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mother had left in her, and she died a few days later. My father, to his credit, never blamed

us for her death, but set about educating his three small, precocious boys, and loving us as

best he could. And when we hit puberty, and our lives changed forever, he was there to

guide us through the changes, and reassure us that we always had a choice. We could

harness the power, or we could let it harness us and become monsters. I like to think that

we did the former, but sometimes I’m not so sure.

And now Marcus was telling me that there was someone else like us out there,

someone who would need guidance through the changes that she would inevitably go

through, one way or another. My father had always worried that if we did not expose

ourselves to the effects that huge doses of iron had on our systems, and learn to control

them, that we would eventually succumb to some profound and overpowering instinct and

actually kill someone and drink their blood. It made sense. There’s a lot of iron in blood.

I imagined Rebecca biting someone’s carotid artery, responding to some deep,

unacknowledged desire, and drinking their warm blood as it was pumped directly from the

heart to her open mouth. I thought of how her family would react, and flinched again. It was

bad enough knowing that you are a freak without everyone else knowing it too. I would

have to do something to help the girl. I wondered, not for the first time if I was the right

person to do it. I considered asking Marcus or Fergus to take over the task, but a stab of

what could have been jealousy made me dismiss that thought. I would do this myself, and

let the dice fall where they may.

Rebecca

Mark came bounding through the door as soon as he got home. I’d arrived a few

minutes earlier, and had scrambled out of my uniform, and was munching on a slice of toast

in the kitchen and reading my book. It was nearing the end, and I already knew what was

going to happen, but it was well written, and by one of my favourite authors, so it didn’t

matter.

“Met our new neighbour this morning,” he announced out of the blue, saying just

enough to pique my curiosity, as usual. At first I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but

then I remembered the commotion across the street yesterday.

“Already?”

“Yep. He found an injured kitten, so I showed him where the vet was. Seems OK.” Then

he was gone, bounding up the stairs two at a time. I shrugged. I wasn’t sure if it was the

kitten that seemed OK, or if it was the neighbour.

“He’s got a fab car too,” shouted my typically male sibling from upstairs. I chuckled.

Amazing how some things are important to some people, and not one bit significant to

others.

Angus

The vet’s receptionist phoned just after breakfast. I was driving back to my hotel. I

pressed the speaker function on the phone set.

“Hello, is that Angus Byrne?”

“Yes.” She paused, maybe waiting for me to go on.

“You brought the kitten in this morning?”

“Yes.” I wondered, not for the first time, if I should try to be more talkative, but I had

nothing else I felt I needed to say.

“Just to let you know that it’s got a broken pelvis. Vet says it looks like someone’s

stomped on it.” My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Another pause. “Anyway,

she’s going to need a few wires to stabilise the pelvic fractures, if that’s OK. We can do it for you this afternoon, and you can fetch her tonight.”

“What time?”

“Between six and seven pm?”

“OK.”

Pause. “OK. Bye then.”

As I hung up I thought of the kind of person who would stamp on a small animal hard

enough to break its bones. I wondered how anyone would ever be able to justify doing

something like that, and yet I knew from experience that there were people out there who

hurt animals for fun. They were one of my favourite targets. Them, and the monsters who

abused children.

Fergus and I had developed a kind of partnership a decade or so back, when I realised

that being a legitimate policeman was not a very efficient way of fighting crime. You’d hunt

for a certain perpetrator for ages, and when you eventually found them, you would have to

hand them over to what was essentially a deeply flawed system, and hope that justice

would prevail. Yeah, right.

So Fergus hunted the crime online, looking on sites like youtube for video footage of

cruelty of any description. He would send me the footage, and whatever information he

could garner from the IP address. I did the rest, finding those deeply repulsive individuals

who were responsible for such atrocities, and I hurt them. Sometimes I hurt them quite a

lot. And then I would rewrite their mean little minds so they would feel physically and

mental agony if they even considered being cruel in any way to anything ever again.

Paedophiles were a bit more difficult to find, but find them we did, and they were the ones I

usually killed. Sometimes a mind will be so dark and foul and evil that repairing it is just not an option.

As I drove, I realised that it was going to be difficult for me to keep a kitten in a hotel

room. I thought of Mark, and of his obvious compassion for the little animal. I decided to ask him if he would watch the cat overnight. I could always smuggle it into the hotel, but I had

something I needed to do tonight, and I didn’t know how long it would take. I didn’t want to

leave the small feline invalid unattended in some empty hotel room. I phoned Fergus’

mobile.

“What?” Fergus answered. “We’re busy here, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I need the names of those people who lived in that house you just bought

for me, and their current whereabouts.”

Fergus was suspicious. “Why?”

“They left something behind.”

“OK, I’ll do some checking up and send you the details in a few. Bye!” He was gone. I

guess not being talkative must run in families.

Rebecca

The doorbell rang at half past seven that evening. I was going to get up to answer it, but

my cast got in the way, and anyway Mum got there first. It was a bit of a novelty to have

someone ring the doorbell of the Harding house. It sounded weirdly unfamiliar.

“Hello,” said a deep velvety voice from the darkness outside. “Is Mark here?”

“Yes, of course,” breathed my mother, apparently hypnotised. “Come in,” she

continued, stepping back into our little crowded sitting room. “Mark?” she called, just loud

enough to be heard upstairs. Mark spent a lot of time in his bedroom, reading books and

contemplating the world around him. I guess he liked his own company. I know he didn’t

like football, which was what Joe was watching tonight. I was here as a kind of moral

support for my mother, who also disliked football, but who disliked being on her own even

more.

The stranger stepped inside our house. He was tall and dark, and dressed in dark

trousers and a white cotton shirt with the cuffs rolled up to the elbows. He held a brand

new pet carrier in his left hand, and he extended his right.

“Hello,” he said again. “My name is Angus, and I believe I’m your newest neighbour.”

Mum shook his hand, and gushed, “Pleased to meet you, Angus. My name is Rose. I am

Mark’s mother. These are my two other children, Joe and Rebecca.” She indicated us with a

sweep of her free hand.

I stood up to say hello, curious about the man who stood towering above my mother.

He turned politely to greet us, a smile forming on his lips, but when his eyes met mine he

froze, and all trace of a smile disappeared. His eyes widened slightly, and his nostrils flared, and he looked both shocked and angry. I felt my face flush, and I looked at the floor,

mumbling a greeting. My mother was calling for Mark again so she failed to see his

expression. Joe had waved casually from his spot on the settee, and had turned his

attention back to the television. I looked up at the stranger through my lashes, unsure of

what it was that I had done to offend him. As I watched his expression seemed to change

within seconds to benign watchfulness. I started wondering if I must have imagined the fury

I had seen on his face.

Mark hurtled down the last few steps when he saw who was at the door.

“Hey, Angus!” he called out, covering the intervening space like a rowdy puppy. “How is

the patient?”

The stranger smiled warmly at Mark, and held the carrier out for him to inspect its

contents. “She’s going to be fine. Had an operation this afternoon to stabilise the broken

bones of her pelvis, but she’s already starting to move her hind legs. She’s a brave little

thing.” As if to corroborate his version of events, the kitten mewled from inside the carrier.

“Sit down, sit down,” my mother gushed again. “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

The stranger appeared to consider the question for a second or two, glancing sideways

at me, before answering. “Coffee would be lovely, thanks.”

He stepped further into the room, and I was struck by his apparent size. He was

probably about as tall as Joe, six foot and some change, but he seemed a lot bigger. He

stood, tall and confident, radiating some sort of aura of power. I looked again at his face and was struck by the pallor and smooth evenness of his skin, the symmetrical regularity of his

features, dark eyes, thick dark lashes and eyebrows. He looked back at me and I felt a

thrilling tightening rush of sensation in my abdomen. I looked away, confused and

embarrassed.

He handed the pet carrier with its small passenger to Mark, who took it gently, and

placed it on the settee between him and Joe, bending over to look inside and speaking softly

to the kitten inside. Joe seemed similarly fascinated, and I watched the two large teenagers

speaking in soft high voices to the little cat. I chuckled. The picture seemed so incongruous. I risked another glance at the man called Angus. He was sitting at ease in an ancient leather

armchair next to the television, with one arm draped sideways along the back of the chair,

watching my face closely, and frowning slightly, as if he was concentrating on some hidden

thought. I felt the hot blood racing up under the skin of my face, and I hurriedly turned back to watch Mark and Joe.

Mum finally came in carrying a tray with our eclectic collection of mugs. She placed the

tray on a small oak side table and began handing out mugs. It was a given in our house - if

someone made tea we all got a mug of it. We drank a lot of tea.

Angus took his mug from my mother’s outstretched hand with a murmur of thanks,

glancing towards her briefly before his eyes settled on my face again. His dark eyes seemed

to grow darker, and his brow furrowed. I felt that flipping, rushing, tightening sensation in

my lower abdomen again, and looked towards the television, trying to breathe normally and

not blush, all the time acutely aware and completely fascinated with this man who sat

opposite me.

“I was wondering if you’d babysit the kitten for me tonight, Mark.” That devil’s voice,

deep and rich and seductive. I sat motionless on the settee, eyes glued to the television. I

was starting to feel dizzy. I never feel dizzy. Ever.

“Absolutely!” was Mark’s enthusiastic reply. “Can we, Mum?” he turned to my mother,

who had perched herself on the armrest of the settee, just next to me.

Mum looked a bit doubtful, until the stranger looked enquiringly up at her, one

eyebrow raised. “Of course,” she said. Clearly she was not immune either.

“Thank you. I would prefer not to leave her in a hotel room tonight. I have an urgent

matter I need to take care of tonight.” Angus drained his mug, and stood up, towering

above us. “It was good to meet you all,” he said. I could feel his eyes on my face again, and I glanced up at him. The intensity of his gaze was almost shocking. Fear and excitement

mingled erratically in my chest. Abruptly he looked away, shaking hands with my mother

and nodding to my brothers, who barely noticed him leaving. I noticed, and I felt bereft and

drained. I wanted to cry, for some strange reason.

Angus

I wasn’t prepared for that.

I knew intellectually that I was possibly about to meet a female vampire, so to speak.

But I wasn’t prepared for that.

When I first glanced at her sitting curled up on that settee with that unnecessary white

plaster cast, I was struck by her luminosity. Silvery blonde long hair, slightly darker eyelashes and eyebrows, pale flawless skin. Unremarkable in many ways, but with her it all worked

together to create something that was finer and far more attractive than the individual

features themselves. I shook hands with her mother, gently touching her mind and feeling

the kindness and bewilderment. And then I stepped inside the house, and was battered by

the heady, intoxicating scent of a female of my own species. Jesus. I have never felt such a

raw, powerful need for anything in all my years. I wanted to take her right there, to taste

her skin, feel her heat. I thought about how I could kill her family, I went through the

process in my mind; mother first, then Mark and Joe. It would have been so easy, and so

quick. Then decades of rigid self control came to my rescue, and I was furious with myself

for even thinking those thoughts. I knew they would haunt me, and I used the anger to

subdue my hunger for this young woman. I was only partially successful.