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HE'S STRESSING OUT again, though not as bad as he used to. Or rather, bad in a different way. In the past, when he stressed out, he'd panic and overthink himself into almost inactivity - those were some of the best days where I could take over without him realizing it. Heh. I almost miss those days.

I remember the day I first realized I could do that when he stressed out about being attacked by hunters again. We'd just recovered from a brutal attack that had torn more holes in us than we'd ever seen in anybody. At the time, we were barely coherent, and by instinct, we managed to get back to the Assylum and get help.

After that, we fell asleep for a while. And when we woke, it was two days later, and we could still feel ourself leaking inside. Though, strangely enough, outwardly, we looked fine. He figured it was just how vampires heal, but it seems it's not that common. Apparently there's something to do with why our hair always ends up the same, why we don't scar for long, why we physically just don't change.

Anyway, he started to stress out about being attacked again, and began thinking of ways to avoid Hunters. Layer upon layer of analysis of what he did wrong, where he could have passed instead. Zigged instead of zagged.

I just zoned out. At the time, he couldn't hear me, but I could hear him. I sighed inwardly, and found that I actually sighed. Well. That was new. So I took us out for a long, quiet walk, while he roamed through the web and ignored the world.

After, he calmed down and became more careful. And I just tried to pay greater attention to what was happening around us. We were never surprised by a hunter again. But that shadow thing that went through the wall... well. Another story.

What was I saying?

Ah, right.

The way he's stressing out these days, I can feel that he's calmer, more rational, less paranoid. He's been thinking about what could happen because the Humans know now. He's being pretty melodramatic too. I was almost about to tune him out again, when I realized that beneath the veneer of calm, that cold, burning anger and passion was flaring underneath. And it almost felt like it was ready to burn through us and incinerate us completely.

Heh. That may not be such a bad thing.

Shush.

Heh. Still have enough in you to pay attention to me, then? Good. I was almost afraid that you'd sink back into catatonia. Not exactly sure what you're so mad about.

Nothing. Everything. Everything.

Thanks for being so specific.

Most welcome. Shush.

Heh. I guess you'll figure it out eventually. You will figure it out, right?

As best as I can, now -

Yes, yes. Shush.

THERE IS A STORY I've read recently about a certain demon. He was a devil among devils, one of the first of the fallen angels, and a leader of the rebellion against God. An evil creature, a persecutor, tempter, and corrupter of mankind. A beautiful creature of darkness, it had fought for thousands of years against the Glory of God, spreading corruption in its existence.

It was a masterful creation of God, a perfect creature marred only by its rebellion against its creator. Highly intelligent, deviously creative, and passionate for its cause, for thousands of years it devised strategy after strategy of deception and attack against those who would believe in the Will of God. It was Evil and it saw that to be good.

And one day, it had bothered to ask itself, "what's the point of it all?"

After all, in it's paradigm, its struggle would eventually prove to be pointless. As far as it was concerned, it was in rebellion against that which could not be defeated. It was fighting an unwinnable fight, struggling against an enemy that would eventually prove to be the final champion.

You see, in this story, God is all-powerful, and has seen everything that was, is, and will be. It knows the endgame, and has planned for it for all of time. To struggle against him and win would be impossible. For the demon, failure and imprisonment in hell fire was inevitable.

Now, this demon had lived for thousands of years, and had struggled against God for almost all of that. It came to the realization that its eternal damnation was unavoidable. At the end of time, it would be consigned to the fate that God had prepared for demons and rebels.

But it also realized that eternity was long time away, and the end of time, and thus, its eventual fate, was also a long time away.

(Now, I don't know why such a formerly angelic being would only be able to consider such a thing so late in it's existence. I would have thought that it would have far more intellect than this. Perhaps it had been pondering this for far longer than this story suggests? Perhaps. This is not my story after all, I'm just recounting this here.)

With this realization, the demon also realized that it actually had a choice. It was actually free to decide not only what it did with this knowledge, but also how to act from that point on. It was not a mindless creature of evil as the older stories portray, after all. It was no creature of only instincts, forever bound to be in rebellion, forever fated to be a creature of damnation.

So, as an expert in its rebellion, it rebelled against its so-called nature, rebelled against itself. And it quit being a demon.

This resonated with me, for obvious reasons.

I HAVE MADE it a habit to have several "havens" spread out throughout the city. While I do have the tome my grand-sire Keara Athene gave me, one that allows me to instantly seek refuge in the home of the Vedarians, some days I find myself looking for solitude. I admit, this need is strange; with the presence of my Other, and my ability to disappear into my own mind and into the deep recesses of the web, one would think that physical isolation wouldn't matter. But in some way, it does, and so my "havens."

I count as one of my havens the home of my sire, Charlotte. It is an apartment that she owns, but she has granted me access to it, and has told me, with great affection, I might think, that I could "crash whenever." I haven't used this much in recent nights, but it is good to know that my sire desires my safety. Is this an emotional reaction? Perhaps. But I have never claimed to be devoid of emotion, just that I have since decided that I would control them.

Another haven is a small motel room I visit on occasion. It was here that I first learned about the nighttime excursions of my Other; the mystery of seeing myself killing a security guard when I had no recollection of ever being in the vicinity of that building makes me chuckle now. It's not that I find human life of far less value, though to some degree, I do. But the panic and fear I experienced then seem ludicrous, now that I know the truth.

Sorry about that. Not really. But sorry.

We had an agreement, did we not? Separate entries, even if you do sometimes peek. Now, shush.

A third haven is a small, hidden space in the sewers. Not one of the most comfortable places, and not quite as secure, but it has served me well as a temporary stop away from the sun, when I am in no mood for companionship. It also has the benefit of being out of the way, and somewhat hidden from the usual territories and abodes of my kind. I think it was here that I fled the last time I was hunted by a mortal fancying himself as a Vampire Hunter. It raises my hackles, so to speak, that I fled then; I would not flee now, and instead teach the poor creature the error of his ways.

My latest and simplest Haven is the abode of my new thrall, Katlyn. A nurse living on her own, her apartment is small, but it also serves my needs as a way station and escape. I imagine it is not very secure, especially should my thrall be discovered by those who would consider me an enemy. I don't think I have many of those personally, save perhaps the Fae who hates all of my kind. But I should look to making her apartment more secure, or at least less likely to be found.

The apartment is in a rough side of town, inexpensive and relatively aged when compared to the rest of the city. I am even surprised that it survived the devastation of just a few months back, with only a few cracks in the building itself. I wonder if there is some reason behind this, or random chance has this apartment complex survive a massive earthquake where newer structures collapsed. It's location means that many low-income families make this place their home, and also means that there is a lot of noise during the day.

Now, most of the time, the noise doesn't bother me when the sun comes up. I disappear into the nether realm our minds go to when the sun rises, and the chaos of hearing the mind voices of those around me fade into a dull murmur that I can usually ignore. But for some reason, the emotions and passions in this building "keep me awake" so to speak.

One in particular drove a stake into my cold undead heart: just above Katlyn's apartment, a young child would often cry himself to sleep at night, and move around in terror through the day. Why this young mind called to me, I do not quite understand, and yet I allowed myself the indulgence of living vicariously through this child's mind during the day, at least when he was nearby.

By most accounts this child was like any other child, and yet his sheer terror and fear at being alive made me curious. What was it that so filled this child's mind with these strong emotions during the day. My closer examination of events showed me exactly what it was.

One night, as I sat contemplating my tasks for the night, and I was alone in my thrall's abode, I heard a loud crash, and felt the child's terror rise. In his mind, he scrambled for escape, thought about his many hiding places, but he knew he would always be found. Always be found, and punished for the simple crime of being alive.

Through the thin walls and floor of the apartment building, I heard a deep voice call out: "where are you, you little -" and an inarticulate scream. Hatred filled that voice, bound by self-loathing and a need to express itself in violence.

So it was a little bit like you, my dear, sweet, Other.

Hey, that's not a fair comparison.

I apologize at the jest at your expense. Moving on.

With my enhanced senses, I stretched my mind into the apartment above me, and I could smell the stale stench of vomit and alcohol. Then I heard a squeak and a choked gurgle. The rest, I will leave unsaid, save to express that the beating delivered that night, my Other had once reserved for a beast of a Fae that had thought me to be prey for the night.

Without my full consent, I stood, and moved quickly to the window and the fire escape. For a moment, I could not recognize in myself my own emotions, and wondered if my Other had taken over my body once more, and let me just watch. And yet, instead of the two of us moving at odds, as we sometimes do, in this instance, we were moving as one, just not on a conscious level that I could explain at the time.

I could feel my cold blood boil as I raced up to the upstairs window. Opened slightly, I could see the man shadowed by the hallway light, his hands wrapped around the neck of a small child. I stopped, and hissed a curse. I could not enter, this was an abode, after all. I had to be invited in.

In the darkness of the window, his heart looking for salvation, his eyes locked with mine, the eyes of an unlikely savior. A monster among monsters, a killer of men, a cursed soul with no redemption. I am not sure how, but somehow that look of fear and desperation eased the restriction, and I could feel myself able to slip into the opened window with ease. Perhaps he had whispered it as he choked. Perhaps an angel still watched over this poor thin wretched thing. But as he felt his consciousness fading, as I felt his mind about to pass out from the hands of the large drunken mess towering above him, somehow, he invited a monster into his home.

And the monster stepped in.

"What the f-" the drunk screamed, as he tossed the little child to one wall, with less care than one throws a discarded piece of clothing. I imagined the sight of me wasn't at all imposing: at five feet and eight inches, I could be considered tall in some areas of the world, but this man stood almost six feet tall. And while his body was more bulk and fat than he bothered to care about, there was muscle and power behind it. I was no threat to him, his mind told him, and he decided to deal with me the same way he dealt with anything that he felt was less powerful than me.

"What the hell are you doing here? Get outta my house!" He screamed, and reached for something on the counter. I looked quickly at the form of the child, and I saw him curl into a ball, but his eyes looked hopefully towards the two of us. In that instant that I allowed myself to be distracted, I heard the crash of breaking glass, and saw the flash of a jagged bottle speed towards me.

We can take it, my Other said. And outwardly, I grinned as I held my ground and took the broken bottle into my stomach. Skin and flesh tore, and I hid the pain of the piercing and shredding as it reached into the depths of me. A man would have fallen back, gurgled, and fallen, dying on the floor of the dirty apartment. But I have long said that I am no longer a man. I am vampire. I am long dead. This is pain, but it is the pain of body, not of my vampire mind.

I allowed myself a feral grin as I stared into his crazed eyes. And for the first time I saw fear spark behind his alcohol-induced anger and insanity. Confused, he stepped back, and looked at the broken bottle in his hand. Pulled away from my stomach, blood and flesh hung from its jagged edges.

I ignored the pain and stood up straight, torn stomach bleeding out onto my clothes and over the floor. At the edges of my eyes, I could see the child's eyes widen, and I could see the resemblance between him, and this creature before me, holding part of my guts in his bottled hand.

A hiss escaped my lips, one that was partly the effort of keeping the pain in, but also one that allowed me to spill out some of my own anger. "No more," I whispered, and I knew that he understood me. They both did.

I spat out some blood, a body memory of blood vomitus coming up my throat. Still, I held his failing gaze with steel. "No more," I said again, clearer, in both spoken words, and projected thoughts.

Inarticulate sounds began to escape the large man's lips, as he backed away from me slowly. "Wha- wha- the- I-," he stammered, as his mind struggled against his rising panic and the effects of the alcohol.

Inside, I called into the blood that cursed me, and I felt the change that I had very rarely ever had call to use take over me. My form, once the slim body of a young asian man, stretched out, expanded, and filled my corner of the room. My hunting form, I sometimes thought of it, our true form, I heard some other vampires whisper. Seven feet of rage and terror embodied, a nightmare made flesh.

"No more," I growled, as I towered over the now-cowering man. His drunken haze was almost completely lifted now, as he struggled to convince himself that he was only dreaming, and that he was not about to die the horrible death that he so very richly deserved.

I was a child once, I remembered, afraid of my drunk of a father.

"No more," I hissed once more, as I put my draconian face as close to him as possible, one clawed hand at his throat. I did not think that this man's eyes could widen further, but they did, and I inhaled the stench of his body faculties failing him, as he soiled himself into his pants and all over the floor. I raised my other taloned hand, and traced a slight depression into his skin from his cheek, down to his neck. Something to remind him of the truth of his nightmare this night.

"This child is now mine," I whispered, speaking slowly, deliberately. I wanted him to etch each word into his memory. I pulled him up off the floor, and lifted him off his feet, leaning his large frame against the wall. I felt his throat against my talons, and I struggled against ending it with a quick closing of my now-enlarged fist.

"You will not touch him again, or I will be back. And I will finish this."

I dropped him to the floor, and incredibly, he relieved himself yet again.

"Do you understand?" I growled, and I let him see the feral fangs and jagged teeth of this form. His eyes were in tears, his nose running. He had long ago dropped the bloody broken bottle, which I crushed beneath one foot. I saw him nodding rapidly in some bare understanding; a quick search of his confused mind confirmed this, and I thought to add, in a dark whisper from mind to mind, "I will know if you even think of harming him again."

The broken creature at my feet began to cry, and covered his eyes with his hands. Task done I turned to the young child.

He couldn't have been more than eight, thin and almost emaciated. A bruise was forming on his left cheek, and I could tell there were older bruises all over his body. Through his open lips, I could see the ghost of a chipped tooth. On his brow, I could see the light shadow of an aged scar. He looked up at me then, and I feared that this child would pull back in revulsion, in horror, in terror of the monstrous visage I had taken.

Instead I saw awe and admiration.

I nodded to him, my draconian head moving slowly so that he would not mistake the gesture. As I did so, I saw the faintest glimmer of a smile pull at his lips. Hesitant, surprised, wondering. He will not hurt you any more, I whispered to his mind. And if he tries, call out and I shall return.

I stalked out into the night, through the window which I just barely squeezed through. A monster among monsters. An unlikely protector of children.

SHE IS BACK. The woman in blue. After a few months of her absence, she has returned. Has it really been so long since I had a dream about her? Indeed. The last was several months ago, before I even knew that my Other existed, before the great calamities that struck the city since.

I had thought that she was gone forever, that she was a subconscious element of my mind that appeared because of the presence of both myself and my Other. The months seemed to confirm this, and yet, here she is once more.

I guess most dreams are like that. Here for the moment of a night, and then gone. Like the foam that appears after a wave crashes on a sandy beach. The foam spreads, stretches, and then pulls away behind the wave itself. It disappears, only to reappear with the next wave.

I wonder if I have dreamt about her before now, but the vapor of dreams took the memory away. This is certainly possible, and a little bit disturbing, but I have long accepted that my memory is not set in stone.

I do not even know if it was really her. I think it was her, as I did recognize her with some certainty in the dream. But my cognitive ability seems very different in dreams, and it is also quite possible that "the woman in blue" was actually quite different in my last dream. It is even very possible that each and every time I have dreamt about the woman in blue, she has appeared differently. Perhaps a different form, different speach, or even a different persona assuming the image of the woman in blue.

And if that is possible, then it is further also possible that she has been different from one moment of my dream to the next, her face, features, and form changing as the dream flows. The lack of rationality in dreams allows this to be possible, and I accept the apparent illogic of that, because of the logic of dreams.

But while she may appear differently, may be a different person, may be a different entity in my dreams, each and every time I dream about her, she seems to remain who she is. I am able to identify her. The woman in blue.

This theory is reinforced each time I try to paint a picture of her in my mind. While some part of me thinks that I am acting like a lovesick puppy by doing so, my more rational mind comprehends that it is just another way to understand these dreams I have had of her. And my rational mind accepts that this is just another way to understand her as well. I have so many questions, and almost no answers: is she a figment of my mind? Another subconscious personality reaching out to me? Another person entirely, an external force with her own motives for helping or influencing me?

I have long had the suspicion that she warned me of the Harper Rock earthquake, though in a round-about way. She did say that someone was coming, and while it seemed like a natural occurence, evidence points to a more supernatural cause of that disaster. But how much did her thinly-veiled warning really affect my actions at the time? If she is my subconscious reaching out, how did I know that the earthquake was coming, and that there was some other cause behind it? Or, if she is a force or entity outside of myself, did her strange warning mean to confuse me, and does it mean to confuse me now? We are at a crisis point, with humans aware of us and making decisions about how they will act. We may be on the brink of war, one that I doubt we will survive. Is she choosing to aid, or distract me from it?

I need clarity for the coming storm. But it is difficult to decide whether she is helpful or beneficial to my endeavors. And it is diffiult to determine which she is, without understanding what she is.

Anyway, I have come to the decision that I need to know her form, so that I can better understand her motivations. In my mind's eye at this moment, her face is constantly changing. But this may be a result of my imagining that her form morphs constantly in my dreams; this may have affected my memory of her. Memory is fluid, after all, not quite the cold stone or iron most believe it to be. At least, all human memory is. But we vampires are not so far away from humankind that this does not apply to us as well.

There are certain things that remain the same, at least. She is always dressed in something blue, like a clue in the dream to tell me "this is me" when I see her. She was once dressed in a tattered dress, another time in an old gown, and once more only had a blue scarf - over darkened street clothes. That is why I have identified her as the woman in blue. This is her color, it seems, though I do not yet understand the relevance.

She is also always about my height. There are times she seems slightly taller or shorter, but I can consider that the effects of the dream state, and of perspectives on the images I can see in the dream. She has never been the size of a giant, nor has she ever been as small as a child.

Her hair is often long, black, straight, and flowing. I cannot guarantee that this has always been so, but I believe it has been. I remember an attraction to her hair and how it moves because of unseen and even unfelt air currents. I remember a feeling of the darkness around seemingly in fear of the darkness from it. Strange thoughts, and more poetic than a cold hard observation. But I am talking about dreams, and dreams are more poetry than strict prose.

She is often slim, much like I am, and this is one of the reasons I thought that she was a reflection of my subconscious. We are similar in the dream, though different in terms of sex, and in mind. She seems so much wiser and more aware of what is happening around us. While I struggle with learning everything I need to know.

She also appears to be a vampire, much like I am.

Though perhaps this is an affectation of the dreaming, creating someone who is more like myself. Under this rationalization, then perhaps all of this is just an effort of my dreams to create someone who is a lot like me, but recognizably separate from myself. Which would suggest that all my effort in understanding her through her appearance in my dreams will eventually lead to nothing.

Vapor and sea foam.

And her eyes. How could I forget her eyes? It is not the appearance of the eyes that remain the same - they have been round, almond, slit, and even empty darkened pools of night. But each time, her eyes have been piercing, wise, and if I look long enough, they look tired. Beneath it all, there was a deep sadness to them, but I do not know if that was really there, or if the sadness itself was a reflection of the emotions I have boiling beneath my own heart.

I do so wish I could have more clarity about this.

But as frustrated as I am with the lack of answers, I am patient. I have time to run through the different possibilities, time to weigh them, and time to verify my thesis with facts. And as sparce as the facts are, I am also willing to accept that some things will always remain a mystery.

A STRANGE PART of the curse that binds us vampires is that we cannot enter homes without being invited inside. It seems like a relic of a nightmare fairy tale, one passed on from the old country through the words of old women, but it is something that is all too real to me and my kind. We are simply incapable of entering someone's residence without them inviting us inside, whether by some mental or magical barrier that only comes down with the permission of those within the abode in question.

Of course, we have all had creative ways to get past this limitation, and, sometimes, it is overcome thanks to the strangest of conditions. I've heard tell of a vampire who once posed as a pizza delivery man, for one. Most others rely on witty conversation or seduction, while others simply avoid entering the homes of humans altogether. I have, for the most part, been of this latter membership, though I have had need, on occasion, to enter them.

I have actually detailed the events of one of the more curious ways I have entered someone's apartment; it was likely one of those strange and desperate times, and I doubt such an invitation will work again.

I digress.

Invitations to enter a home come in many ways, is my basic point. In most cases, it requires verbal speech or consent, though I suspect that this is a less strict rule than it really is. I would have to ask other vampires about their own experiences to be sure, or perhaps gain access to that mind that created the rules that we exist by. But it is not likely that I will have that chance, and, should I require more information on this subject, interviewing others of my kind would be the best way.

Alternately, I could pull the memories from their minds, but I believe this to be crass and disrespectful, something to do to an enemy and not friendly kindred. Not to mention some vampires can detect this kind of invasion, and I would rather avoid the drama, when I can simply ask anyway. And if they lie, or refuse, then it would just give me additional information about our kind anyway.

Moving on.

This curious rule comes to mind partly because of certain events of late. After my rescue of the small child living above Katelyn's apartment, I felt I needed to, as my Other says, "get out more." I did speak to the child's mind a few times after that - his name is Jacob Brian - and I assured him that I would never be too far. I do not really know why this particular child has affected me so, but I can look further into that another day.

In any case, I further threatened his step-father in his dreams, and the foul creature has become much more pliable and friendly towards his child. I have also, at times, watched this creature from afar as would walk around drinking. He is nominally employed, but he drinks like a fish, as my own father would once have said, and spends far more money on his drink than he seems to earn. I've taken a look into his mind, and he is a sorry being more than a real evil creature.

I have instructed Katelyn to observe the two, and have even left her some emergency money, and a means to call to me should I be needed. I then introduced her to young Jacob Brian, and promised him that I would be around.

Maybe he reminds me of myself, when I was a mortal growing up. Perhaps.

These last few nights, I have been spending watching other mortals. They have always had a certain allure, and I and my Other enjoy watching them from the darkness. It is more than just practice at hunting, and hunting is far more dangerous these nights anyway. I think my enjoyment stems from a vicarious thrill of what I can no longer indulge in.

There was a librarian who walked five blocks from the Public Library to his home, singing to himself in his mind. I heard him on passing once, and followed him home with great care. He is old now, and is a retired military veteran. He has one child in Vancouver. His wife has long since passed. But he seems happy, even as he is alone. He also has a love of books that I may one day look into; perhaps I will approach him and pick his mind less with telepathy than with the spoken words of friends.

There was a young man who met with another young man, his lover, and I watched as they walked the streets together looking for a bar to spend some hours together. I watched as they drank and laughed freely; in other cities, their relationship would be shunned. Here, it is not only accepted, but almost celebrated. I watched as they went home together, and I left them so that they could express their affection more privately.

There was a middle aged man, who celebrated his birthday with his office mates in a popular restaurant. Expensive wines, and a twelve-layer cake more suitable for a wedding than for a birthday; a joke from his friends that he seemed would always be single. Laughter, more jokes, more alcohol. He left to go home with twins, two beautiful young women who worked in another department. They wandered drunkenly into the streets, and narrowly avoided being run over by a taxi cab, the same one who eventually took them home. Their night of debauchery continued, but in the wee hours of the morning, with the twins asleep on his bed, the man walked to his balcony with a lonely drink in his hand, remembering his last true love, dead seven years now.

Beauty, madness, sorrow. These humans, these mortals, have so much of it. And, most times, I just like to watch them.

But other times, I am tempted to ask for an invitation into their homes, into their lives.

Maybe some other night, I tell myself, and I walk on.

"CAN I SPEAK with David?" I took the cell phone from my ear, and looked at it with a raised eyebrow. The only reason I had a burner cell phone to begin with was to make sure that Katelyn, my thrall, could get in touch with me easily. At the very least, she could leave me messages if I was too busy to pick up. I didn't imagine I would ever get a call from anybody else, much less a call for someone else entirely.

I almost dropped the call right there. But there was a trace of something in the woman's voice that made me hesitate. Instead, I put the phone back to my ear and answered, "I'm sorry, but there isn't a David here."

I answered perhaps too crisply. Her voice had been shaky already, trailing a higer pitch as she said the name David, as if the name itself was a question. Desperation. Perhaps fear. I could almost feel the voice on the other end recoil. I so do not have good people skills.

"Oh," she stammered, then coughed. "Uhn... are you sure?" she finally said. I usually disliked trepidation and uncertainty. But I remembered it enough in myself not to condemn it it her, not at this point anyway.

I heard my Other whisper, You're a sucker for lost causes these days. Then he chuckled. I have often wonder how one chuckles when all they are is another personality in my mind. But I think I could chuckle like that.

I shushed him. "Pretty much," I answered the woman. I tried my best to channel a bit of my old self into my voice. Perhaps a bit of my Other. He offered to take over, and I declined. "Sorry," I added hastily. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Uhm, 'cause this was the number Bobby told me to call. He said this was David's phone." I could tell that she was struggling for words, forming a plan that was breaking apart in front of her.

"Sorry, I just got this number. Maybe it was his old number?" It was a new phone, a cheap flip phone that I had picked up just the other night. Even the sim card was new, though telecoms companies usually recycled old numbers that were no longer in use. I figured this was what happened, and this "Bobby" had simply given the old number. Or this "Bobby" was an ***. And so was "David." But I really shouldn't judge.

"Oh. Yeah." A little more mumbling. "Are you sure you really don't know David? This is Jessica. I met him a few weeks ago, and he said he could help with..." she hesitated. "With certain things..." her voice trailed off. Desperation. Sorrow. Uncertainty. Doubt.

"Pretty much," I repeated. I actually did know a David, nice guy, bit of an *** if he got it in his mind to be one. I was alive back then, and was usually a target of his practical jokes. That was in high school. Years ago and hundreds of miles away now. Little chance it was the same David. It is a common name, after all, and I heard that the David I knew had moved to Europe, following some girl around the world. For all I know, he could be in Russia. Not that I really cared at this point.

Not that I really cared about this Jessica, or of her David either. Only, it was a slow night, and I did not have much on my plate. That and I was feeling a little benevolent as well, perhaps from the rush of helping that little child, and also from being able to watch people again. I think the choice was really made when I did not drop the call right there and then.

"Maybe I can help you?" I offered.

She seemed to think this over, all the while I could hear her breathing become quicker and more shallow. Then I could hear sniffling. Okay, not thinking it over: crying. "Hello?" I said again.

I had been heading to one of my regular bars, hoping to catch one or two of the regulars I had begun watching there. My feet continued on their way there, but already my mind was considering the different possibilities of the night. No, I did not need to feed, and I doubt that this one would become food for me tonight either. I had not really needed to hunt since the black market for blood became much more easily accessible. I would suppose this was an effort to keep the already-known vampire populace well sated on easily acquirable blood.

"Seriously," I said. "Maybe I can help, Jessica. My name is Xian," I said it as see-yan, the way most people said it. "I don't know what you wanted David to do for you, but maybe I can help."

"Uhm..." More crying, but slower. Stammering. Considering. Indecision. Pause. She stopped crying, but I heard her sniffle a little before she answered. I wondered if I could find out where she was and trace the call, hack it while I walked. I had not done that before, but I was fairly confident I could do it if I tried.

I almost did, when she said, "Okay, sure," she said, sniffling a little bit more.

Good. Would have been a little more creepy if I just showed up where she was.

Could be trouble, my Other whispered.

Could be fun, I answered back. I heard him laugh in the back of our mind.

She decided to meet me in a coffee shop a few blocks down. Which was lucky for me, really, and for her; I was not in the mood to travel far, and I had poor luck with cabs. Which was one reason I tended to walk everywhere I needed to. My Other had a motorcycle, but I did not like that beast; while I trust my sense of balance, any little thing could send me into a spill, and leave my insides on the outside and all over the sidewalks and streets.

I arrived almost twenty minutes from when she called; She had already told me that she would be there just waiting. I imagined that she had chosen that coffee shop, dropped down to a table, and hoped that she would be able to talk "David" into meeting with her.

I looked quickly around the coffee shop, which wasn't very busy tonight. There was a small group near the front, just relaxing over their coffees, and a few people on laptops near the windows. But there were at least two young women who were alone, and one older lady relaxing on a long couch. I knew that I could have scanned the whole place to find her, but decided on a more normal route: I picked up my phone and rang her.

A small bundle I had almost looked over in the corner picked up her phone and answered. "Hello?" she said, traces of her crying still in her voice. I waved at her from the entrance.

As I walked towards her, I smelled the different scents of the different brews in the shop. Deep and dark, light and spicy, these humans missed out on so much intricacy in the scents of the coffee. Of course, I missed out completely on the taste of it. I think I may have liked coffee in the past; I might have liked this place, one that catered to those less concerned about the "branded" names of coffee.

It was only a few steps to where she sat, perhaps a whole two dozen at the most, including moving out of the way of chairs and tables, but I knew that was all the time I needed to size her up. Dirty blonde hair, but with traces of brown-black at the roots, and a streak of blue on one side. Somewhat unkempt, but more likely from her rush than with a lack of personal concern for appearance. She looked gaunt, despite her heavy clothing, and her long, slim, skinny fingers seemed to confirm this. Her clothes seemed to be slapdash, and chosen in haste from what was easily available and in reach. In front of her, she held a cup of coffee that I could tell had already grown cold. Her first, and, likely, would have been her last.

Her eyes caught me, though. It is usually the eyes that do. Her eyes reminded me of her, though Jessica's were large and dark, with dark circles beneath them. She had not slept well in days. Her eyes watched me as I walked over, and I tried my best to smile at her.

I stopped by the counter on my way, and the single person there smiled and welcomed me to the Caffeinated Boar. Curious name, and likely there was some story behind it, but that would be for another time.

"What can I get you?" I nodded towards Jessica. "I'll have what my friend is having," I said. "And give us a refill on her cup too, thanks." I slid over a fifty, and left the counter to join the young woman.

I hoped that my appearance would put her at ease; I am not at all intimidating, unless you have a morbid fear of small Asian men, but she looked like she could be spooked by a small furry animal. I sat slowly in front of her, joining her at her table. She seemed to sink away when I sat down, and seemed to shrink even more when I said "Hello." This was a feat, as she already seemed to be all of five foot two, and a hundred pounds when wet. With her clothes on.

She just looked at me, curled over on the table, elbows up. Her cup seemed to be an anchor for her, something that made her feel less insecure about everything. I just sat and waited for the barista to bring over our fresh cups of coffee. When he did, I waved off the change. "We might be here a while," I whispered to him. He nodded, and set the few bills aside. I made a note to pass him a little extra when the night was over.

"Well, now," I said, as I tilted my head to the side slightly. "You want anything to eat? I find that it helps people to talk when they share a meal, and you look like you have a long one to tell."