Annie joined Mitchell in the kitchen when she came home, carefully by-passing the living room, where major emotional chat was still going on, and she sat with him at the table, cold hands wrapped firmly round a cup of steaming tea.

George and Nina had moved to the couch just before she'd come in, but their conversation was every bit as intense as the portion that Mitchell had witnessed when they were on the floor. The two of them, the dead and the undead, were trying not to spy on the living occupants of the house, but it was pretty hard. Every so often, they could actually hear every word that was spoken, when their voices were raised in anger or in sorrow.

"How long have they been at it now?" she asked Mitchell, sneaking a side-long peak at the two werewolves. The sun had set since Nina arrived, and night was now well and truly settled in outside the house.

"About an hour," he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"You think they're going to be okay?" she was referring to their status as a couple rather than their general health, but Mitchell got it without further explanation.

"I dunno," he said. "She's strong, she's really strong but – this is such as huge thing for them. I hope so. I think we both know that this road is easier to walk if you've got someone at your side. Maybe they just need more time."

"It's a good thing they're still talking," Annie said, gazing rather longingly at Mitchell as he raised his cup for another drink. She remembered drinking coffee: the slight buzz it gave her, the bitter taste of it, they way it clung to your mouth long after you'd swallowed it down.

"I think so," he agreed. "How did you get on at the library by the way?"

She made a face. "Pretty bust," she said. "I don't know what I expected. It's not like anyone who's alive can actually know about what happens after you die. So it's just all speculation and superstition. Lots of religious stuff about God and good and evil and all that rubbish."

"Yeah," Mitchell snorted. "If people only knew." He sat back with his arms crossed. "So are you going to keep at it?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe I just have to accept this. But it's just – forever Mitchell. For eternity. I can't even begin to think what that's going to be like. I'll see everyone I know grow old and die. I might see civilization grow old and die! I don't think I want to see that."

"Time is an incredible thing, Annie," he said, his eyes misting over slightly. "The things I've seen just in this past century, the changes that have come about. But they just happen, history happens around you. You just deal with it."

She smiled at him. "What was the best bit of the 20th century for you?"

"The best bit?" he said. "Oh, I don't know. The 20s were a lot of fun there for a while, people were so full of hope, but then it all came crashing down of course. And the 60s, well, there were so many changes going on. But do you know, I think the 90s really did it for me the most. Things really changed, they really picked up pace," he leaned forward eagerly. "It's actually exciting after a while watching it all happen, wondering what's going to change next, what incredible thing is going to be discovered."

"But do you not just get sick of it?" she wondered. "All that rubbish about war and conflict, seeing so many people die all the time."

He shrugged. "You know Josie told me, before she… she told me that being human meant being mortal. It meant dying. I didn't really understand what she meant at the time, but I think she meant that everything has its time and its place, and once that's over, then it's over, y'know. A life shouldn't be mourned."

"Even when it's unfulfilled," Annie said. "Even when it's cut short?"

He smiled at her sympathetically, knowing that she was referring to herself. "Life is life Annie. And death is death. In many ways, even though you're dead, you're still alive, you're still participating. Even if taking revenge on Owen was your big unresolved issue and you should have gone then, think what you can still do, the influence you can have on people, the positive effect you can have. Look at the effect you have on me and George. I can't think of this house without you here."

She returned the smile, deeply appreciative. And turned her head slightly at the sound of voices coming closer to the kitchen. Then they heard the sounds of farewells being made, and the front door closing.

"Guess they're through," she said quietly.

"Mm," Mitchell agreed, looking up as George wandered his way into the kitchen.

He stood there, face still rather red and swollen, his glasses held awkwardly in his hands. He was looking down at them rather than his friends, and seemed at a loss for what to do.

Annie stood up and went over to him, and wrapped him in a spontaneous embrace, that, although he didn't reject, he didn't seem to fully enjoy.

She pulled back and tried to look him in the face, but he still wasn't raising his eyes from his hands.

"I'm making a cup of tea," she said, a little provocatively. "Would you like one?"

He nodded, and she smiled, moving away and crossing to the kettle. George just remained standing there looking genuinely lost.

Then he said: "We need a little risk in our lives."

"What?" Both Annie and Mitchell spoke almost in unison, neither one understanding what he had meant.

"You said that to me," George went on, indicating Mitchell. "You said we needed risk in our lives. And this is what happens."

"George…"

"You pushed us together," he went on, ignoring the interruption. "You invited her here, brought her into this, brought this semblance of normality, this fake sheen of life and love and relationships – and I told you that I didn't think it was safe. None of it. Not having people here, not involving Nina, none of it."

"George you can't stop living," Mitchell insisted.

"I've destroyed her life!" he raised his voice emotionally.

"She wants to be with you. She's forgiven you for what happened."

"She's no idea what happened," he shouted. "She has no conception of any sort at all of what this is, of what she is, of what I've done to her."

"Then she'll learn," Mitchell said, getting to his feet. "We all learned."

George put his head slightly to one side. "I didn't want this for her."

Mitchell softened. "No one did," he said. "But it's happened now. And we have to move forward."

"We can't change what we are, George," Annie put in from her spot beside the kettle, which had just come through the boil.

"I'm not asking anyone to change," he said pointedly. "I'm just – there are things that have – things that should never have happened."

"What would you have done different?" Mitchell asked him. "From everything that's happened, what could you have done different?"

"I could have kept her out of this," he said.

"By denying yourself happiness?"

"I don't deserve happiness!" he yelled. Then stopped and seemed to pull himself back from the brink of whatever black hole he was staring down. The other two looked at him, shocked, unable to think what to say. "Please try to understand," he said softly, aware of just how emotional he was, and how that looked. "I love Nina, but in bringing her into this, I have put my own feelings before her safety. And I don't know if I can forgive myself for that."

Before either Annie or Mitchell could answer him, he turned on his heel and left the kitchen. Annie hadn't even started making the tea she had promised him. The way she was feeling, she didn't feel particularly motivated to ever make tea again.

"Should we…?" she asked, pointing after him.

"No, leave him," Mitchell said, holding up a hand to stop her. "Obviously whatever Nina was saying to him for an hour wasn't enough to convince him. I can't think that anything we would say is going to make a difference. Just let him be for the time being. Let's see how he's doing in the morning."

Mitchell and Annie stayed up talking until they ran out words. Occasionally they could hear George moving around upstairs, but he didn't come down again, not for food, not for company. It was almost as if he'd checked out of the household for the evening, like he'd annexed his little room, gnomes and all.

"Have you heard anything more from Owen?" Mitchell asked Annie, sometime around 10 o clock, when they'd reached that time where there didn't seem to be much point in doing anything else with the evening other that what they were already doing. Mitchell was busy hoovering up a large plate of toast and jam, his second that hour.

The ghost shook her head. "Not a peep," she said. "I went round to his house the other day. Not to haunt him," she clarified quickly as Mitchell looked disapproving. "Not even to talk to him really. I just wanted to see him. See what he was doing."

"And what was he doing?"

She shrugged. "He wasn't there. Janie wasn't there either. The place was deserted. And it had that cold feeling to it," she said, screwing up her eyes a little. "You know, like no one's had the heating on. Like no one was living there."

He smiled. "You thought it was cold?"

"Well," she seemed a little flustered. "I could tell it was – it just seemed cold is all. I hung around for a bit, but no one came back."

"Maybe they've moved," Mitchell suggested.

"Probably," Annie agreed. "But if they have, they didn't bother to take much stuff with them."

"People don't when they're in a hurry," he said, speaking from experience. "He's taken her away, and they'll start a whole new life together somewhere else."

"Until he pushes her down the stairs," Annie dropped in.

"You did everything you could to help her," Mitchell pointed out. "You of all people know how manipulative Owen could be. It's no wonder that she chose to believe him over the supposed spirit of some dead girlfriend. Remember, you're not supposed to exist, Annie."

"Yeah. Ain't that the truth."

When he did finally go to bed (and Annie to her chair) Mitchell couldn't sleep. His mind was in overdrive. He kept wondering over and over how he'd allowed himself to get into this situation; him, the coolest of the cool, highly favoured, adored even among his peers. And what was he doing? Losing sleep over his werewolf housemate turning his girlfriend into a fellow lycanthrope. Talk about puppy love.

But truth be told, that wasn't why he couldn't shut his eyes and switch off his brain. Truth be told, he was thinking about all the people he'd turned over the years. Not just those he'd killed in dark doorways and dark rooms, screaming, pleading, silent. But the ones he'd brought into this world. The ones he'd made into monsters, like him.

How different he and George were. Here was a man who was terrified of spreading his 'condition', who did everything a person could possibly do to hide from the world and keep everyone at arm's length. Everything about him screamed 'keep away from me' from his clothes to his lifestyle. And here was Mitchell, who knew what he was, and had spent a hundred years spreading it to anyone he felt like. It was only now that he was desperate to get away from it and now he just felt like he didn't have anything like George's willpower.

He thought of Lauren, sweet Lauren. She'd been so nervous when she'd asked Mitchell over: the fear of rejection, the vulnerability. But she'd done it. And look at what happened. In her he'd created his worst nightmare. He'd turned a sweet girl into a killer, and then he'd destroyed her, literally, with his own hands.

Then he thought of Bernie.

That kid had had so much potential, so much going for him. And it had all just been fucked up by stupid, bloody society and it's fear of the unknown and of exposing children to anything, and of branding anyone who so much as sneezes at a child the wrong way, as evil and corrupting. Of course there were bad people in the world – until not so long ago, he'd been one of them – but he wasn't any more, and hurting or corrupting that child had been the furthest thing from his mind. Until he'd turned him into a vampire. Until he'd given him his own curse.

Mitchell squeezed his eyes together. Why had he done it? He was just a kid. Of course his mother was going to chose to keep him with her. Why had he even offered her that choice? He knew it was the wrong thing to do. But he'd been emotional. He'd felt guilty. He'd been afraid.

If anyone knew what George was going through, it was him.

Well, it was done now, no taking it back. He sighed and rolled over, opening his eyes and staring out into the darkness. And maybe it would be alright. Being a vampire didn't necessarily make you evil. You could survive without the blood and the killing, as long as there was someone there to help you. You didn't need to become a monster.

Then suddenly, Mitchell had this odd feeling that something wasn't quite right. It was a strange feeling, like when you look at a picture, and the perspective is all wrong. He sat up in bed and tried to focus, aware that his tired brain was jumping up and down trying to tell him something, and that he really needed to listen.

He was staring at his bed side table. It was something about that that wasn't right. Something was missing. Something was definitely not there that should be.

His alarm clock was there, the book he was reading, the lamp, the sunglasses, his radio, the pile of magazines. What was missing? What was it that his brain had spotted in the dim light that was so important?

And then he started, realization kicking in.

When Herrick had appeared outside their front door and staked him in the chest, narrowly missing his heart, George had been on-hand to take him to hospital. Of course, there wasn't much modern day medicine could do for a vampire. They healed quickly anyway, and once Josie had so lovingly given up her life so that he could regain his strength, the doctors had been more than happy to let him go home, secure in the knowledge that he was a medical marvel, and quite happy to not investigate the matter any further.

But what they had done was insist that he take medication home with him: pain killers that Mitchell insisted he neither wanted nor needed. But they'd been adamant: recovery would happen faster the less he was in pain. He'd eventually acquiesced. After all, the last thing he wanted to do at that point was bring even more attention to himself.

So they'd filled him a prescription, and given him the pills in a box in a little paper pharmaceutical bag, and told him to make an appointment with his GP to have it re-filled in about a week. It was an appointment that Mitchell hadn't made, he didn't even have a GP. But the pills had sat in their little paper bag on his bed side cabinet where Annie had put them when she'd helped him into bed after his return from the hospital. But they weren't there now. The bag and its contents were missing.

Mitchell practically leapt from the bed, a cold feeling of fear spreading unexpectedly through his stomach. He strode to the door and pulled it open and walked, bare foot, down the hall to George's room. He stood outside, listening. He could be wrong after all. Maybe Annie had moved the bag on one of her cleaning sprees. Maybe he'd moved it and just forgotten. It was possible.

But he was deluding himself. He knew exactly where those pills were, he just didn't want to go through that door and confirm his suspicions.

He screwed up his eyes, willing himself to be wrong, then he quietly and gently put his hand on the door knob, and turned it.

He opened the door as silently as he could manage, and stood there for a few seconds, feeling sick. Then he turned.

"Annie," he shouted, as loudly as he could. "Annie, call an ambulance."