Tristan rubbed the grit out of his eye and yawned; his head felt as if it were full of moist cotton wool. He’d spent most of last night fixing the armour and the rest trying to sleep on the sofa. Although a combination of paranoia about what might be lurking around outside and what might lurk upstairs had, for some strange reason, not been indicative of a good night’s sleep.

  He sat at the kitchen table so he could keep one eye on the window and the other on the door. That felt safest—nothing could sneak up behind him then. Although even as he thought that, he quickly stole a glance over his shoulder, just to be on the safe side.

  Last night almost felt like a dream; he could remember the rough outline, but the details were strangely hazy. Still the armour was real enough; he kept checking, just to be sure.

  If the armour was there, so was she.

  He’d get her out of the house, then collapse on the sofa for a bit, once the heart palpitations died down, anyway. Then he could forget all about this and relax.

  Sunlight peeked through the gap in the curtains beside him. Despite the sun’s attempt, the snow remained ankle-deep, and the weather report said more would fall later, before it all melted tonight.

  That was the exciting thing about weather in England, it was always up to something interesting and new.

  He’d made some toast, sitting in a little rack in the middle of the table, with a few condiments laid out beside it, something to keep his hands and mind busy.

  He’d never used the miniature toast rack before. As far as he could remember, it might have been a wedding gift. Never really seen the point in them. What type of psychopath waits for toast to go cold? You ate it straight out of the toaster, like a normal person. But he figured it might be safest to have some food waiting for her.

  Yesa appeared in the doorway, still swallowed by the hoodie. He hadn’t heard her come down. His heart rate, which had only just settled, spiked again.

  The memories of last night, which had felt half-buried, dragged themselves to the fore.

  She looked at Tristan, then at the table. Her nostrils twitched, her ears on constant alert.

  Tristan tensed.

  “I made some brea— food,” he said, forcing his voice to stay level. “If you want anything.”

  She walked over to the table, eyeing it and scanning the surface. Her gaze settled on the toast.

  “You put things on it, like… honey or jam…”

  Pulling back a sleeve, she reached for the toast and picked it up gingerly.

  Maybe she’d hit her head. Amnesia. That would explain it.

  “Try this,“ he pushed the squeezable honey bottle towards her, flipping up the top to make it easier. “Just turn it upside down and squeeze.”

  The viscous liquid spilled from side to side as she watched. She eyed him, then the toast, before flipping the bottle upside down and squeezing.

  Amnesia would explain her confusion, but what about the ears? Maybe they were a fancy headband. Was that too much to hope for?

  She squeezed a little too hard. The toast took the main blast, but it splattered over a wide radius.

  He winced. He’d need to get a cloth to clean that up before it dried.

  She recoiled but recovered quickly. Her head tilted, eyeing one of the globules on the table. She dipped a finger in and tasted it cautiously.

  Her entire body froze for a second. Then she lifted the bottle above her head and squeezed it straight into her mouth until it was gone.

  Tristan stared.

  The plastic bottle crumpled as she squeezed out every drop.

  She brought the bottle down. Her ears slowly flopped forward in what might have been contentment.

  She licked her lips. “I like this.”

  “You don’t say,” he managed.

  Oh right and the strange way her lips and words didnt match up

  “There is more of this honey?” She held up the bottle for inspection.

  “That’s all I had here, I’m afraid.”

  She eyed the toast with fresh interest, picked it up and took a bite, chewing while watching him.

  “You said you weren’t from here,” Tristan asked.

  Her chewing slowed, then stopped, but she said nothing.

  “How did you get here?” He tried.

  She swallowed. “I do not know. It went dark. I followed the lights. Where is here?”

  “Porthkelgh.”

  No recognition crossed her face.

  “Cornwall? Earth? Is anything ringing a bell?”

  She shook her head “No. You are saying words that mean nothing.”

  Tristan stood up and turned to the window, pulling back the curtains, revealing the view, briefly blinding himself.

  The village stretched down to the beach. Boats in the bay. The sea beyond.

  “Does any of that look familiar?”

  She stalked over, still holding the toast; she looked out towards the view.

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  She looked out at the view for a long moment, scanning the horizon, the rooftops, the boats. Her ears swivelled, tracking sounds he couldn’t hear.

  “No,” she said finally. “But it is safe.”

  “Safe? How do you know it’s safe?”

  She looked at him pointedly. “You are still alive.”

  Tristan stepped back and leaned on the table behind him. “Well, you must have come from somewhere. What was it like?”

  “Bad.”

  “Bad? Were you in danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you running from someone?”

  She turned. “Running? Yes.”

  Tristan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Who were you running from?”

  “Sanguivore.”

  “Oh yes, you said… what is it?”

  “You have not encountered one.”

  Tristan glanced around the room. “How do you know?”

  ”You would be dead.”

  Tristan frowned, “Blood… swallower? Eater? Like a vampire?”

  She shrugged, still staring out across the village.

  “You were being chased by a vampire,” he said flatly.

  She took another bite of toast. “I will hunt it. It will not relent.”

  Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to hunt the vampire? Look, I’m not sure you’re entirely… did you hit your head at all?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I should call the hospital or something?”

  “Do as you want”, she finished the toast and moved past him. Tristan patted his pockets. Phone. Where was his phone? Where had he—

  “You fixed it?” She said from the other side of the room a moment later.

  He looked up; she’d found her armour. The reason Sarah had made it look easy was that she knew what she was doing—unlike Tristan, who had spent most of last night sewing it together badly.

  “Yes, well, I did my best. Is it okay? It’s more of a patch job.”

  She’d already discarded the hoodie, slipped the armour on, and was tightening the string that held it together. She tested the repaired section, tugging at it. Nodded once. “Good.”

  He pulled himself a little straighter. YouTube tutorials, who knew there were videos on leather repair? Admittedly, the one he'd used had been for much tighter-fitting leather, with studs and far more straps than he had to deal with.

  She made for the door. “I will go.”

  Tristan frowned, his mind racing. He couldn’t let her go hunting an imaginary vampire through the snow. What if she fell off a cliff? Or froze to death? He’d found her in his garden; that made her his problem, didn’t it?

  Unfortunately… yes, probably.

  How bad would he feel if he saw on the local Facebook page that a woman had been found frozen to death in the middle of nowhere?

  Sarah would have helped her and she would have done it without a second thought. Nothing had caused him more anxiety than those four words: “I was just thinking…” She'd have been out the door already, consequences be damned.

  Maybe he could just keep an eye on Yesa until they could find someone more qualified.

  He groaned inwardly… fuck.

  “Wait!” he called.

  She stopped in the doorway.

  “I’ll… come with you. Just until we find someone in a position of authority, like the Police, or… a Lollipop Lady, anyone.”

  She looked him up and down, appraising him. An ear twitched, and she sniffed. “You can come. For more honey.”

  “You’re hustling me?" He stared at her and sighed. “Fine...”

  “Good. Hurry.”

  “I’ll get a coat,” he said, resigning himself to the inevitable.

  While Tristan bundled himself against the cold, Yesa ferreted through the coat closet until she found the bag of scarves. Sarah’s scarves—she’d never collected them, just kept buying new ones whenever she’d misplaced the last. Tristan had gathered them all in a desperate attempt to keep the house tidy.

  Yesa pulled out a handful, stared at them, and began wrapping them around her arms and legs as padding.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. They were just scarves. And she needed them more than a closet did. It might help her stay warm.

  It hadn’t snowed since last night, and the evidence of her arrival was still stark against the white—disturbed snow, the trail of footprints leading past the house into the narrow lane.

  “This way,” he said, though she was already moving.

  The lane was narrow and high-sided, lined with Cornish hedges—large blocks of stone with vegetation growing from every crevice. Snow clung to it all, white against dark stone and brown stems. The lane ran all the way down into the village proper, though no one would use it today; the village was completely snowed in.

  They followed the tracks down the lane. Her footprints were light for someone who’d been running from… whatever she had been running from. At the end of the lane, the tall hedges dropped away, and the tracks disappeared across a waist-high wooden fence and into the field beyond.

  Tristan stared at the fence for a moment before attempting to climb it. He got one leg over, then it all went wrong. The other foot caught; gravity took over, and there was a brief windmill-armed attempt at balance before an undignified crunch as he landed face-first into the shallow snow beyond.

  “Trickier than it looks,” he groaned, brushing snow off as he got back to his feet. Rubbing the back of his head to cover his embarrassment only succeeded in dumping snow down the back of his coat.

  Yesa was still standing in the lane, watching him.

  Before he could say anything else, she sprang onto the fence with one foot, then down the other side with barely a sound and no apparent effort.

  He gaped at her. “...How… did you do that?”

  “How did you not?”

  Tristan hopped a few times to demonstrate, “This is about as high as I can jump, see? And then you can…” he gestured at the fence.

  She watched him for a moment, head tilted slightly. "You should practice. Later," she said finally, already moving to follow the trail up the valley.

  While Yesa crossed the snow with the grace of someone who'd spent a lifetime moving fast over difficult terrain, Tristan slipped endlessly on hidden ice, sank into deeper patches, and stumbled over frozen ruts he hadn't seen. Every few minutes he’d look up to find her stopped thirty or forty paces ahead, waiting with that patient stillness that somehow made him feel even more inadequate.

  She never complained. Never showed frustration. Just… waited. Then, once he’d caught up enough, she moved on again, and the gap opened.

  Here and there along the hillside, long sliding impacts scarred the snow where she’d fallen during her flight. Each mark stretched several feet, evidence of how fast she’d been moving even while disoriented.

  “You don’t remember coming this way?” he asked between breaths as he caught up to where she’d stopped.

  “No.” She crouched, examining the snow—scuffed and flattened where she must have struggled back to her feet. She looked up, following the tracks toward the crest of the hill.

  Then she was off again, heading for a stile set into the hedge at the field’s edge.

  He let out a long sigh and forced his aching legs onward. By the time he reached the stile and hauled himself over it—with significantly less grace than required—he was wishing he’d let her go alone.

  On the other side, Yesa stood near a circle of grey stones jutting from the ground like broken teeth.

  He’d never seen these before… or had he? A strange certainty tugged at his perception.

  He shivered.

  Just the cold, he told himself, pulling his coat tighter as he trudged toward her.

  Probably.