In which Mitchell completes the first phase of his rehabilitation, and Josie gets to know him far, far better than she ever thought possible. Obviously all BH characters belong to BBC and everyone involved in creating the show. We really love their stories. Thanks to SunnyFla and Carianna for your feedback and encouragement.

The episodes are getting worse and worse. His eyes cloud over again. He sounds like he's fighting for his life. From what he's told me, that's exactly what's happening: incredibly vivid nightmares in which his own crimes are visited on him. Perhaps they are atonement for what he's done. Their effect is nearly sickening to witness.

He's told me there's a stake in the pocket of his jacket, and I'm to use it if things get too dangerous. I should have it at the ready, just in case. The dark blue suit jacket, which he hasn't worn since the day he got here, hangs innocently on its hook beside my orange coat. In its satiny interior pocket is a brutally sharpened piece of wood nearly the length of my forearm, the point of it stained a rusty dark brown. I try not to think about where or how it might have been used before.

One of the upstairs neighbors comes to the door to complain of the noise again. I don't know what they've heard from that irritating man who visited us, but I know they are vampires. I feel safer with this stake close at hand.

My caller appears to be about thirty years old, dressed in faded, flared dungarees and t-shirt, with longish wispy hair, a sparse mustache, and a receding hairline. I keep expecting vampires to look scarier. He glances from side to side, examining his fingernails, avoiding my eyes.

"Hi." He's halfway shouting to be heard above the feverish noise. "I live in the flat upstairs, and I'm not sure if I've introduced myself properly. I'm Robbie. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," I say. "I'm Josie." We awkwardly shake hands. Robbie shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot and gazes at the floor. He stammers slightly.

"Erm, I'm not sure how to ask this, and, ah, er, I know Mister Mitchell is currently indisposed, but can you p-p-please try to keep him quiet? Not only is all the noise, er, irritating, but we're trying to play a little music here, and we can't really have that in the b-b-background, you know?"

Vampire musicians. Just when I thought it couldn't get weirder. I can't help but wonder what their music sounds like.

I have to raise my voice too. "I'm very sorry for the disturbance. I'll see what I can do. In any case, it shouldn't much longer." I hope.

His nose wrinkles slightly. I realize they all can recognize one another by smell, which is something else I'd rather not think about. However, I'm grateful that our visitor seems to have been filled in on what's going on here. I don't think I could bear it if I had to explain.

"Ah, please give my regards to M-m-mister Mitchell. The stories about him are very impressive indeed. But we really need the ruckus to stop. If you need any help, er, taking c-c-care of him, let us know. We'd be glad to assist."

"I'll keep that in mind. If you'll excuse me, I have to go now. Nice meeting you."

Was that a veiled threat, or am I reading too much into it? Robbie seems sincere enough, but somehow I suspect I wouldn't like the kind of help he has on offer. I don't understand what's going on with these people, or what it is about Mitchell, in particular, that frightens them. I wish someone were here who could explain. I've been holed up here for weeks with nothing but the television and a delirious vampire for company. I can't tell the difference between strange and normal anymore.

I shut the door, lock the deadbolt, and fasten the chain. My hands are shaking. I grit my teeth and take a few deep breaths. What can I do? I have to remind myself that I signed up for this - nobody has forced me into it. If I didn't expect it to be this bad, well, Mitchell warned me and I chose it anyway. It's my responsibility to see this through, one way or another.

Cautiously, stake in hand, I approach the bedside. Despite the bindings, Mitchell is flailing about in a desperate attempt to escape from an invisible assailant and literally screaming bloody murder. It's both bestial and heartrending. And it's annoying the neighbors, who very well might be dangerous when annoyed.

Poor thing. He really can't help himself, and he must be in so much pain. I remember stories of how midwives, in the old days, would quiet the cries of women in labor - they'd provide a rag to bite down on during the worst of it.

"Mitchell? Mitchell." I don't know if I can get through to him at all.

He's quiet for a moment, staring back at me blackly, uncomprehending, then his face contorts in pain, and he cries out and writhes as if he's being run through. The sound makes my insides hurt. Rivulets of thin reddish fluid run in gory stripes down his cheeks and disappear into a mask of beard. His mouth is slack and the vicious looking fangs never retract. Nobody's home in there.

I edge closer, waiting. The next time he opens his mouth and draws a gasping breath, before he can let out another agonized wail, I wedge a folded tea towel into his mouth, coming away with a painful laceration down the side of my finger. Now the noise is considerably muffled. Thank goodness my finger isn't bleeding much. Who knows how the scent of blood could affect him now?

My heart is racing, I'm drenched in sweat, and think I might vomit. I can't bear to stay in this room anymore. After I shut the bedroom door behind me, I stand at the kitchen faucet and splash cool water on my face over and over. I rinse my cut finger and wrap it in several plasters, then dry off, and sit, resting at the table with my head down and my eyes closed until the roaring in my ears quiets and my breathing returns to normal.

Blast it. If I'd soaked the tea towel in liquor before I went into the bedroom it would've worked better. Too late now - I'm not going back in there. I fetch the bottle of whiskey, take several great gulps, then collapse onto the couch. At least one of us can be numb.

I wake up on the couch the next morning with a splitting headache. Everything is quiet.

Mitchell's strength seems to be flagging. He's not making much noise anymore, and seems to be in a perpetual trance, eyes barely open, only stirring and muttering occasionally.

I think it might be safe to leave the flat long enough to wash the soiled linens that have been piling up. A little outing will do me good. The air in here is very close and musty. I've forgotten what it's like to talk to people.

Outside, I breathe in the fresh air and marvel at all the people going about their days as if nothing completely, gobsmackingly, unbelievable were happening behind the doors of their flats. Everything is so normal and mundane. I feel like a foreigner.

I'm at a laundrette a couple of miles away. I don't want to see anyone I know. The condition of these sheets could cause someone to ask worrisome questions. When I load the washing machines, pouring in three times the normal amount of bleach, a balding middle-aged man, who's pulling wet clothes out of the machine beside mine, looks over at my soiled linens, silently purses his lips, and wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"My sister really wanted a natural childbirth at home," I say loudly. "I didn't think she could do it, but she proved me wrong."

When I return with a nice fragrant stack of folded sheets, the flat seems different.

Mitchell is peacefully, dreamlessly asleep. After arranging the covers over him, I sit at the foot of the bed. He's breathing, like a human, which I don't remember him doing before. The sound is soothing, and so is the slow, regular motion of his chest rising and falling, rising and falling. This must be a good sign.

I stay and watch him for the rest of the morning, dozing off now and then, waking up again in the blissful calm, listening to him breathe.

The fever, or sickness, or bout of madness, whatever I should call it, seems to have broken. Though he's still pale and drawn, his skin has lost its deathly greyish hue. And best of all, his eyes no longer look like portals into outer space. He sees me sitting beside him, and the corners of his eyes and mouth tilt ever so slightly upward.

"Hi."

"Hi." His eyes travel over my face, down my body, back up again to greet me. I feel almost shy. He blinks against the afternoon sun filtering in from behind the window shades, then his gaze sharpens, like a light has been switched on. He gives a shuddering sigh, ending with a cough.

"Josie?"

"Yes it's me."

"How long has it been?"

"Since you first were ill? Almost four weeks."

He lets his head fall backward onto the pillow and stares at the ceiling. "Jesus."

"You said it would be dangerous. I had no idea, none at all." Gingerly, I touch his arm, unsure of what to do. "Are you feeling better now?"

He nods. After several moments, he closes his eyes, bites his lip and exhales several times, shoulders heaving. I realize he's holding back sobs.

"Thank you," he whispers, finally. It is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard anyone say.

I've got him back. I can barely believe it. I am ecstatic with relief. My eyes sting.

"You do know how to make a girl feel appreciated."

"You know, I think I'm okay. You can undo these now. Please."

I undo all the straps. To my dismay, but not surprise, they've broken the skin on his wrists and ankles, leaving ugly red welts. He doesn't seem to notice. He rubs his eyes, pushes the hair off of his face, scratches the back of his neck, and stretches as if he's woken from a catnap. For the first time in weeks, he sits up, flexing his arms and legs experimentally, and reaches for me.

In his arms, it's my turn to dissolve into tears.

"I've missed you. Let's not do that ever again, okay?"

A wash would do him worlds of good. "You look a sight, you know. Go on, a little hot water won't hurt you."

It's nearly an hour before he emerges from the bathroom. I'm stunned at the sight of him. He's in clean street clothes, pullover and jeans, and has used his single magical power, shaving, (I smile, remembering he'd told me that) to reveal a face I barely remember. This charming, attractive, clean-shaven Mitchell is nearly a stranger.

"You've got the sideburns nearly even. That's amazing." I wonder if that's a stupid thing to say. I'm suddenly awkward and tongue-tied.

He closes his eyes and feels them. "This one needs to be a bit shorter, doesn't it?"

"Yes, and not so pointy." Feeling oddly brazen, I take the razor and even it out for him. "There, that's better."

He checks them again. "Yeah, that's better now. Thanks." He's completely unruffled, but for some reason my cheeks are burning. After everything we've been through, after all the times I've bathed him, combed his hair, changed his bedsheets, seen him through filth and horror and delirium, now I'm being bashful.

We both need to recover. I haven't really slept or eaten for weeks. We have breakfast, or maybe it's supper. Mitchell has three plates full of beans on toast! Then it's my turn to get cleaned up. We tidy up the worst of the clutter and rubbish that's accumulated, and finally collapse back into bed. He lies pressed against my back, his face against my hair, arms wrapped around me, holding both hands. His skin warms where it touches me. His breathing slows and deepens. Sleep is more satisfying than any food, any drug, any sex, any fairy story. Even those icy feet don't keep me awake.

I've taken off the term from work, so I have a few more weeks left before they expect me back. Mitchell helps with the rent. I don't ask where the money comes from.

While we recuperate, I deploy my favorite methods of staving off boredom: sex and reading. Treasure Island is a big hit. Mitchell remembers loving it as a boy, and now he smiles at its descriptions of the streets and pubs of Bristol. We take turns reading it aloud. Mitchell uses a different funny voice for each character. It makes me giggle every time.

When we finish with Stevenson, I offer my favorite, A Little Princess, but he objects, calling it "a bit too girly." Since it's slightly more boyish, we opt for The Little Prince instead, which makes us both rather thoughtful. I love the part at the very beginning.

"How do I know you're not the elephant inside the boa constrictor?" I ask Mitchell.

"I could be that." He smiles. "But really I'm just me." He raise one eyebrow and smiles. "Or maybe I'm a hat."

"You're definitely not a hat."

I'm also fond of the part where the Little Prince asks the author to draw him a sheep, but rejects all his attempts at drawing one, until finally, frustrated, the author simply draws a box, explaining that the sheep is inside. Of course, this sheep is perfect. Sometimes, what you receive depends entirely on what you envision.

Toward the end, there's this:

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."

"You're the fox, aren't you, Mitchell?"

"Let's just read the story."

During our recovery, we stay in bed so much that Mitchell jokes we must be doing it for world peace.

Each time I'm with him, something happens that I can't explain, a spinning sensation like we're lying on a turntable, along with the feeling of an electric circuit completed, a crackling like the static that follows your finger if you touch the television tube right after it's been shut off. It's not unpleasant, far from it, just out of the ordinary.

We theorize that it's because we've been together so much. It's more than minds. It's more than bodies. I don't know if it's chemical or electrical or biological or magical.

Mitchell clarifies. "It's not magic, Josie, there's no such thing. We don't know how it works."

"But it's because you're a vampire, isn't it?"

"Probably."

"What does that feel like?"

He's been propped up on an elbow facing me, but at this he shifts onto his back, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks fixedly at the ceiling. It's a couple of minutes before he answers. He doesn't look at me as he speaks.

"It's bigger than I am. It always claws at me. It never stops wanting. You saw how angry it was when I didn't feed it. It's retreated for now but won't ever be gone."

"Does it hurt?"

His mouth tightens and the muscle in his temple twitches. "Kiss me," he says. He pulls me toward him so urgently that his fingers bruise my arms. I'm frightened but I trust him. He takes a deep breath and kisses me with his eyes open, breathing in when I breathe out. He sees the question and the fear in my face, and relaxes his grip, but does not let go. I can't hold the gaze any longer. I let my eyes close and cling to him for dear life. His body moves under mine, and behind my eyelids blue sparks trace luminous dizzying paths between us, until I can no longer recognize what I am touching, what I am tasting, what is touching me.

I pull him in, I drink him in. The first taste is sweet like nectar, then I taste the chalk and carbon and ash. He winds around me like roots, burrowing, searching. My bones grind to powder, skin dissolves. I see only black. My hands scrabble for purchase, then let go. I'm following him, only this isn't really a place.

I sink into dense fluid like quicksand or tar, freezing and burning, inky and sweet. I give myself over to it; I no longer want volition, I want only to be subsumed. It wraps around me until I am immobilized, engulfed like an insect in a drop of pitch. A whirling current leaches the heat from my body and then pulls me under.

I'm sucked in as through a tiny opening, liquefied and amorphous, muscles crushed to paste. I'm poured back into a vessel shaped like a body, but hollow. Searing pain, like being scalded everywhere at once, defines the border where I end and the world begins. How can something hurt this much?

There are gaps in the dark. Glimpses of a luminous treasure just out of reach. The sensation of floating. Hissing whispers. Gradually I float to the surface, and emerge, burnished hard and impervious. Now, I am beyond the soft rot of living things: sloughing skin, infection, shit, slime. No more. I've transcended it. The only purpose of all this oozing chaos: to distill life into a form I can consume.

I am cold, blank, and still. Red clouds fill the room as I scan for prey. I hunt by scent and body temperature and by the sounds and vibrations my quarry makes when it moves.

Somehow, Mitchell is impossibly warm, and I imagine his heart beating, like a song, with a lovely inviting delicious rhythm. He smells like chocolate and wine and meat. I'm ravenous. I want to drink him until he's gone. I push closer. With a gasp of shock, he pushes me away. His eyes are solid black. He clasps my hands so tightly I feel his tendons move against the bones.

"We need to stop this. Now."

The spell is broken. With a sickening lurch, I am banished, and life's endless weakness and decay come rushing in, foul and excremental. The predator dissolves into mist, and the loss is devastating.

"Josie? Are you all right?"

"I don't know."

Once again, I'm the one with the pulse. It sounds in my ears as I sob raggedly with my head on his shoulder. He strokes my hair and holds me close while I rock back and forth in agitation.

As my blood begins to circulate again, there's a prickling sensation in my fingers, my toes, my lips. All my joints hurt. My injured foot feels like it's been re-broken.

"You mustn't stay there Josie. All I could do was let you see it."

"How can anyone stand it? How can you?"

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I shouldn't have done that. I wanted you to know, and didn't know how else to tell you."

"No," I say, wiping the tears, the snot, the blood from my face. "I'm glad you did. Thank you."

I'm awestruck. I had no idea. To be irreversibly bound to that, and still to maintain something like humanity, like compassion, is an act of tremendous will. How strong he must be.

I see you now, my love. This could break anyone, yet here you are.

The hunger is still fighting to keep its hold on him. Some nights I'll see him lose focus, stop breathing, and gaze off into the distance, and when he looks back at me his eyes have gone black. Usually he can shake it off, but sometimes he disappears muttering into the other room, hip flask in hand, emerging after an hour or two when he's gathered his wits about him. I hate when he does that.

It's been one of those nights. I've fallen asleep on the couch with the television on. I don't know what time it is but all the stations have signed off for the night.

On the snowy screen, a face resolves. A woman, around my age.

"Who are you? How did you get in there?"

"I'm Stephanie."

Good grief. She's a ghost. I don't know how I could possibly be seeing one, but I am.

"I thought you'd passed over."

"I did."

"He said you were only an hallucination."

She disappears from the screen and reappears in the room. She's very thin and brittle looking, a bit shorter than me, with bleached blonde hair. Her roots are showing and she has on rather too much makeup. I don't think that green eyeshadow suits her.

"Sometimes I was, sometimes I wasn't," she says. "The barrier isn't exactly solid. We can come back if it's decided there's a good reason."

Ugh. I feel bad for her, but what Mitchell is doing with me is none of her business.

"And is there?" I ask. "You're not here to give me makeup tips, are you?"

She perches in the easy chair, picks up a cigarette that's been sitting on the end table, and puts it in her mouth.

"Er, would you like a light? I ask."

"No thanks, can't really smoke right. Something about inhaling. Terribly frustrating. Smells nice, though. Maybe you could have one? Then I can pretend I'm smoking it."

Obligingly, I light one for myself. I blow the smoke in her direction as she smiles appreciatively.

After spending half a minute experiencing the smoke, she begins. "So here's what I'm supposed to tell you: They've been sending you messages but you're ignoring them. They think you're interfering. Upsetting the natural order, whatever that means." She shrugs.

"Mitchell said he doesn't deserve what you've done for him. He's right. Look. This is what he did to me."

She changes from a smiling blond girl in a flowing white blouse and flared jeans into a nude, horribly mangled and bloody corpse. My face goes cold. I can see where her flesh has been torn down to the bone. The entire front of her body has been ripped open. There's a deep gash in her neck, as wide as my hand. I've never seen anything so appalling. I'm going to be sick.

She reappears in the bathroom and rubs my back lightly as I heave into the toilet. She really is-was a sweet girl. When I look back at her again, to my tremendous relief, she's transformed back into a whole, undamaged person.

I shouldn't be shocked. I shouldn't be shocked. I already knew.

"He's told me about you," I say, "and what he... what happened to you. I have to say, it looks even worse than it sounds."

Her voice is small and faraway.

"Well it was and it wasn't. He really was sweet, sort of shy, very charming. When we...when he... I let him. I didn't realize when it was happening. I still don't know why. It turned into something else. I can't explain it."

I nod.

"I get it, I really do. It's different with him. Do you think they're always like that?"

"Will they always give you a mindfuck along with the other kind? I've no idea, sorry. Limited experience in that area."

"That's a sort of hostile description, isn't it?"

"No it's not. Just honest. But sometimes I hate him. Other times I think, Freddie could've killed me. I could've ODed. I could've been hit by a bus."

She goes thoughtful. "Hmmm. Mitchell or bus? Which would you pick? I think he's probably better than a bus, but not as good as an OD..."

I interrupt. "He really did like you, you know. He told me that. More than once." I catch myself before saying anything too sarky. No need to be jealous of this poor girl.

She sighs. "Yeah. Lucky me. Doesn't make me any less dead. Hey, this could happen to you, too. If you let him stay, it probably will. I think you get the picture."

"Believe me, I get the full picture. I know what he's done. I even sort of understand why. The only way to stop him is to accept everything that he is. He can't change his past, but now he's got me watching out for him."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Because the alternative is too awful to imagine. And because I love him."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, do you? Please. Spare me the romantic palaver, it's depressing and faintly nauseating." She touches her belly and bends over slightly, as if she might actually vomit. "Hm. I didn't even know ghosts could feel nausea...must be contagious. I'm sorry, but watching the two of you together makes me come over all jealous and bitchy. I'd better go before you start to hate me."

The ghost is fading, becoming more and more transparent. Her voice sounds like it's coming from a great distance. "I wish you the best of luck. Honestly. Just be careful. Your little project is not at all popular with the higher-ups. They don't plan on Mitchell staying good. That's all I'm saying. Take it easy, Josie. See you around."

She blinks out of sight, but returns a second later.

"Oh, and you really should get rid of that coat. It makes you look like a pumpkin." And then she's really gone.

Whenever I watch the telly by myself, Stephanie's gruesome image appears onscreen, maybe with her arm around Paul Rogers on Top of the Pops, or peeking over Lyndon Johnson's shoulder and waving on the international news, or commentating on football games, or being eaten by predators in nature documentaries. I don't tell Mitchell. He never sees her.