When Sam woke up, it was to find himself in his crappy bedsit, lying on the rickety bed. He was bare chested, his shoes were off and he was covered over with the scratchy wool blanket from the cupboard. He felt a jolt as he remembered everything, and he scrabbled with the covers, flinging them off. He didn't know what he expected to see, but it wasn't this. There was no blood, not anywhere. There were no bandages, either. On the left side of his stomach, there were two weals - pink round the edges, redder in the centre, at least half-healed. Had he been unconscious for that long? He supposed it was possible, though when he ran a hand over his jaw he felt only a prickle of stubble, no more than a day's worth. Was it possible? A coma within a coma? He looked at the wounds again, gingerly touching the edges of one with the tip of his finger. It was tender, but not really painful. He thought of the pain he'd experienced before passing out - he'd been stabbed. Fatally, he'd thought at the time. There was no way he should have recovered so fast. Hell, when Gene had accidentally given him a black eye last week it had taken days to fade. This... this was something else.

'Good morning.' The voice came from the table by the window, and Sam whipped his head around. A dark haired man sat there, straight backed in the wooden chair, one of Sam's few paperback novels in his hand and a cup and saucer on the table in front of him. Sam tried to leap up, but he was weaker than he'd thought and though he made it to his feet, he felt in no fit state to go any further. He settled for standing by the head of the bed, hand on the ledge there to support him.

'Who're you?' he demanded, half a dozen other questions lining themselves up even as he spoke, jostling to be next.

The man began to stand.

'Stay down!' Sam barked. 'Stay where you are.' The stranger nodded, spreading his hands in that same conciliatory gesture as Sam had made last night (was it last night?), but realising as he lowered himself back into the chair that he still held a book in his hand. He closed it over and laid it down on the table, carefully, before holding his hands out again, palms upwards. He bowed his head, eyes cast down, as though to acknowledge some minor faux pas.

'You are understandably cautious. I apologise.'

His tone was formal, almost stilted, and his accent unrepentantly upper class. He was dressed casually - but only just, as though he'd been made to wear the cream polo shirt against his will and had expressed his rebellion by ironing the life out of it. He raised his eyes again - dark brown eyes, though of course everything was dark in here, with the curtains drawn - and held Sam's gaze evenly. His features were soft - young, Sam realised with surprise, despite his stiff manners he couldn't be much past his mid-twenties. His features were soft, yes, but his eyes - they told a different story. There was no threat in them, no aggression, but there was a sense of poise and self control that hinted of something else. He folded his hands in his lap.

'My name is Hal - but perhaps that is not the question you would really like answered,' he said, in the same mild tone. His slim face wore a carefully bland expression.

'You're bloody right it's not!' Sam fumed, eyes wide.

'I will do my best to answer the question as it was intended, then. My name is Hal, and I am a vampire.'

Sam began to give a deliberately exaggerated nod. 'Oh! A vampire! Of course!' he exclaimed. He touched the tips of his left fingers to his temples, thumb resting lightly on his cheek, and lifted them all away again quickly, as though having a lightbulb moment, raising his eyebrows in mock enlightenment. 'And here was me thinking you were an escaped lunatic.'

Hal gave a tight, polite smile, keeping his hands in his lap but beginning to tap the fingers of his left hand over the knuckles of his right in a quick pattern.

'I know that it is hard to believe, but nevertheless, it is true. And, I'm sorry to say...' Here he paused, looking a little stuck for words. '...I'm sorry to say that after last night, you are, too.'

Sam started to laugh, taking his hands off the supporting ledge and folding his arms across his chest. Hal only watched him, fingers drumming ceaselessly.

'Listen... Hal, was it?' Sam raised his eyebrows as Hal nodded once. 'Well, Hal, I want you to tell me who you are, and how you got into my house, and I want you to tell me RIGHT FUCKING NOW.' His raised voice filled the room, but the stranger didn't flinch. Sam continued, with a hint of laughter still in his voice, though all traces of good humour had vanished. 'It's been great, this. It's been a real laugh riot, but I've had enough of this game now, yeah?' He swept his arms out in front of him, uncrossing them in a wide gesture of negation, hands flattened into blades. 'Enough.'

Hal looked up at him, still seated, maintaining his composure, though his hand continued to jump and twitch.

'I have told you who I am. I gather that you're a police officer, and as such I'd hope you have the ability to retain information for longer than a few minutes.' There was flint in his words, and Sam clenched his jaw, lips drawn together as though to keep a further furious outburst inside. Hal left a pause, as though to see if the words were going to burst out anyway, and when they didn't, he continued.

'I saw the young woman running from the alleyway last night. She seemed in some distress, and I went to find out why. I saw you on the ground. You were dead.'

Sam couldn't contain himself. 'I wasn't dead,' he snapped, tendrils of fright creeping into his heart despite his bluster. Again, Hal left a longer than necessary pause.

'May I continue?' he finally asked, to which Sam gave no reply. This guy had broken into his house, who knows what all he'd been up to while Sam was out cold, he was obviously a raving mental case, and yet he still had the upper hand in this conversation. Sam had no idea how that could have happened, and worse still he had no idea how to turn things around. Hal had begun speaking again.

'To all intents and purposes, you were dead. Your heart had two or three beats remaining when I found you, no more than that.' Sam forced himself to stay silent. Maybe the secret to regaining the upper hand would be to let the man get wrapped up in his own fantasy, maybe he would lose his composure if Sam let him ramble.

Seeing that he was not to be interrupted again, Hal carried on.

'I bit you - for that I apologise, but it is a necessary part of the process.' Sam noticed a brief flicker in Hal's eyes, which he filed away for future reference. 'I bit you, then I fed you, and then while you were... asleep... I brought you here.'

'You fed me?' Sam kept his tone low; the fright had been joined by a creeping horror. He remembered being bitten, the spark of pain in his neck that had seemed insignificant at the time. He remembered drinking... something. His stomach clenched. 'Fed me what?'

Hal only looked at him, a species of sympathy in his eyes now. 'You remember,' he said, simply. Sam swallowed, hard. His mouth was suddenly dry. He looked around - sometimes he left a glass of water by the bed...

'I have made tea. Will you let me pour you some?'

Just as things seemed like they couldn't get any more bizarre, the man claiming to be a vampire offers to pour me a cup of tea...

It's not tea you want, though. Is it?

Sam blinked. He was used to having conversations in his head, and to a near-constant internal monologue, but this thought it had been... different. It was his voice, alright, but it had been stronger than usual, louder in his mind. He took a breath, determined not to show the other man any more weakness than he already had.

'You stay where you are.' His words were commanding, his voice steady, and hearing it made him feel better. Hal gave a light shrug, which set Sam's teeth back on edge, and settled himself back into the chair, insofar as anyone with such rigid posture could be said to settle in anywhere.

Sam walked over to the kitchen and turned the tap on. He looked over his shouder at Hal, who was sitting quietly as promised, seeming to look into the middle distance. When Sam reached into the cupboard to draw out a glass, he encountered something unfamiliar that drew his attention back.

The cupboard had been rearranged. His meagre collection of glasses, most of which had been donated by Nelson from the pub, were arranged by size. Next to them, another three cups and saucers that he hadn't even known he owned - that explained where Hal got the ones he was using right now - sat, looking for all the world like a display in an old lady's china cabinet. His plates had always been stacked by size (of course, that was the only sensible thing to do), but now they were on the opposite side of the shelf, their old spot being taken up by a neat stack of the few pots and pans that had come with the flat.

Sam gawped in at them all for a moment, in their stacks and rows, then slowly lifted out a glass and closed the door over. He looked down at the glass, which he thought might have been recently polished and buffed, then back at his guest. Hal remained seated; he had drawn something small out of his pocket, which he was now toying with, and he was paying no heed to Sam.

The water was running cold enough to leave condensation on the tap, and Sam filled his glass before shutting it off. He'd forgotten about the dryness in his mouth, but it came back with a vengeance now, and he drained half his glass in one before turning and walking, slowly, back to the bed. He cautiously judged that it would be safe enough to take a seat, as long as he kept his wits about him. Besides, his stomach was killing him. Poor choice of words, there, maybe... but a rest would do him good. He made his way around the bed until he could sit on the side nearest the window. Hal regarded him as he sat down.

'You reorganised my cupboards,' said Sam, unable to put this distracting fact to the side.

Hal nodded, showing an unexpected flicker of enthusiasm. 'Yes: glasses shortest to tallest, plates biggest to smallest, pots widest to narrowest. Also, I ran the hoover round. It's not a great model but I did what I could. I took the liberty of cleaning your bathroom, too - though, I must say, it made for short work.' He tipped his head again, this time as though in recognition from one artist to another. He was close to smiling. Sam shook his head slowly, glass in one hand tipping dangerously to one side.

'I was right the first time. You're a bloody lunatic.' He was almost in awe.

'It helps me,' Hal said simply, the hint of a smile fading. He brushed a curl of his tousled hair back from where it had fallen into his eyes, hiding his face for a moment. 'Do you wish me to continue?'

'Oh yes, yes. Continue, by all means,' said Sam, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

'Very well. Let us say that while you were recovering, you were able to give me enough information to find out where you lived. Your keys were in your jacket pocket, and I let us in. I thought that the least I could do was wait, while you rested, so that I could be here when you awoke. I came across your warrant card, in the inner pocket - I replaced it where I found it. Your shirt, by the way, is soaking in the sink - I fear I'm not much good with a needle and thread, but perhaps you will be able to fix the tears. The staining should be minimal, I took care of that much. I cleaned your face and hands, so that the bedcovers wouldn't be soiled.' He looked expectantly at Sam, no doubt waiting for another outburst.

Sam tried to take it all in.

'So, what you're telling me is that you carried me home, gave me a sponge bath, then cleaned my house while I was unconscious.' Hal looked as though he might have something to say, but changed his mind and only nodded. 'Great. Well, thanks for clearing that up, but I think it's time you were going.'

Sam felt that he would never get to the bottom of this, and on top of everything else he was starting to feel dizzy again. He took a sip of water, which didn't help.

'That won't be possible,' Hal replied, in a commiserating tone. 'You will need my assistance in the coming weeks, perhaps months. There are things you don't understand.'

'You've got that right,' said Sam, thinking it might just be the understatement of his life. 'I think I'll be able to figure it all out on my own, though, so if you don't mind...' He put the glass on the floor, stood up, a little unsteadily, and gestured to the door.

Hal didn't move.

'You don't believe me.'

'What gave it away?' Sam's voice crackled with bitter humour.

'Look in the mirror,' Hal suggested. He had stopped fidgeting with whatever he'd taken from his pocket - it was folded up in his palm, now - and he remained in the chair as though he planned on staying for dinner.

'No,' replied Sam, flatly. The fright was back, and the horror, and the nausea and the vertigo... 'No.' He tried to keep his voice, and himself, steady. 'You can leave by the door, or perhaps you'd prefer to fly? It might be a squeeze, the window gets stuck half way.' He fixed his eyes on his visitor, trying to project confidence and strength. He noted the taut muscles in Hal's narrow shoulders, the defined arms under the short sleeves of his shirt, and hoped it wouldn't come to a fight. He wasn't big, but he looked strong, and Sam wasn't sure he could beat him, in his current state.

'Look in the mirror,' repeated Hal, 'and then, if you still don't believe me, I will go. By the door,' he added, in what might have been a sardonic tone.

Seeing that it might be the only way to make any progress, Sam stood. He'd moved the full-length mirror, only recently - he'd been jumping at his own reflection on bad nights, when it had been next to the bed. It was now next to the front door, facing the wall so that it couldn't catch his eye any more.

As he approached it, he found himself reluctant to look. Perhaps this madness was catching. He turned around, and took the last few steps backwards, looking at Hal, who hadn't moved from his chair.

'Have you thought about seeing a doctor, at all? Trying out some new medication? No reason, you understand, just wondering...' Hal didn't rise to his jibes, and in the face of that insistent silence, Sam had no option but to turn back.

There was a high ringing in Sam's ears as he gripped the sides of the frame. As he turned the mirror round, he looked back over his shoulder again. He wanted to say something clever, something witty, something that would show he wasn't afraid, but nothing came to mind. His expression, unknown to him, pleaded for a reprieve. Hal met his gaze for a moment, with that sympathy back in his expression, then he gestured to the mirror. Sam turned back, reluctantly. Without strictly meaning to, he kept his eyes shut, in a too-long blink. Finally, he released the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, and looked. The mirror reflected his flat - the bed, the edge of the table, the empty arm chair, the window. What wasn't there was his face - the face he'd been accustomed to seeing every day of his life. In fact, there was no sign of him at all. It was as though he wasn't there. The god awful wallpaper was there, reflected perfectly - he turned round, seeing the same wallpaper in real life - and then back to the mirror. He still wasn't in it. He tilted it a little, to show the whole table and the other chair - Hal wasn't there, either.

He whipped back round to confront him, letting the mirror bang back against the wall, the whining noise in his ears louder, and the spinning motion sending him more dizzy than ever.

'It's a trick,' he insisted. 'You've done something to it. You've... you... Just get out!' The edges of his vision began to pixelate, the colours turning to black. He ran a shaking hand over his face.

Hal was shaking his head sadly. 'I know it's hard to believe. Let me show you something. It may... it may help.' He stood, unfolding slowly out of the seat, and Sam threw up his hands, fists clenched.

'Don't come near me!' He staggered back a step, as Hal ignored him and moved closer.

'DI Tyler,' he said, in a gentle voice. Sam dropped his hands, reeling on his feet, and as he watched, the stranger in his flat blinked. When he opened his eyes again, they were completely black, and he lifted his upper lip to reveal to sharp fangs that had not been there a second ago. He seemed to be hissing, but Sam couldn't be sure because at that moment, for the first time since he was in woodwork class and hit his thumb with the hammer, Sam Tyler fainted.