. “You’re not wearing your nasty berries. Why not.”

“Because I came here to help you,” Harper said emphatically, adding with growing confidence: “And you’re not going to hurt me.”

“I’m—” Lysander’s eyes darted from their face to their exposed arm and back.

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it,” they insisted. “Let me help.” They were fine with pain, and after everything that had happened they were fine with the risk, they could not accept having endangered someone without trying to help them while it was so completely within their power to do so.

Lysander had gone completely still, but suddenly he lifted his head. “Do you have a watch?”

“Yes?” they said after a moment’s confusion, glancing down at the little fob watch pinned to the breast pocket of their flannel by force of habit.

“No, something with a stopwatch,” he said tensely.

“I can count—”

“No you can’t. Do you have your phone on you?”

“Yes, I do,” Harper replied reassuringly, slipping involuntarily into their medical voice. They dug it out of their back pocket. “You want me to set a timer?”

Lysander slid soundlessly off the gravestone. “Two minutes.” He waited for them to set the alarm before sinking slowly to his knees beside them.

“You stop me after too minutes.” His eyes fully met theirs for the first time since telling him he would not hurt them. “Two minutes.”

“Two minutes,” they agreed, taking their phone in their left hand and holding their right arm out to him.

He touched them so carefully the chilly touch of his fingers almost tickled.

“It’s fine, Lysander,” they assured him.

“For you maybe,” he muttered, but he took a slightly firmer grip and bowed his head. “Timer,” he said in a curt, tense voice.

Harper tapped their phone, hummed their agreement, and forgot they were holding the phone before it slipped from their hand and tumbled into the grass.

The icy prick of Lysander’s fangs was so brief they barely had time to consider the kind of pain it was, but they were unable to focus on anything, let alone pain. Their heart—seemingly the only part of them with the good sense to sound the alarm—was racing beneath their ribs, but instead of pain or panic, a wondrous, light, glowing feeling was spreading through their body. It was only very slightly like the haziness of alcohol; it felt like being carried, like the intricately interwoven strands of their being were gently unravelling. Just enough to feel… Happy? That was peculiar. They knew what being happy felt like and this wasn’t it. At least not...not their happiness. But they had no other word for this feeling. It was floating somewhere at the very edge of their awareness. Something happy and grateful and—

A sudden, jarring noise blared in their ears and Harper let out a noise of profound annoyance. What on earth was that? They reached blindly with their free hand to make it stop and suddenly everything stopped. The floating, the untangling, the glow of foreign happiness—they inhaled a rush of cool night air their eyes opened to the sight of Lysander, sliding sideways out of his kneeling position and clutching both hands to his chest.

“Thank you— Thank you…”

They had never heard his voice sound so unguarded. Harper blinked at him in dazed confusion and only the sight of him licking his bloodstained lips made them glance down at their right arm. That too was stained with blood, but there was no wound, no sign of— It was their phone that was making that blasted noise. Harper snatched it up off the ground and turned it off.

It restored the nightly silence, but did very little to restore their scattered mind. They idly wiped at their arm, equal parts fascinated and confused. “It doesn’t even hurt…” they muttered.

At least they thought they did, perhaps they didn’t quite articulate all the words, because Lysander was suddenly right in front of them and looking straight into their face. “Hey— Look at me. Harper?”

They were looking at him. He looked much better. His complexion was healthier and his eyes were a much darker, calmer red somehow.

“Harper.”

“Yeah, I’m listening, don’t yell,” they complained and their voice wavered to some places they really did not intend it to go.

Lysander’s expression did something complicated very near a grimace. “And of course you're a lush,” he groaned. He made a desperate noise at the back of his throat. "I stopped, I didn't even take that much." "I know, I know,” Harper said hastily, responding more to his distressed tone of voice than the actual meaning of his words, which had come rather too fast for them to follow. “I feel fine, just... Am I drunk?" Lysander didn't answer them. “Did you drive here?” he asked instead.

“...yes.” Where did they park their car? “Of course you did,” he sighed, getting abruptly to his feet. “I have to bring you home.”

Harper had to tip their head back to keep looking at him. They were so relieved this worked. He looked like his normal self again. Like the fire hadn’t happened. “You look good,” they sighed in relief, smiling up at him.

He turned abruptly away from them for a moment. When he turned back he no longer met their eyes but asked gruffly: “Can you stand?”

“Course I can stand,” they grumbled, getting unsteadily to their feat. “Excuse me if I’m a little woozy, you just bit me.”

“You’re not woozy, you’re high. Come on, where’s your car?”

They did manage to find their car and while they were keenly aware that it would not be safe for them to drive, letting Lysander get behind the wheel was another thing entirely.

“I know how to drive,” he growled. “I’m not from the eighteen hundreds.”

“When are you from?” they blurted out and he glared at them.

“None of your business. Get in.” He took a beat and added: “Please.”

Harper flopped into the passenger seat and buckled their seatbelt. To their surprise it didn’t give them any trouble and they realised, however faintly, that there was very little wrong with their coordination. It was just...so hard to focus.

Lysander was driving them home, the exact route they would have taken, but they had almost expected him to by now. They wanted to ask him if it was the venom he had talked about that made them feel like this, but somehow while looking at their arm they lost their train of thought.

“You don’t bite deep,” they heard themself say. “I could barely feel your teeth.”

He kept his eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel. “Yeah, you’re welcome.” “How did you heal it?”

“By knowing what I’m doing,” he replied shortly. “I don’t bite too deep, I don’t go near major arteries.”

“Yeah but how did you heal me,” they insisted. They tipped their head back and closed their eyes. “Small bite’s still a bite. So how…”

There was a brief silence. “I bite myself at the end, that healed you.”

Harper’s eyes flew open. “Your blood is regenerative?”

Lysander let out a sharp laugh. “Oh that wakes you up, does it? Once a medic always a medic, I guess.”

But he made no further answer and Harper didn’t know how to press for one without it sounding creepy. People were freaked out by a lot of things they considered quite normal. They had learned to stick to small talk at work until other people started asking questions. That reminded them, this better not leave a hangover, they had to work tomorrow.

Slowly they leaned their head against the cool surface of the car window and watched the world flit by with unfocused eyes. They sang softly to themselves, trying to remember what it had felt like before the alarm on their phone had gone off, until they realised that the car had stopped moving. They lifted their head and looked around. Lysander was looking at them.

“What?”

“Nothing, Nightingale,” he muttered and he gave a motion with his head. “Here we are, can you make it to the door? Don’t invite me in.” They stared at him, startled by the sudden shift in his tone of voice. “I wasn’t going to…” “Good.”

They both got out of the car and he gave them back their keys, but after locking the car they just stood there, weighing them in their hand. Lysander stood by them, tense and uncertain, but the picture of health, compared to how he had been before. Perhaps he had been starving much longer than the fire, in a way.

Harper let out an involuntary sigh. “I’m sorry for pulling a knife on you the second time we met,” they said. “You laughed at me for caring about my patients and it pissed me off.”

Lysander shook his head. “Get inside,” he said, in an oddly soft voice. “Sleep it off.”

So they wished him goodnight and went through the door, making their way up to their apartment as quietly as possible. They should probably shower. And check if there was blood on the inside of their sleeve.

Luckily Belle drove as fast as she ran, because Harper could not have listened and driven at the same time. Someone had started a fire in the historical part of the cemetery, where the crypts and mausoleums were. Harper had no idea where exactly Lysander hid away during the day, but it had to be there. Those disgusting, cowardly—

“No sign of the wannabe inquisition,” Belle muttered, her grip on the steering wheel tightening momentarily. “Tam says there's a witness who saw a truck with custom tires parked by the wall over at the far corner, but he didn't make out a licence plate.”

"Really?" Harper replied with an unwavering voice. "Are you sure? Didn't he recall something like 94-RP-XK?"

There was a flash of yellow in Belle’s hazel eyes while she grinned. "Now that you mention it, he did. I'll be sure to tell Tam it must have slipped her mind."

Harper barely gave Belle time to park the car, before sprinting into the dark. The noise and lights of first responders did not bother them, but the smell of smoke made their stomach twist. Lysander was troublesome and brash, but he had never really hurt anyone, that they knew of. That slayer excepted, of course, but that had been— Harper circled round to the place where they had once managed to trap him in the wild roses all those months ago. This had to be closer to his hideout than where the fire had been.

“How the devil are you here.”

Harper gasped for air, almost dizzy with relief. Almost fully concealed in the shadow of a tall gravestone, slumped against it like the headboard of a bed, was Lysander. “Well,” they breathed, “contrary to what you like saying I am luckily not the only one looking out for this town.”

Lysander lifted his head and his sunken eyes and sallow skin startled them. “There’s no occult presence in your law enforcement,” he protested sharply. “It’s the first thing I scope out when I go somewhere new.”

They supposed it was a good sign that he was still so combative. He looked like hell, but he couldn’t be too gravely injured. “Well, no,” they said, slowly lowering themself down to sit on the grass. “Not since Will retired some years ago. But Mrs Lupus' eldest is a firefighter, and two of her nephews are EMT's. How do you think I got to know them?”

Lysander stared at them in incredulous mortification.

“The wolves called you? To help me?”

Harper looked steadily back at him. “You helped me, didn't you? And I help them.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Did they… are you hurt?” They did their best to sound professional about it, but there was only so much they could do considering they were wearing shoes without socks and a coat over their pajamas.

“I’m fine.”

“What about your place? Did you have a… did they destroy anything necessary?”

“What?” he sneered. “Like a favourite coffin?” He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “I don’t have to crawl underground during the day, you know. I just prefer it here because the general graveyard presence makes me harder to find for people looking with magical means.” His crimson eyes flashed at them for a moment. “Like witches.”

“I'm not a witch,” they said quietly.

“Of course not,” he griped. “You're a good Samaritan who made it their business to ruin my undeath.”

“My father was a witch,” they added calmly. “But I don't need witchcraft to see you’re lying.”

“Gods, you drive me insane,” Lysander suddenly burst out, throwing his weight forward and letting one hand claw into the dirt. “Why are you here? I have done every single thing you’ve told me to do from the moment I set foot in this town— What more do you want from me?”

Harper had instinctively scrambled back and was sitting with their legs awkwardly outstretched, staring back at him. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I’ll heal.”

It wasn’t as easy as that though, they knew that much. “How much blood do you need to recover?”

There was no answer. Maybe he didn’t know. Or maybe he just didn’t want to tell them. A hurt vampire was a hungry vampire. That was dangerous. For everyone. For Lysander and everyone he had to deal with.

“We can go to my place,” they offered. “I have equipment there, I can—”

“No.”

They shut their mouth. His eyes were a different shade of red. “Then just take some.”

Lysander moved away from them, back into the shadow of the gravestone. “What?”

“You know how to bite safely,” they argued. “You barely leave marks, I’ve seen it. So just take what you need to be well again.”

His expression was no longer visible for them, but Harper could tell he was still staring. “You’re not serious,” he breathed.

Like hell they weren’t. They sat up straight, pulled loose the pouch of juniper berries and tossed it aside before trying to roll up the sleeve of their coat.

Lysander made a choked noise. “What the hell are you— Put that back on!”

Harper ignored him. “You put yourself in danger because of what I asked you to do.”

“Bullshit, those little assholes would have tried this eventually. Only a matter of time. Keep your damn coat on.”

Harper stopped short of pulling off their coat and made an earnest attempt to meet his eyes. “You need blood.”

Even cast in shadows they could catch enough of his expression to see the struggle in him. “No,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “I need rest. The sun will be up soon, I’m sure they hoped I’d get caught by the dawn by smoking me out.”

“Do you even have a place to stay now?” they asked uneasily.

“Plenty of space here, once your wolf friends stop crawling all over it.”

They’d argue, but while Tamzin had never turned anyone, let alone a colleague, she sure as hell considered every last one of her fellow fire fighters as part of her pack, so. “Fine.” They hesitated. “Can I come check on you later?” Whatever he said, they had had a hand in this.

“I have no illusions whatsoever about being able to keep you from sticking your nose in,” Lysander grunted, but Harper could not let that stand.

They were not above breaking some rules to protect their town and their patience, but they did not force their help on people. They felt a pang. Lysander went out of his way to help them, to do what they wanted without getting them in danger, and it nearly got him killed. “If you want me to leave you alone, I will.”

Another, heavy silence.

“Cemetery’s a public place, isn’t it,” he said gruffly. “I’m not going to tell you where you can and cannot go.”

“Nice of you to wait up, babe,” Rebecca complained loudly, coming to walk as close beside the stranger as she felt she could without startling her.

It wasn’t very successful. The stranger hastily turned to face her and for a moment they were both startled. But the young woman—very young, Rebecca concluded—looked far too shocked for her to change her mind.

She deliberately turned her back on the guys on the corner and made very pointed eye contact with the strange girl. “Joke’s on you though,” she continued cheerfully. “Cause I have the keys.”

She was dressed like a hippie, she realised. Flower print and tassels as well as the long hair. “I—” she began uncertainly. “I— Um.”

“Come on, babe,” Rebecca urged, trying for a meaningful look once again. “This way, remember?”

She nodded sharply towards the street on the left and finally the hippie moved and walked with her.

Rebecca kept up her boisterous chatter for the benefit of the trio that was still watching them, but she didn’t look back. Instead she studied her unexpected damsel. She was short and slight, and it could be a trick of the street lights, but she looked very pale. She was also very quiet and seemed almost afraid to look at her. Well, Rebecca didn’t blame her for being rattled. What the hell was this girl doing out here anyway? The two of them rounded the corner, and by then they were out of sight of the three lurkers.

Rebecca let out a measured breath and slowed her pace a little. She gave the girl a questioning glance, trying to make eye contact again. “You okay?”

Two dark eyes stared back at her. “…yes.”

“Good,” she said, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “That brings me to my next point of order: what the fuck are you doing here?” She began walking again and the girl followed, still looking at her with an almost distressed expression. Perhaps she felt guilty about needing to be rescued.

“I…I just wanted to go for a walk,” she muttered. “Clear my head.” Her accent was American, Rebecca realised, she hadn’t clocked that before. Figures she’d be a tourist.

She gave the girl an incredulous look. “A stroll? Here? You make shit choices, girl.” The stranger glanced down and Rebecca felt a pang, adding hastily: “I dig your style though, sick bellbottoms.”

“Thanks?” She didn’t sound very convinced.

Rebecca repressed a sigh. Even when she did something genuinely good, she had to fuck something up. “This is a bad neighbourhood, is all I meant,” she said. “And those guys back there are trouble.”

“Yeah,” she muttered, eyes still on the ground. “I figured… Um… Thank you.”

Rebecca made a dismissive noise and flinched inwardly. Great, now it must have sounded like she was angling for gratitude. She held still, pointing at the building on their left with her thumb. “This is where I live,” she said. “Up there somewhere anyway.” By taking two lefts Rebecca had led them to her own front door. She didn’t really feel like climbing up the fire escape and through the window again.

“Right…” The hippie looked at her, and for the first time Rebecca noticed how deep brown her eyes were. Beautiful. Not just her eyes, all of her, and without the fear on her face it was suddenly very hard to miss.

Rebecca cleared her throat. “I’d invite you in—” she began and the girl’s eyes widened in shock, “—but you don’t know me,” she finished hastily. “So I won’t.” She tugged on the hair at the back of her neck. “Um, do you know how to get home? Or to your hotel, or…? Do you want me to walk you to the nearest bus stop?”

For the first time something that looked vaguely like a smile flickered across the girl’s face. It was still hesitant and a little incredulous, but it was visible. “No, thank you,” she said. “I know the way.”

“Okay, good,” Rebecca nods, but she was almost disappointed.

The hippie swayed on her feet a little, as if she was still undecided whether to start walking or not, and because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, Rebecca held out her hand.

“Nice meeting you. And um, stay safe and stuff.”

The girl hesitated for a beat, but then reached out a delicate hand and shook Rebecca’s.

“Fucking hell,” Rebecca breathed as soon as her fingers touched hers. “You’re freezing.”

The girl immediately let go and drew back.

Rebecca looked at her with genuine concern. It wasn’t as cold as it had been the past weeks, but she wasn’t from around here and—upon further consideration—definitely wasn’t dressed to be outside at night. “How far is it to get where you’re going?” she asked with a frown. “Wait, here—”

Before the girl could answer Rebecca shrugged off her jacket and put it around her narrow shoulders. The black denim looked wholly out of place on her floral blouse.

“Oh, I can’t—” she stammered. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s an old jacket,” Rebecca waved her protests away. Her being slightly more covered up made her feel better about letting her go on alone anyway. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth, but it was the truth.

“Oh… Alright, thank you,” the hippie muttered, drawing the jacket closer around her. “…you’re very kind.”

The sudden level of earnestness in her voice took Rebecca by surprise and left her scrambling for a response. She nodded, half-shrugging it away by force of habit. “Yeah, well…g’night.”

“Goodnight,” the girl nodded and she started walking as Rebecca hurried up to the front door of her building. She fumbled with her keys, but looked back over her shoulder as soon as she managed to unlock it.

The street was empty, the strange girl nowhere to be seen.

Rebecca could feel her shoulders sag a little, both hands still on the door. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t even know her name. Oh well, this was a memorable night at least. She went back inside, locking the door behind her. As she walked up the stairs without her jacket, she thought that it really was rather a cold night. Cold and dark. She frowned one more time. Really not a night to go for a stroll.