I wanted to scratch at my skin until it was raw.

Even now that I was hiding in the shadows, thrust into the darkest corner of my room, I could still feel their eyes upon me. Garrick's, Edward's and all the others too. And worst of all, Gina's dead eyes, finally peaceful and free of pain yet glazed and fixed upon me as if she could still see whatever it was that Lucius had shown her.

I refused to believe that I had done anything. It wasn't possible. And yet the ghosts whispered on and on, spreading their lies, saying yes, yes, over and over again and I couldn't escape from them or the stares that made my skin burn with a maddening itch even though I was alone. I wrapped my arms around my knees and closed my eyes for a moment, concentrating on trying to breathe without that panicked wheeze that was making my throat hurt.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

I looked up to find Harper standing by the doorway, his shirt still drenched in Gina's blood. His face bore a strange expression, one most un-Harper-like, almost wary and pensive.

"Where the hell did you get to?" I scowled. "Never known you to run from a little death before." It was easy to turn the panic into anger and I was angry with him; furious that he should get to walk away from Gina's suffering rather than face the pain head-on like the rest of us had.

He run a hand through his lank hair and sniffed dismissively. "Fine," he bit back. "You want to stay in this mad house, be my guest."

Jumping up, I followed him out into the corridor. "Wait," I called out. "It's barely two hours until dawn. You're going out now?"

He turned and glanced back, his emerald eyes lingering on my face. "Never known you to be scared of taking a few risks," he sniped, raising an eyebrow. "Besides, I need to get away. I'm thinking of holing up somewhere for the day. I can't sleep in this place."

That clinched it for me. "I'm coming with you."

He replied with a small smug grin. "Thought you might."

******

A thick layer of frost had carpeted almost every exposed surface in a way that made even the filthy and rubbish-strewn backstreets of Whitechapel look like a Dickensian picture postcard. Rooftops and drainpipes glittered opalescent in the fading moonlight. A silvery sheen covered the gutters and laid out a shimmering pathway for us to follow as we walked quickly away from the asylum. Everything looked brighter and the shadows seemed somewhat diminished as the light reflected off the sparkling ice, but it did nothing to lift the mood that seemed to cloud over both Harper and myself.

We walked side by side as if both in pitch black and I fought the urge to reach for his hand, fearful that his would be snatched away and I would have to walk alone in the dark. After a while, he surprised me by reaching for mine, if only to tug me down a narrow through-alley but when we reached the road beyond it, he did not let go and we carried on like this, neither of us talking or even looking at each other.

Finally, we reached a junction and on the corner was an old derelict pub, long deserted and boarded up, barricaded by a tall make-shift fence intended to keep undesirables out. A large sign with the name of a local construction company was fixed loosely to one of the fence panels but there seemed to be no signs that any work was due to take place anytime soon. The fence was already well-covered with faded graffiti and flyers advertising events long since past.

Tugging on a loose board, Harper pulled it open enough to fit through and gestured for me to go first and soon I was on the other side, staring at a skip piled high with frost-laden rubble and debris cleared out from the empty premises.

"Come on," he whispered, grabbing my hand again and leading me to the back of the building where a door proved little difficulty for Harper, clearly having used this entrance a number of times and knowing full well the lock had been broken some time ago, possibly by himself.

I followed him through a small passageway, expecting him to lead us down into the cellar from which still emanated the strong odour of ale mixed with the stench of damp and rat droppings. Instead, he took us straight through to the bar, long since cleared of all bottles except for the empty ones, some still gracing the shelves, some smashed; shards deeply embedded in the dirty paisley carpet. The bar room was draped in burgundy velvet. Curtains and chair cushions threadbare in places, stained and crisp-dry in others. Mahogany tables etched deeply with scratches, bearing the names of patrons who felt the need to mark their presence for as long as the table remained in one piece. Mismatched framed pictures still hung on the walls, all showing typical local scenes from days gone by; black and white images of the street in which the pub stood when it was nothing but a small high street, surrounded by butchers, bakers, horse and carts, not garish sex shops, Turkish take-aways and black cabs as it was now.

I stood behind the bar, my hands barely daring to touch the once-polished surface and immediately I was somewhere else, hearing the laughter of the customers and the bubblegum-pop sound of the fruit machines, the clink of glasses and breathing in the smell of alcohol and cigarettes.

"Megan?"

I sucked in a breath and turned to face Harper, who had walked around to the other side, checking the doors as if on automatic. He had stopped, sensing my sudden anxiety and was now standing in the middle of the room, watching me.

I shot him a brief, nervous smile. "Sorry. It's just my dad was a landlord. His place was similar to this, only dark green velvet instead of red." I laughed self-consciously, knowing that his eyes never wavered from me for a second. "And the juke box was over there." I pointed to the far corner. "Some old woman called Eileen used to play Dexy's Midnight Runners on constant repeat. I fucking hate that bastard song."

My voice cracked and I turned away, walking the length of the bar and knowing that the only way to escape the itch now was to run and keep on running. But as Harper said, he would always find me. And I believed that. Like the frost in winter, it was just a given.

The fruit machines were gone, leaving nothing but slightly cleaner patches on the carpet where they had stood. And I stood staring numbly at the empty spaces, hearing the distant sound of coins tumbling out and the triumphant cries of the winners as they collected their loot and went straight over to the bar to celebrate.

"What happened to him? Your father?" I felt Harper move closer, not touching me, but close enough for me to feel the weight of his presence.

"He died. Cancer. Smoked thirty a day from the age of sixteen until the day he died, so no bloody wonder really. I was thirteen. Spent my whole life living in a place like this and then he died and that was it. The brewery employed another landlord and I was turfed out."

"Your mother?"

"Oh she'd left years before. I was only five. She had an affair with one of the regulars and ended up moving north with him. To be honest I don't remember that much about her, apart from the fact she had red hair, all curly and piled up on top of her head. Bit heavy on the perfume and lipstick too, you know? Dad used to keep a picture of her in his bedside drawer. He didn't know I knew, but sometimes I'd peek through the crack in the bedroom door and see him looking at it. He cried sometimes too, especially when the cancer got bad. Then he'd put it away, wipe away the tears and carry on. But that was my dad all over. Brave front and all that. He was a North London boy after all, tough as nails. Sung football songs with the regulars and sorted out anyone who stepped out of line."

"What happened after he died? Did your family take you in?"

"Oh no, it was back to the care home for me," I grinned a little too widely as I glanced back at him.

Harper tilted his head to one side questioningly. "Care home?"

"Oh he wasn't my real dad. I was adopted. Who'd have thought, right? The spoilt little trophy wife was once a care home orphan."

"Your real parents are dead?" he frowned.

"Don't know," I shrugged. "Might well be for all I or anybody else knows. I was left outside a hospital emergency ward one night. You know, like in one of those stories you read about in the papers: Baby abandoned wrapped in a blanket. Police search for mother. Only my story never made the news. The majority rarely do. Babies get abandoned every day and nobody gives a shit, not really. So yes, maybe they are dead. Or maybe they're alive, with new families, new babies. It doesn't matter."

He stared at me and this time I didn't look away. I was used to that look. I'd had it most of my life. That one that felt sorry for me, pitied me because I had no one. Brandon had been the only one who had never looked at me like that. Not once.

"Interesting," he mused.

"Really? I've always thought it quite boring." I looked up into his face and matched his stare with my own, steady and unwavering.

He slicked a tongue gently along the underside of his top lip. "No, it's interesting because you never cease to surprise me. And you're right. I would never have imagined in a million lifetimes that you could have come from a place like this." He gestured at the room around us. "It's strange; I always saw something different in you. Something beyond the fancy townhouse and designer clothes. You don't get that kind of grit and fortitude from pretty things and money. That just softens you, makes you weak. And you are anything but weak, angel."

Suddenly he reached out a hand and clutched at my neck, pulling me towards him and crushing his mouth against mine, his tongue moving with my own. I grasped at his shirt, grabbing handfuls in clenched fists as I reciprocated, realising instinctively that I needed this, that I always needed this. Just another given.

I hooked my hands around his neck as he lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he turned and put me down onto the bar, his mouth now moving across my face, devouring me with kisses until his lips were on my neck. I felt his hunger more than I had ever felt it, deeply salacious and full of force that told me he needed this just as much as I did. I cried out when his teeth pierced my skin and my thighs gripped him tighter, feeling his hardness push firmly against me as I did so and he moaned as he drank, letting the blood cover his lips and run down his chin as he sucked voraciously on the small wound.

Wrenching the jacket off his shoulders, I tugged almost desperately on his shirt, feeling the damp blood-stained fabric on my fingers as I unbuttoned it and tearing off some of the buttons in the process. I pulled away for the briefest of moments, with our faces just inches apart as I traced my fingertips lightly along his collarbone, skimming softly over the many tattoos that patterned his skin and hearing his breath quicken as I reached his nipple ring, flicking it with my thumb. When I knew he could no longer stand this maddening, gentle touch, I leant down and fixed my mouth upon his nipple, sucking hard and flicking my tongue over the steel hoop, playing with it, pulling on it with my teeth. He gasped and ground his hips against me, tugging at my coat now and throwing it over the bar.

Lifting each of my legs in turn, he unlaced my boots and removed both, letting them drop to the floor before deftly unbuttoning my jeans and yanking them down my thighs, making me grip the edge of the bar so not to fall. I grabbed at his waistband, pulling his jeans down over his hips and letting him enter me quickly and roughly, hissing through gritted teeth at the momentary sting and then smiling as the warmth radiated into the base of my stomach with each deep thrust.

His lips found mine again and this time, I tasted my blood on his tongue and I was exhilarated by it, sensing that his addiction to my blood was just as strong as mine was for his. Each stroke was growing in force, until we were both gasping, our cries echoing through the empty room as we moved against each other and as the heat erupted and he stretched his neck back, I fell upon his throat and took that hit I so desperately needed. And in that moment, I forgot everything. And the peace that came with forgetting was blissful while it lasted.

******

It was a dreamless sleep but the awakening was as harsh as any vision that Lucius could taunt me with.

A deep fear trembled in my veins, a familiar fear, one that was engrained within me, one that was engrained within all of us. Oh, we had fought the battle and won, but that fear had been centuries in the making, passed down from maker to fledgling again and again and one fight was not enough to banish it from our souls.

I awoke with a start, having slept the day wrapped around Harper, covered by an old velvet curtain that we had found in one of the upstairs rooms.

As it turned out, I was not alone in suffering such a rude awakening as Harper too sat bolt upright beside me, his eyes wide as he sniffed the air instantly detecting the same as I did.

"Quick, up now," he hissed and of course he didn't need to tell me twice. Soon we were both dressed, as Harper peeked out through the heavy drapes, scouring the yard outside for signs of what we knew was here somewhere.

"Do you see anything?" I whispered, hearing that horrible high-pitched tone of panic in my voice.

"Nothing," he said, cursing as he ran to each window in turn before turning and grabbing a mobile from his pocket. He hit the call button and waited, chewing anxiously on his lower lip.

"We're at the Old Red Lion," he said, clearly talking to Garrick. "We've got company."

I could hear Garrick's foul curses from where I stood and I knew if we were to survive this, then we'd have him to deal with next. The call finished and Harper snarled in anger, thrusting the phone back into his jacket.

"What do we do?" I cried. "Are they coming?"

"Yes, but I'm not waiting around here to be taken. I'd rather take my chances on the street than be trapped in this place. Come on."

Grabbing my hand, he stealthily stalked the passageway behind the bar, holding the back door ajar slightly so he could check the back yard for anything that might await us there. Strangely, the yard both front and back was still deserted and as we made our way to the loose panel, I noted the small flakes of snow that were drifting down around us, floating lightly in the air.

Just as Harper reached for the board, I grabbed at him, pulling him back. "What are they doing? Why aren't they attacking?"

I could see the confusion on his face mirroring my own. "I don't know. Maybe it's too risky. Maybe they want to get us somewhere quieter, with fewer humans around."

We stepped through the gap and out onto the street again and for a moment, I thought Harper was right. It was barely an hour after sundown and the street was heading into rush hour, filled with cars, cabs, buses and littered with people heading home or heading out. Music pumped from open shop doorways and chatter crowded the take-aways. Horns hooted warnings to those stupid enough to dare crossing without the protection of traffic lights and cyclists sped up the bike lanes shouting at any car or pedestrian that got too close.

Yet despite the noise and hustle of the city street, it was never hard to pin point the one who did not really belong here, no matter how much they tried to blend in. Well, it was never difficult for us anyway.

Standing on the opposite side of the road, on the very junction where Harper and I had stood not long before sunrise, there was a single Varúlfur, waiting by the kerbside, just watching us. He was young, probably in his late teens, with short cropped dark hair that was shaved at the sides and slicked back on top. He was dressed in a suit and a long black wool coat, an unofficial uniform that I had seen many times sported by Walter and Noble employees. The juniors always emulated their seniors. Rick had been the same and this one seemed no different.

I glanced around the street, my eyes darting everywhere and spying no other beast amidst the crowd and whilst Harper was doing his best to keep his attention on the young Varúlfur, I could see he was doing the same, his brows furrowing in confusion.

"Harper, I don't understand. Where are the others?"

"There aren't any," he murmured, sounding almost dazed by the realisation. "He's on his own."

As if on cue, the Varúlfur suddenly stepped off the kerb and began to walk across the busy road, cutting in and out of traffic but clearly with one direction in mind and that was straight towards us.