I remembered one time when my father had run down a slippery path in winter and had lost his balance and hit his head on the stone ring of a well. I had never been quite as frightened as at that moment.

But this rivaled the experience as a good silver candidate.

The smartly dressed young man, who had supposedly been dead a few moments before, was gagging blood onto the asphalt in the waning daylight while the lamps above us came to life in the late evening twilight. Timothy's body lay immobile at his feet.

The vampire–and I was ready to call him that by now–wiped his mouth onto his sleeve. He stared down a moment, then spit one final mouthful near Timothy's head.

Then Plume turned his eyes to us.

They were not the dark brown set of irises I had expected but bright gleaming ruby drops, set in a face so pale it passed for white. His right sleeve bore a dark stain where he had wiped his mouth. Otherwise his attire was immaculate. The shirt seemed recently ironed despite the rough drive. A detail which only added to the unpredictability of the situation.

I took a step back, drawing Nettle with me. She clung to my arm, gripping with a death grip.

"Plume?" I asked.

He tilted his head. The eyes were blank. There seemed to be nothing left of the intelligent youngster I had met last in my father's village pub.

He took a step forward. Over his features spread a sudden gust of warmth. He smiled at us. A very human expression. But the setting remained ghostly. Still, while my hackle rose, Nettle's grip slackened.

I gripped her harder.

Suddenly Plume frowned. He pressed delicate fingers against his eyes. He glanced back at Timothy. He turned to us. Took in a breath to speak.

And was gone.

I blinked. My heart thudded still in my throat.

Something was wrong.

Timothy sprawled on the asphalt. I stood with Nettle looking at him. We were in the parking area of a 24/7 supermarket some hundred kilometers from home. The hour was very late, judged by the darkened sky and lit street lamps.

We had been taking Plume to a hospital... Or was it to a prison? And where was Plume, again?

My mind seemed heavy. Too much in the sun today. I had left my cap in the car. It hadn't been sunny all the time. The day had been cloudy. Should have worn it nevertheless.

I shook my head to clear it. It was clearly Timothy now who needed the hospital.

Nettle had crouched on the ground by him. I came to see the man just when Nettle opened his colorless left eye and shone her phone's flashlight at it.

"He is breathing. Pulse is steady but sluggish. Nothing wrong with his pupils."

Suddenly Nettle slapped him.

"But he isn't responding."

I crouched closer as well. Timothy had seen better days. His face was badly roughened up, apparently it had been dragged along the asphalt. I even remembered it happening.

"They fought." Even as I said it, and knew it was true, I also knew something was missing.

"We should take him to a hospital."

"Or call an ambulance."

We looked at each other. Then at Timothy, whom Nettle had gently rolled to his side.

I glanced at the dark spots on the asphalt by his head.

"It's wrong," I muttered.

"Help me lift him," I said to Nettle. "I'll open the door first. Do you think you can help me with the legs if I take the torso?"

Nettle nodded.

We didn't call an ambulance.

Getting Timothy into the back seat without breaking his neck or my nerves proved to be somewhat more complicated than I had anticipated. But in the end we managed to lay him on the seat, so that his legs were strapped by the seat belt and his head rested on Nettle's lap. No blood on the seat, just on Nettle's trousers.

It would have probably been prudent to indeed drive to the hospital. Or at least to an airbnb somewhere nearby. Yet, Nettle didn't comment on my choice to hit the motorway back towards Grenbrea.

"I think I'll call a friend," Nettle announced after a long silence. "He said I could call him if I ever encountered something I wasn't prepared for."

"Are you close?" I asked. "It is past nine p.m. Almost ten."

"He is my professor. I think he'll pick up."

Nettle was right. The reception was probably awful, but she was on the phone for the next half an hour. Bits and pieces of the conversation floated in and out of my consciousness:

"... Not sure, really. Something happened. I think he fought. His nephew was sick and we were driving to a hospital. I think... No. We have the uncle."

"...Very slow. "

"... Hasn't released the bladder..."

"...Yes. In the left shoulder. They aren't swollen."

When she closed the call, we were nearing my home. For some reason it seemed a good idea to take Timothy rather to my father than back to Rose's.

"What did he say?" I asked.

"He said... He said Timothy is going to require a cup of coffee in the morning. But he seemed sure he would rise up to get it himself. He also said we were right in not getting him to the hospital. Apparently it is a relatively common, chronic illness. It was just an unlucky accident the fit happened in the parking lot after he had fought with Plume. He called it traveling blueprints, and said it was a relatively harmless affliction. That while it looks bad, it wears off quickly and leaves no traces. But it is chronic, so this has probably happened before and might happen again. Usually it only comes though when the patient is very relaxed and ready to sleep. As in bed. Many of those who have it don't know they carry it."

I met her gaze in the rearview mirror.

She knew it quite as well as I did: We were missing something crucial. This was a story we were buying. It wasn't the whole truth. But it was good enough.

Timothy had fought with his nephew. He had gotten hurt and was chronically ill. He would rest and get well.

We carried him with Nettle to our guestroom. Moth looked at him, he looked at us.

And somehow, when he offered us beers, it seemed like he wasn't missing pieces. The old pub owner, who asked no questions and hadn't been present at all when all happened, somehow had the whole story.