august 18th, 2019, 1:13 p.m.

Julien couldn't remember the last time he'd hosted any sort of social event. He could remember quite easily the last one he'd attended, though considering it was Sera Kozlov's, he wished he couldn't. He tried to remember what precisely people did when they had other people in their house. Drink? Eat? Was that all there was to it? Was he supposed to provide entertainment? A stripper, maybe?

He shuddered. No. Maybe not that.

Two walls of alcohol loomed on either side of him, from fine red wine to Prosecco to scotch. Was this a cocktail occasion or a wine occasion? He wasn't sure. He reached for a tall bottle of Vodka, figuring that was safe enough. Anything was safe enough, he figured, if it took the edge off right.

A strange synth-pop song played over the grocery store speakers as Julien wound his basket around to the snack aisle. He leaned over the handle, trying to steady his weight. Light glared in his eyes and the bass of the pop song beat in his blood and every squeak of every grocery cart wheel was like a dart shot in his eardrum. It was getting worse. He was getting worse. He wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to stand it.

For a moment, he was back at the concert again, the bass riff in his ears and then in the back of his head. Sera was a devil and an angel as she turned the young boy's neck in Julien's direction, two dripping red puncture holes against flushed skin. Go ahead, she'd said, her eyes crimson and dangerous, poisonous rubies underneath red-blond bangs. I'll share.

The cart skidded forward and Julien reached for it but missed, tumbling forward into a stranger's arms. "You good, mister?" asked the stranger, a middle-aged man in cargo shorts and a polo, wearing a Red Sox hat.

Julien kept his head ducked as he staggered to his feet. The man's heartbeat was all he could hear, that and the blood rushing in his living veins. Sharp teeth prodded at Julien's gums, threatening to come out. He collapsed against his cart. "Fine," he breathed. "I'm fine. Thank you."

Out

Julien grabbed the bag of chips nearest to him, slammed it into his cart, and made straight for the checkout line.

Out now

The cashier held out an expectant hand. "I.D.—"

Julien thrust it at her possibly with too much haste.

Hungry—

He paid and dashed out into the parking lot. The sun was a weapon, hailing its bullets down at him, stinging at his skin. How long had he been outside? Minutes? Hours? He didn't know.

NOW—

His Cherokee was parked beside a large oak tree. He crouched between the curb and the side of his car, dragging himself into the shade, vomiting nothing but spit out onto the pavement. He mopped his mouth, swiveled his ears until he heard it: first, the high chirruping of a blue jay, then its tiny, fast-moving pulse inside its tiny ribcage.

Julien was shaking as he climbed to his feet, waited, waited more, then stuck his arm out, victory confirmed by the strangled final squeal of the bird's life. He checked his surroundings—all was clear—before lowering himself to the ground again and unhinging his fangs.

A sigh escaped his mouth as the first drop of blood lit upon his tongue; a wave of relief so pungent flooded through him that he could hardly keep himself up. His stomach ceased its growling as the world around him quieted and dimmed. He almost felt like himself again—

Footsteps. A lot of them.

Julien dropped the bird, mopping at his mouth and getting to his feet again. He

leaned against the side of his car, trying to locate the source of the commotion.

"Poor little guy," said a female voice; she sounded old, perhaps in her sixties. "I wonder what happened to him."

"Looks like he got sick," added another person.

"I've never seen a sickness like that, though."

Cautiously, Julien trailed around the side of the Cherokee, barely holding himself up. In the center of the parking lot, a small crowd of people had gathered around something Julien couldn't see. A little boy reached out his hand to touch whatever it was and his mother yanked it back again, dragging him into the store. The voice Julien had heard before, belonging to a tiny, hunchbacked white woman, said, "Maybe someone should call animal control?"

Julien brushed his hands off on his jeans, approaching the group. "Excuse me, excuse me," he said, until it was in plain view.

It was a dead squirrel, though not roadkill or hawk fodder. It was frozen, its limbs and tail frigid as if it had been trapped outside on a cold, subzero night. Its beady black eyes were puffy and bursting from its head, but most of all it was shriveled and small, as if its very life force had been sucked out of it.

Julien thought that woman was right. He'd never seen a sickness quite like this.

Julien had barely owned this townhouse for two days, and already it had been broken into.

The front door was cracked open, the kitchen light—which he was almost positive he'd left off before he'd stepped out to go the grocery store—switched on and bleeding yellow through the window. Julien paused on the stoop, debating whether or not he had the energy to deal with whatever lowly human had decided to take their chances today. Julien sighed. Ultimately, what choice did he have? He was hungry and world-weary and the August sun was blazing. If he didn't get inside soon, he was quite possibly going to spontaneously combust.

Nevertheless, he approached with caution. Just because getting shot wouldn't kill him did not mean it would not hurt like hell. He moved through the dark, light and soundless on his feet, eyes examining every shadow, every crevice, every slight movement. A thin trail of light peeked out from down the hall, leading towards the kitchen. Julien followed it.

Clutching his grocery bag tight to his chest, he rounded the corner.

Pure reflex was the only reason Julien's shiny new Vodka bottle didn't shatter to pieces against the floor. He gathered himself, pressing a hand to his temple as he said, "Fritz. Would you like to tell me what the hell you're doing in my house?"

Fritz, sitting at his kitchen island, took a long sip of the iced tea he'd stolen from Julien's fridge. He was dressed too much like an edgy teenager for Julien's tastes, in tight dark pants and one of those T-shirts that was intentionally torn. His shock of black hair was unkempt, like he'd just woken up and hadn't bothered to fix it. "Remember when I said, 'Hey, I'm calling you later, don't ignore me'?"

"What? Yes."

"Well," Fritz said. He took another sip. "You ignored me."

"Please tell me how that is grounds to break into my house," snapped Julien, forgetting for a moment that Vodka bottles were made out of glass as he slammed his grocery bag down on the counter. There was a loud clink; Julien shoved the plastic aside, relieved to find the bottle undamaged. "How'd you even find me, anyway?"

Fritz raised his eyebrows.

Julien sputtered. "That's ridiculous; Sera doesn't—"

"I don't think anyone knows what Sera knows or doesn't know," Fritz pointed out, tipping his tea bottle in Julien's direction. Julien glowered at him; his annoyance at Fritz's spontaneous visit overruled his excitement over seeing him again for the first time in half a century. They'd had many an eccentric phone conversation before this point—on various successions of technology—but maybe that's all Julien had thought he and Fritz would ever be. Phone friends.

Yet now they were face to face, Fritz sucking black tea and lemon through a purple plastic bendy straw, his angular eyes watching Julien with steady curiosity. Despite himself, Julien squirmed a little. He didn't very much like feeling like a lab specimen.

"You know," said Fritz, toying with the collection of rubber wristbands upon his wrist, "you're not going to be able to avoid her for long."

Julien shuddered. Not because he hadn't realized that before, but more because he was now being violently reminded of it. "I know," he said, leaning over the island, scanning the somewhat unfinished layout of the townhouse. The wood floor of the main den was without a rug, the walls bare, a stack of boxes still sitting beside the emerald couch he'd bought at Goodwill. "But I am trying to postpone our meeting again for as long as possible."

"Hm," said Fritz.

"Hm?" said Julien.

Yet Fritz had already moved on. He reached forward, grabbing the Vodka bottle by its neck and turning it one way, then the other, examining it in detail. Julien rolled his eyes as Fritz asked, "What's this for? Drowning your sorrows?"

Julien scoffed. "As if. I'd rather use a brown liquor for that. Or ice cream. Anyway, I'm having a housewarming...er, shindig."

Fritz's black eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. "You know enough people to have a shindig?"

Julien pretended he wasn't hurt. "Sure I do. My realtor. Iman and her boyfriend. And...you, now."

"Iman? The time-traveling one?" Fritz asked, and paused, like he'd just realized something. "Wait—now? You weren't going to invite me before?"

"Oh, shut up. It doesn't matter, because now you've invited yourself," Julien said. He strode into the den, motioning for Fritz to follow. The other vampire let out a loud groan before getting to his feet, following Julien into the other room.

Julien motioned at the stack of boxes. "Your presence has volunteered you to be a source of free labor," he announced, as Fritz looked at him tiredly. "Unpack those, would you, dear friend? I think they're my plates."

Fritz stooped, slicing a clean nail through the tape and flipping it open. Both men leaned forward, peering inside. Fritz kissed his teeth. "Bowls," he said, then grinned up at Julien. "So close."