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surrounded by empty mirrors. If ever he was tempted to forget his nature, he need only rent a motel room, in which mirrors often served as decor. An empty room surrounded him and empty mirrors reflected it; it was as if he wasn’t even there. He only existed in the darkness and the shadows, which meant he was invisible, night or day.
    In truth, he was unlikely to ever forget that. He woke every evening hungry for blood. For many decades, he had been prudent enough to wake alone. The one time he had forgotten––the one time he had felt comfortable enough to let the human stay with him––had ended badly.
    Now he was on this strange trip to a part of the country he’d never intended to visit, with this crazy idea of approaching strangers, risking his life… all for a girl he’d barely known, with whom he’d planned a simple sex-for-money transaction.
    But she had not treated him that way. She’d treated him like a human being. It was the first time in a long time that anyone had done that.
    Terrill dressed in a conservative suit, something that hopefully wouldn’t stand out too much in a small town where most people dressed informally. It was the best he could do. He’d never owned a flannel shirt, as far as he could remember, and had never even tried on a pair of jeans. In part, he dressed formally because old-fashioned, classic clothing offered him more cover. Hats, gloves, vests, coats, long-sleeved shirts and trousers: all gave him a small advantage over sunlight.
    His wardrobe was also a result of his long existence. Clothing styles came and went, and he didn’t even try to keep up with them.
    Terrill stuck his hand in his pocket and felt a burning pain. He cried out and withdrew the stinging object. He dropped the crucifix but held onto the silver chain, which hurt him, but didn’t burn like the cross did.
    He stared at it curiously. He’d always been confused about why crosses had this effect. He had no opinion about religion. He didn’t believe in an afterlife––well, other than the type he was experiencing, anyway. It was all mumbo jumbo to him. Why should a cross, or holy water, or silver, or any other of the many folk wards against vampires have any effect on him at all?
    On the other hand, why question it? Were any of these superstitious talismans any less likely than the fact of his own existence?
    Terrill touched the crucifix again, and though it hurt, he found that he could stand the pain. It burned a few centimeters of the surface of his skin, but went no further.
    Without thinking, he swung the chain over his head. The cross bounced off his chest and then settled, and he staggered and cried out. The silver chain cut into the back of his neck, and he had an image of his head detaching and bursting into flames. He reached up and found that the chain had dug into the surface of his skin, but stopped there.
    The cross burned into his chest and stuck, his skin fusing with it. The area continued to ache, but the initial sharp pain subsided. He could stand it, he decided. He removed the chain, because the wounds it was inflicting were visible. The crucifix remained fused to the skin of his chest.
    He’d once fed upon a priest who, it was revealed when the outer layers of his clothing were removed, had been wearing a hair shirt. The mortal’s skin had been mottled and covered with rashes, his back flayed by self-flagellation. As Terrill remembered it, the priest hadn’t been a righteous man, but a vicious schemer who had used the Inquisition for his own benefit, so it had surprised Terrill to see that the man apparently had a genuine religious side.
    Or perhaps a sadomasochistic side, since the sadism was more than manifest in his official duties. A torturer who tortured himself.
    Terrill winced as he put on his shirt. He didn’t ask himself why he left the crucifix burning into his chest.
    He drove to the Hardaway house the minute it became fully dark. He’d probably catch them at dinner, but