It was a dark evening in November, cold and damp, and Mitchell was walking the streets of Bristol with a frown. Seth had summoned him to some place on the outskirts of Bristol, a night-café where streetwalkers would get a coffee to warm up and drunks would have greasy sausages first and vomit later. When his phone was buzzing again, he sighed and texted Malcolm that he was on his way. That dude had texted six times in the last hour, reminding him of their appointment and that Herrick had insisted. Mitchell was pissed off at the idea of meeting three of Bristol's dumbest vampires when he had just finished a truly shitty doubleshift at the hospital that was plagued with the Noro virus. He would miss „The Real Hustle" and have to listen to Seth's babbling instead. But he knew better than to skip the appointment. He had to reassure Seth he was still to be reckoned with and thus calm Herrick who panicked at the idea of a vampire staying off blood, especially his golden boy, the orphan maker, the stuff of legend.

Mitchell let his cigarette stub fall in the gutter and ran his fingers through his shabby locks, getting himself ready to enter the café and meet the vampires. But before he could get round to the front entrance, he heard muffled cries and the sound of fists punching flesh.

„C'mon boys, my turn now."

That was Seth. Beating up some poor soul, no doubt, before tearing their throats and hearts out. That was how Seth liked to feed. Or to play. Which to him was the very same.

In the dim light of a street lamp he watched Seth and Malcolm and Big Ben kick someone who was already down and lay unmoving between the litter. He walked closer and smelled blood and fear and wet dog.

„Wow! What are you doing?"

„It's a lyco! Working at the café!"

„Got something to say Mitchell?" Seth grinned his predator grin, just waiting for Mitchell to make a wrong move.

„How many people in the café?"

„Few."

„Aha." He rounded Seth. Christ, if stupidity would smell, Seth would stink worse than the werewolf laying in the puddle of rotten food and waste.

„Anyone see you leave?"

„Does it matter?" Malcolm was shouting now, clearly frustrated that Mitchell had interrupted his evening's fun.

„I don't know, Malcolm. Their kitchen guy turns up dead, and they've seen all you guys slink after, and maybe they see the connection."

„So? They don't know who we are."

„They do." Big Ben seemed embarrassed. „I got here before you arrived and got talkin' to the owner. His mum died and he needed an undertaker and I sort of gave him our business card."

„We don't even have a real business!"

„Look." Mitchell argued. „I've got no love for lycos but that's a big trail you're leaving there."

„Alright." Seth grinned thinly and handed him a pair of glasses that must belong to the werewolf. He waved his minions off and left Mitchell on the street, the appointment forgotten.

The lyco moved and struggled to get up, and Mitchell noticed his white sneakers so out of fashion and enormous ears that made him look like a dog. Life could be so ironic.

„They were going to kill me!" The man exclaimed, his voice shrill and shaking.

„Yeah."

„What? Why?" The lyco was sobbing now, his lip trembling, his fingers curling in his too big trousers.

He was pathetic, with all that blood on his face and that childlike look of utter desperation in his eyes. Mitchell just stood and watched him, fascinated by the display of fear and self-pity and weakness.

„They don't like werewolves."

He walked over and handed the sobbing creature his glasses. The lyco stared at him in fear and disbelieve.

„How did they know?"

„People like us can recognise people like you."

The bleeding man managed to get up, his back against the wall. He stared at him, clearly not understanding. Could he really not know? How could a werewolf not know about the hatred between his kind and vampires. Or didn't he even know that other supernatural creatures existed? Didn't he know of all the monsters out there?

„People like you?"

„Vampires."

The lyco stopped crying and looked at him, his eyes were wide and blue and innocent, and Mitchell had to lower his gaze and turn away.

„Do you live near here?" He scanned the buildings around so he wouldn't have to look at the pitiful creature, completely aware how ridiculous he behaved – as if he would expect a sign that read „werewolf's lodgings" in neon lights.

„I have a room above the café. Did you just say vampires?"

„You gonna have to leave. They are coming back, they always do."

The man stared at him, his mouth hanging slightly open, blood trickling down his split lip.

„I'm sorry." Mitchell said and was astonished that he truly was. Not for himself or for someone he had killed for a change, but for someone else. Someone who looked so completely and utterly shaken, so hurt and vulnerable that he wished he could have done something other than scare Seth away. Something to help.

Jesus Fucking Christ, that was a lyco. What was he going to do? Adopt a stray dog?

He dug his hands in his pockets and turned to leave.

„And then what?" The man shouted.

Mitchell stopped and turned round.

„I've lost everything." There was anger in the werwolf's voice, and desperation. „I've had this for six months, and now there are vampires and they want to kill me."

Slowly Mitchell walked back to face him, curiosity igniting. There seemed to be more to the werewolf than he had thought. Strength, passion, life. Life. Fuck, he envied that stinking dog.

„So I have to leave. Again." The young man's voice cracked with tears, his hands came up in a helpless gesture. „And then what?"

Loneliness. Fear. Pain.

Mitchell knew what. Had been through it. Over and over again. Mostly because of his own doing, trying to get away from Herrick or from a gruesome scene after his bloodlust had taken over. Sometimes he had to flee because others wanted to kill him. But the worst times had been when he had been dumped by those he loved. When Josie broke up with him because she felt old whereas he would always be twenty-four and frozen in time, when she needed to seize the opportunity of getting married and becoming a mother. When Carl had wanted him to leave and take responsibility for himself.

„You can come with me." He said.

„What?"

„I have a sofa you can sleep on."

„So that you can… what? Drink my blood? No, no, nooo. Thank you very much!"

„I'm not going to feed on you. You are a werewolf, that is disgusting."

„Kill me then? You yourself said people like you don't like people like me!" The man was working himself up in a hysteric fit.

„Yeah. I save your sorry arse just to kill you on my sofa. Blood never washes out, believe me, I know."

The man took his glasses off and cleaned them on his torn shirt.

„Thanks for your offer, be it generous or not, but no thanks. I will go back to work and sleep in my own bed in my own room. I cannot allow any more of this happening to me." He put his glasses on, sniffed and straightened his shoulders.

„Thank you for saving my life back then." He nodded and walked back to the café on slightly unsteady feet.

„Hey! You have to leave, mate. This is serious!"

„So am I."

Mitchell stared. That stupid lyco had no idea what he was up against. Then he shrugged. He had done all he could and more than he should. Imagine a werewolf in his flat. Would the dog drink out of the toilet? He grinned and lightened another cigarette. If he managed to get home quickly he would even be able to watch the last bit of „The Real Hustle", order a pizza and get a nap, before he had to leave for work again.

The night after the werewolf-incident he was back in the same street, entering the night-café after another particular lousy shift. All the patients seemed to be determined to make his life worse than it already was, and he had spent almost the entire afternoon and night mopping up vomit and diarrhoea and on top had been slanged by some bloody doctor for smoking on the stairs. That nurse, Lauren, had been trailing him again, smiling and blushing and obviously trying to find something to talk about, and although she was kinda cute, really, he had been rude and made her sweet smile crumble. She fancied him obviously (Did one even say fancy anymore?), which was completely unnerving. There was no way he could get involved, although her eyes really were a beautiful and bright blue and she had dimples when she smiled and would always think of getting him a coffee from the cafeteria.

He had thought about asking her out for a brief moment and then ducked, splashing water on the floor and her feet to angrily continue mopping. Yes, it would be nice to go on a date that would lead to sex and intimacy and maybe even a bond. A girlfriend. But the risk that it led to the taking of blood and another innocent life was too high.

He had managed to stay sober for almost a year now. He had been on and off blood since the seventies, but he always fell. Of course he did. He was a bloody vampire.

It happened mostly when he was lonely. Not that he wasn't always lonely these days, lonely by choice. He stayed away from the vampires, from Herrick's lot and they let him be. He stayed away from humanity as best as he could, working in a low profile job, knowing nobody would cast a second look. He walked home instead of going on the bus where he smelled their skin and the blood that was being pumped through the veins underneath. He didn't go to the cinema, a disco or a rock concert for the smell drove him insane, made his head spin, his mouth water and his fangs eager to grow, hurting his gum. His undead heart was racing then, his palms were sweaty and he couldn't remember any more why he didn't allow himself to draw blood. Why he didn't want to taste it, that delicious, hot and sticky liquid that filled every fibre of his being with lust and satisfaction and glory and life.

He knew he couldn't keep the monster under control, so he stayed away from humans. But once in a while he just couldn't help it.

An advertisement of a dance class would bring memories of ballet shoes, heavy eyeliner and a smile to get lost in. A certain song on the radio would remind him of elegant yet strong fingers playing the piano.

He usually got pissed then, big time. Sometimes he passed out on the counter or on a bench outside the pub. Other times he got chatted up, by women who would play with their hair and tilt their head, lick their lips and put a hand on his knee. Sometimes he would shake his head, no thanks, and resume his silent drinking. But most of the times he would smile and invite them for a drink. He was lonely, damn it, he needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen to him, even when all his stories about his job and his family were made up. He needed their fingers brushing his forearm, their eyes looking into his, he needed the warmth radiating from their bodies that would at some point later in the night seek to be close to his. He needed to press those bodies against the nearest wall, needed to feel him becoming hard, needed those breathless kisses, his tongue exploring their mouths and the skin of their necks. He needed to get under their clothes, to touch the soft shivering and yet oh so warm skin, to follow the curves of their breasts, hear them moan in his mouth and needed to respond throaty when they would fumble with his belt and unbutton his jeans to stroke him and guide him. He needed to gasp when he entered them, needed his breath become ragged as if he really had to breathe, he needed the rhythm of bodies moving together, needed to grab their hair with his fist when his mind would shut down and his body would feel and the sensation would become nearly felt human then, truly human, and he felt. Until he would come and his fangs would come and hack exposed necks and tear veins and his tongue would no longer lick soft skin but hot blood and the women would no longer moan in lust but in pain and fear. He would drink and feed and suck the life out of that delicious flesh, until they would be just a dead shell and, Christ, he couldn't even remember their names.

He would leave them mostly where they had fallen, crumbled in a dark alley or in a corner of their flats, some shabby, some chic, and call Herrick to get rid of the waste.

And although he never spoiled precious blood and never left a mess like he used to, his sire was always pleased when he called him, Big Bad John back on track, and he would send the cleaners to dispose of the bodies and talk about old times and what a mess they made then, eh Mitchell, do you remember the twins, that really was something. He never liked those phone-calls, even in his blood-drunken state when he couldn't care less, and he usually managed to keep them short and retreat into privacy after.

He would be high for some days, with the stolen blood rushing hot through his veins, his heart pumping and beating so fast it almost hurt, and he would feel alive and ecstatic, and then he would fall. Tears and self-loathing would follow and the often-broken vow not to fall off the wagon again, not to kill, not to unleash the monster.

He didn't want to do this, not to his victims, not to himself.

His job at the hospital helped. From time to time he managed to steal a blood bag, and although it was disgusting, cold and dead and made him gag, it still supported him.

The lyco-bashing from the night before had occupied his mind, he found himself thinking how the sorry werewolf would be faring and whether Seth had come back to finish what he started. And so, after finishing his shift, he hadn't gone home but back to the café and wasn't surprised at all to see the bruised and swollen face of the kitchen-boy.

But the man was surprised to see him.

He let out a little shriek that would have been comical hadn't it been for the terror in his face.

„What… what do you want?"

„Coffee. Black."

„What?"

„Coffee. This is a café, right?"

„Oh, yes, of course, it is. There is a sign at the door. Really, Coffee?"

„Yes. Please."

„But… You said you were a vampire."

„Why don't you shout a little louder? I think a little granny in Clifton hasn't heard you properly."

„Oh. Sorry. But I thought, vampires drink blood."

He shrugged uncomfortably. „Yeah."

The werewolf stared at him.

„Not… you know, solely. We eat and drink like everybody else."

„Aha."

The werewolf continued to stare.

„What?"

„Oh, gosh, I am sorry. But I have never met a vampire before. Well, obviously there were those three who… you know. But I watched „Interview with a vampire" and „Underworld" and you look just so… ordinary."

„Ordinary?" Mitchell arched an eyebrow. He didn't know what he looked like, he couldn't remember. All he knew was he had dark hair and a stubbly chin because in all his vampire-years he had never learnt how to shave properly without being able to see himself in a mirror, but other than that? He had to rely on what others would say about him, and that had been mostly pleasant. He was easy on the eye, a looker, handsome, even beautiful to some. He had been called fiend, devil, monster. But ordinary? He couldn't recall ever being called ordinary before.

„Um. Sorry. Yes, ordinary. Like a normal guy. You are not even ghoul pale. Aren't you supposed to have fangs?"

„Have." Mitchell murmured. „They come out only when… you know… I am about to feed. I haven't done that in a long time. So, no fangs. Can I get a coffee now?"

„Are you saying that you are… what? Abstinent? Are there support-groups, AA's? No, that would have to be AB's, Anonymous Bloodsuckers!" The man grinned and winced slightly when his cut lip stretched and cracked open again.

Mitchel watched the single red drop roll down the lip, leaving a trace on the man's clean shaven chin and drop onto the counter. He swallowed. Thank God, that was lyco blood or he would have licked it right off the counter. He sniffed, suddenly aware of the exhausted looking whore sitting at the table just next to him, her pale flesh exposed, her blood pulsing through blue veins in her neck. His hands were trembling suddenly and he put them in his lap. He swallowed again and closed his eyes. Bad idea to come here. Fuck. Very, very bad.

He should go home quickly, out of the danger-zone of living, hot-blooded creatures, but it was quite a walk to Knowle West, what if he encountered a drunkard in a lone alley? Maybe he could get a cab. No, that would be like canned food.

He had no choice but to stay and hope he could get a grip on himself.

A mug of coffee was placed on the counter before him, and he slowly and very carefully wrapped his fingers around it and let the heat seep into his icy skin.

„How do you kill a vampire?" The werewolf asked, his voice quivering nervously.

„What?"

„Stake? Sunlight? Holy water? Silver bullets? No, wait, that was for werewolves. Is that really working?"

„I don't think the bullet has to be silver. A nice clean shot in a vital organ will do the trick."

"Reassuring. What about vampires?"

„Stake. Through the heart. Beheading or burning will work fine. But forget about sunlight. Not sure about holy water though. I think if you meet a religious vampire, yes, that could do quite a damage. Are you planning on killing me?"

„You? Why should I? No, I just thought I should be able to defend myself."

"Yes, you should. But sorry mate, I just don't see you ramming a stake into a beating heart, vampire or no."

„No, you are probably right. But… six months ago I didn't see myself work in a shitty café and be a monster. I was studying at Cambridge! Did you know I have an IQ of 156 and speak six different languages? No, of course you didn't. I had a fiancé and a very good job offer and life was perfect and then I had to go to Scotland on a bloody holiday and talk a walk at night and get attacked by some animal."

„Sorry."

The lyco laughed hysterically.

„Life has been hell since then. The first time this… it… that… thing… happened, I was still at the hospital. For some reason I felt I had to run into the woods, and then…" He took his glasses off and closed his eyes. When he eventually put his glasses back on, his fingers were trembling and his eyes were teary. „I woke up lying next to a dead deer, its throat ripped out and its guts were spilled all over me. Can you imagine the horror?"

Thankfully the agitated man didn't wait for an answer.

„It took me some time to figure out what had happened to me. It's the bloody twenty-first century, we fly into space and I am turned into a werewolf! And now vampires!"

„The werewolf who made you. Didn't they teach you anything?"

„I never saw what attacked me."

„Oh."

„Did you?"

„What? See what attacked me? Yes. I did."

He took a sip of coffee, feigning casualty.

„Were you scared?"

„Out of my wits." He shrugged. „Which actually wasn't a big deal. I was already pissing in my pants. We had a week of air raids. Half of the company were already dead before we were ordered to march on. Funny. At the time I thought there was nothing more evil than poison gas leaving half dead men caught in barbed wire and screaming for their mothers. That was before I encountered the vampires, of course."

The man stared at him. „Wait. Are you talking about having fought in war? Which? Afghanistan? Did they really use poison gas in Afghanistan? I thought Bush made that up!"

„Germans. In Flandres."

The man's eyes got big. „World War One? Are you kidding?"

Mitchell took another gulp from his coffee and put a cigarette between his lips.

„No smoking." The werewolf said automatically. „Really?"

He lightened the fag and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke out through his nose.

„Really."

„Bloody hell."

„Exactly what it was."

„The vampire who turned you. What was he like? What was it like? No, you don't have to answer that. Did he teach you?"

„He did."

„Did he ask you? If you wanted to become one?"

„Sort of, yes."

„And you agreed? Didn't you read „Dracula"?"

„No."

He looked at the fag and the little flakes of ash that fell from its tip because of his unsteady hand. They were circling in the smoke like ballet dancers. He closed his eyes.

„More coffee?"

„Beer." The werwolf nodded and opened a bottle.

„That's on me. For yesterday. Without you…"

Mitchell looked up from the bottle. „They will come back. And they will kill you."

„So you want me to run."

„It would be a good idea."

„Mhm." The man extended his hand. „I am George, by the way."

He shook it, a little reluctant maybe, but still. „Mitchell."

„Is your offer still standing? The couch?"

Damn. He had nearly forgotten. He wasn't too keen on having a lyco staying at his place. Were dogs even allowed to sleep on a couch?

„Sure." He emptied his bottle and gestured for another one. „Until you find a new place."

„Of course. Just this night if that's okay with you?"

„You have to quit your job as well."

George looked around and smiled. „A great career going down the drain." He opened himself a beer and clinked bottles. „Cheers."

When they left the café and collected George's belongings from the room above, it was nearly ten o'clock in the morning and Mitchell was more than slightly drunk. Otherwise, he figured, he would never have agreed to George emptying his crammed book-shelve into several boxes to take with him. When he stepped out on the street, balancing bloody heavy boxes and plastic bags full of clothes, a pale November sun was pricking his skin, and he shoved his big, dark sunglasses on his nose, protecting his eyes. Mitchell ignored George's curious look and wondered whether he was out of his mind. Sure, George didn't seem dangerous, but hell, he was a werwolf. On a full moon he would rip Mitchell's head off in the blink of an eye. The dog could stay this night and then he had to leave. And Mitchell could only hope that Herrick never found out.

Back at his sorry flat he fumbled with his keys, two heavy boxes balanced between his knee and chin, bags dangling from his arm, and eventually managed to open the door. Once inside he felt like just collapsing under the weight of Georges possessions and sleep right on the floor. Jesus, he was tired. George, on the other hand, seemed to be overexcited. He manoeuvred his possessions into the tiny flat and examined bathroom and kitchen and his face fell. Both didn't seem to answer his expectations. He stared into the empty fridge and shut the door.

„Right." He said. „What about I go and buy something for breakfast? And maybe general stuff like pasta and potatoes and vegetables and some fruit. You seem to have run out of groceries."

Mitchel took his sunglasses off and stared at the werewolf.

„Beer. Beer would suffice. And tobacco." He tossed him the keys. „Don't run into any more vampires please."

George grinned. And then his grin faded. „Do you think I will? Do you think they followed us?"

„No. They don't come here, they leave me are safe for now."

„Right." George seemed hesitant. „You sure you don't want to come along shopping?"

„No way. I really need some sleep. I have a double shift again."

„You work?"

„Of course I work. I have rent to pay."

George looked around, frowning. „Somehow I thought vampires were living in castles and were absurdly rich."

„Welcome to reality." He waved him good-bye, tossed a blanket on his worn-out couch for George and retreated into his bedroom. He was too tired even to brush his teeth, just got rid of his boots and jeans and crawled under the blanket.