It isn’t a smell, or something I hear, or even a conscious thought. The thing I sense is deeper than that, more like a retuning, like I sense his presence on some fundamental level. He’s here. On this continent. Thousands of miles away still, but getting closer. It might take him months to reach me, years even, yet I know - I just know - that he’s coming to find me.

The sudden feeling of him jolts me out of my slumber. I’m not asleep. I never sleep, not really, though I can do a good impression of it and there are times when it feels like something approaching sleep, or at least the closest I can remember to it. Carefully, I remove Pya’s arm from its place on my chest, and I watch her wrinkle her nose before settling her features once again. There are nights when I have looked at her for hours; she takes on this marvellous look of tranquillity of which I’m envious. Not this night.

I get up and walk out of the hut, out into the early hours. The skies in this place are undeniably beautiful. Many times I have taken the opportunity to enjoy them, the dwellings silhouetted and dwarfed by the grand belt of the Milky Way above. The thin air does not concern me. Nights tortured by mountain winds have no effect. On this occasion, it’s still and perfectly quiet. I recall a time when it was impossible to experience true silence, and of course I don’t get it now. The sounds of the tribe breathing and shuffling in their beds are familiar and even comforting, but they are noises, simple as they are to amplify or block out as I contemplate the heavens.

I realise I am smiling, and I know why. It’s my own folly, my belief that I could live this way and simply enjoy it. There’s a level of anxiety I feel at his approach, one I suppressed a long time ago when I started to think he’d perhaps died or given up the hunt. Stupid man. All the while I knew better. There may have been no haste in his pursuit, but I ought to have realised he would never stop. That isn’t in his nature. I should have spent my many days in preparation, training myself, and instead I have focused on trying to be happy, here at the end of things.

For years, I have suppressed my nature, but it’s strange that with his presence everything begins to return, the old instincts and abilities. The ground I’m stood on is a scorched plateau and I can feel every course inch of ancient rock beneath me. Miles away to the west, I can hear the hunting cry of a bird of prey, a condor perhaps. These sensations were always there, I learn; I just tried to forget about them. The colours and relative levels of brightness in the constellation above me are things I can make out just by looking at it. I smell something, a little animal, scuffling along the shadows cast by our huts. Now I can hear it, the hesitant sniffs as it senses its path. A basic, primal and altogether more dangerous wave of instinct hits me, the thing I really have attempted to push down within me whilst part of the tribe. It’s hunger. The creature’s tiny, no larger than a mouse and certainly lacking any true satisfaction, but I begin to track it, plotting its death as the thought of its flesh drives me crazy.

Abraham Oscar Joseph lived in one of those grand old houses that overlooked the park. As far as I was concerned, this was Elite Row, where the residents were invariably the rich and famous of the neighbourhood – local councillors, minor celebrities, lawyers and doctors. I didn’t know how old the houses were, but it was clear they had been the homes of choice for a long time, with their four floors (a cellar and three over-ground stories), stained glass front doors and generous garage space. Many of them actually looked run down. Their Victorian brickwork had been worn down, smoothed out and eroded by the conditions, and few had opted for the modern luxury of double glazing, but I was sure when the hurricanes showed up that they would be the last ones standing.

Joseph wasn’t involved in politics. He was nobody’s idea of a star, and he’d assured me beforehand that the law was something to be avoided, neither had he any interest in dealing with other people’s ailments. There was nothing special about his place in the street, no details that marked it out as peculiar. It may have been remarked upon that he was rarely seen. His curtains were drawn more often than not. There was an air of grand silence about the place. Observers might have speculated that the house was in fact empty, but I knew he was a recluse. What really mattered was the neatness of his front lawn and the contributions he made to the upkeep of the park, which the community enjoyed. As long as he did his bit, the neighbours would generally look on him with regard and respect his wishes to be left alone. A slightly eccentric old man, possibly masking the signs of Alzheimer’s by shutting the world out. But harmless enough.

My house was just around the corner, yet it was a world away in terms of social standing. We lived in a suburb of Didsbury that had mushroomed into a modern estate, built en masse and with little attention to detail. Former students who’d stayed in Manchester lived here. The only cars that passed our door belonged to those who had homes there, or were making their way to the rugby club that marked the town’s boundary. Our houses had value because of where they were; otherwise I lived in the kind of anonymous semi that formed the backbone of the city.

I would visit Joseph once a week. Why he wanted me there at all was a mystery. I didn’t know what marked me out as special, as worthy of his attention. The routine was that I turned up every Thursday evening, at the same time, and I guessed my role was nothing more sensational than providing him with a bit of company. For my part, why I held up my side was easier to explain. Quite simply, I had never known anyone so fascinating. Everything about him was interesting, from the pictures that decorated every wall of his house to the non-stop cavalcade of yarns and anecdotes he spun to go with the spirits and tobacco he appeared to have in endless supply. I was 19 then, like now, and a sponge for anything that pulled me from my ordinary existence. All I had to do was feed him some banal detail about the past seven days in my life, or discuss a news item, or ask about an ancient photo that had caught my eye, and off he went, picking up on a point at random and launching into one of his stories. From here, he would slip smoothly along fresh tangents and into new tales so that, ultimately, we were as far from where we started as it was possible to be, and whilst I left slightly the worse for one scotch too many, my head was always filled with his words. Joseph had an immense knowledge of history, and he gave accounts of the past that were as far removed from what I learned in textbooks as the characters in old movies differed from the real lives of the actors. I admit it, I was hooked.

At first glance, Joseph was nothing special. He looked much like anyone else who had miles on the clock, most likely living alone because he was a widow, left to rot but with enough of his wits remaining to not require care. His full head of white hair was swept back to reveal a map of liver spots. His clothes looked as though they belonged to another era entirely. He smelled of old dust. But it was his eyes that marked him initially as different. They were brilliant, bright and blue, capable of making it appear they had seen oceans of life. When Joseph talked, he’d fix me with those piercing eyes, like he was daring me to look away, and all the while his hands would move animatedly before him, fingers hooked and clawing space. His nails were too long and white. As I got to know him better, I learned that his deliberate, geriatric way of moving about was a façade. There was power in that frame of his, moments when he shifted his body a little too smoothly to fit with his age. He clearly had a level of agility that I only ever got to see snatches of, and over time I realised he intended that I notice it, but only in glimpses, like I wasn’t ready for the full story.

Yet his finest asset was always his voice, the rich, velvet purr that animated his tales. Sinking into his tones was like those moments on winter mornings when you’re wrapped up in the duvet and enjoying the perfect warmth of your body clock in co-ordination with the sheets; you know the real world’s out there and it’s harsh, but you don’t need to be in it just yet. Joseph talked like a consummate storyteller. When he spoke, his voice rose and fell like small waves, each word intoned just right as though the syllables he needed to emphasise had been determined long before and practised for the moment of telling. I suppose he reminded me a bit of the sea. I thought I would never reach the end of him, like he would always have dimensions to his psyche that were his alone, driven so deep he could never be fully charted.

The night that would change my life was a cool October Thursday. His street was an amber crackle of autumn leaves and the sky had a freshness about it that levered towards winter. Joseph met me with the usual handshake and invited me into his living room. A grandfather clock in the corner struck eight. Its chime was brief and quiet enough that the ambience of the place was undisturbed. The bookshelf that filled an entire wall was lined with antique volumes, with faded titles and uniform spines. The leather armchairs we sat in were ready. It occurred to me months ago that I had never seen a television in Joseph’s house, but it seemed entirely right that he may not own a set.

‘Is scotch all right?’ He said it as part of a routine, though we always drank scotch and he knew I would never refuse it. I told him it was fine, before the unnecessary apology came back. ‘It’s all I have this week.’

Settling down so we sat opposite each other, he filled his pipe with loving care as I worked through a cigarette. It was time to inform him of my activities, so I talked about how university was going. My second year of the English degree was much tougher than the first, with a fuller reading list and tighter deadlines for getting my essays submitted. I wished I hadn’t c hosen the option on romantics. The authors had already been criticised to death, I told him; what could I possibly say that would add any new flesh to the mass of tomes that seemed to cover every angle and pore over each dimension with microscopic attention to detail? I appreciated the advice he’d given previously that any new voice added value to the wealth of opinion, but at that moment I felt like I was drowning in it. All the while he watched me, his fingers working tobacco as he demanded I give him further details. Which specific titles was I reading? What did I think of this character, or the structure of a certain passage, and what significance did I place on a single plot development that had, in reality, barely registered on me? Did I appreciate the novel within the context of the time in which it was written? I didn’t. Had I researched the life of the author, looking into the family background and social standing in locating the ‘voice’ of the work? I had not. It wasn’t as though Joseph was judging my half-hearted efforts to study Literature, more that he was interested in it and he appeared to know everything I was talking about. He could quote passages and bring them to life in his paraphrasing. He made comments about some of the hoary critics I was struggling through and at times had a kind of appreciation of the authors that suggested he had almost shared their experiences.

He let me go on to share my life outside the lecture theatre, and I briefed him on my part-time bar job, my part-time girlfriend, how living with my mother was going. To him, my world must have felt very shallow, but if this is what he thought he gave no sign of it. Rather, he was hooked on every word, following my chatter with never a blink from those eyes, not a sign he was bored or drifting off.

‘How’s the whiskey?’ he said when I had finished. It was fine, I told him, and I meant it. I found I couldn’t lie to him, meaning I was unable to say anything more about the scotch because I didn’t have any appreciation of it other than it went down smoothly, and he would have known if I tried to bullshit it. But it wasn’t just that he gave every impression of seeing right through me, like he would have been able to tell from an involuntary shuffle or eye movement that I was trying to deceive him. To my shame, I used to feel he could actually look into my head, that if he wanted to he could extract things from my mind, as though sifting through my cranial filing system for the stuff he wanted to know about me; listening to me talk was just a politer way of getting his information. Later however, as our friendship developed I stopped having these delusions. I told him the truth because I wanted to, because I had nothing to hide from such a companion. I valued his input and the way he listened to everything.

He smiled, reaching for my glass.

‘I’m so glad you enjoyed it, and I’m particularly pleased it has had some small effect. There’s something we must discuss, something serious, and it can’t be put off any longer.’

Once again, he filled my glass and I followed his moves with interest that was now slightly soused. This was something new. At any given point, he could have launched into one of his rambles, indeed this is what I expected, and I was all ready to settle back and let his speech wash over me. The change was a little unsettling, though Joseph’s demeanour and surroundings were unchanged and constant.

‘Do you remember how we first met?’ he said, his face obscured by smoke from the aromatic tobacco he preferred.

Of course I did. It had been over a year ago, when I was helping mum with her census rounds. Delivering forms along his road, I spotted him struggling with a parcel that he was attempting to drag in to his cellar. After I had helped him, the pair of us easing the dead weight down the steep flight of steps that led only into darkness, he offered me a drink to say thank you and everything had begun from there.

‘Can you recall what you said to me? You laughed and asked whether I had a body in that package.’

I grinned, the memory distant, his gaze relaxing.

‘The answer is yes. We were carrying a corpse into my cellar, one that I intended to destroy over time in the furnace down there.’ Now he fixed me to my seat with nothing more than his piercing eyes. It was all I could do to raise the glass to my lips and take a gulp of alcohol. ‘I can show you the furnace if you like, but more importantly the body was that of Michael Hughes, the manager of a local letting company for students. You might cast your mind back to the time he disappeared. It turned out his accounts were somewhat creative. There was a mass of evidence against him that showed he had been taking advantage of his position for some time. Not only were his taxes crooked, it was also proved he overcharged as a matter of course and that his lettings barely satisfied even the most basic safety checks. To cut a long story short, he was ripping his clients off, both his tenants and the landlords for whom he provided his services.

‘What was never discovered, but is nonetheless true, was how he treated tenants in financial difficulty, or those who came to him for any kind of help. Hughes had a history of antagonism, bullying and sexual abuse that stretched back throughout his professional career. I have lived long enough to hear the word evil used too many times to describe individuals, but in his case it’s entirely deserved.’

Stunned into asking a question, I urged him to tell me how he knew all this.

‘I know. All I need to make you aware of at this stage is that I have contacts throughout the city and beyond, and there is a wealth of information about a certain calibre of human being that reaches me. You must trust me when I tell you the man did not deserve to live.’

The obvious point occurred to me – what gave Joseph the right to sit in judgement over him, over anyone?

‘I have as much right as anyone else. The state would no doubt have been mired in legal bureaucracy and Hughes had good legal representation, the sort that would have ensured he was left with a short custodial sentence, perhaps even one that was suspended. My justice was swifter and more absolute, but it was justice.’

Calm and serene, Joseph sucked on his pipe, only his eyes penetrating through the fug of smoke. His speech patterns were even and emotionless, as though describing an event that had happened hundreds of years ago, not something that was recent and still talked about from time to time. As he went on to describe more terrible things, his voice never wavered; there was no faltering in his disposition.

‘What really matters is not why I killed Hughes, but how. And now I urge you to finish your glass.’

My hand raised the vessel mechanically and I found myself downing the whiskery in a single gulp. It seemed the movements were no longer mine. The only thing I could do was return his stare, which continued to fix me without passion, but I was fixed all the same.

‘I ended his life by sinking my teeth into his wrist, pricking his vein and from there draining his entire body of blood.’ He left an eyebrow raised as though I was about to test him with a question, yet what was there to ask? My throat burned thanks to the liquor. I opened lips that were strangely dry and stammered that what he did would make him a vampire of some kind. If it had been in me, I might have laughed it off. Joseph was, after all, a harmless old neighbour with weakness in his bones and a head crammed full of knowledge and memories. Wasn’t he?

‘It’s difficult to believe, I accept that,’ he said, at last resting his pipe. Our room was thick with smoke. ‘Nevertheless, it is true. I have been a vampire for many hundreds of years, indeed I have enjoyed living in this house for over a century.’

He looked around at the walls, at the pictures, the furniture, a collection of lives.

‘I always did want to live forever.’ He said this with a chuckle, as though pricking at some distant memory. ‘By now I have existed for so long that I can barely recall what it is to be human. Please don’t misunderstand me. I am no monster. I do not skulk around the streets in the dead of night, preying on victims who are unfortunate enough to cross my path. That has not been my method for a very long time. And the sights I have seen. The ages I happen to have stumbled across whilst on my long journey. You have heard me speak many times, but what you didn’t realise is that I know what I know because I was there. The only constants throughout the history of the last millennium were death and my kind, and there is a certain irony to that, don’t you think?’

He let that thought sink in, smiling thinly to himself as though enjoying his own little jape. Then he leaned forward, and in one fluid movement he was inches from my face.

‘I’m telling you all this because I want to make you an offer. I believe you already know what my offer is, and I can assure you that I would not make it to just anybody. I have always liked you, ever since you first came to visit me, before that even when I saw how you coped with the absence of your father. You have ever struck me as older than your years, and this is why I let you help me with my package, to draw you in. Since then, I have enjoyed your visits, your company, and I believe you have enjoyed them also. I imagine at first you felt you were showing charity to a lonely old fool, but over time you have come to appreciate my friendship. No one has touched my heart like you in an age. I believe you have all the qualities necessary to survive the new life that I want to make for you.’

He let the moment hang there as he watched me without a flicker of emotion showing on his face. Three things were going through my mind, well two things that coalesced into the third really. First, I believed him. The time when I might have dismissed him as a demented codger was long gone. I knew he was telling the truth, not an abstract, interpretative commentary but nailed on truth. Already, I had seen and heard too much for what he told me to add up to anything else. Second, I was delighted he thought highly enough of me to not only tell me but to make such an invitation. And the third point? Simply this – I knew I would accept his offer. No thinking about it; no going away to make my goodbyes, cancel subscriptions, and so on. My loyalty to him was complete, coupled as it was with the disillusionment I felt about my lot at the time. Back then, I thought I had it tough; I’d been dealt a shitty hand with little to look forward to beyond a slow, spiralling grind of work and finally death. I only had to look at my mother for the evidence. It was only in Joseph’s friendship that I felt any true spark, a sense there was more to the world than the mediocrities lying in wait for me.

Later, I would understand the stories he lavished upon me were a cunning seduction, a whiff of fantasy mixed with half-truths that implied life could be rich, full and endless, one containing more than taxes, marriage, children and TV. But I was still a teenager, my eligibility to vote and buy alcohol recent additions to my stock. I was a soft, malleable creature in his grip; any cynicism I had was passed down to me rather than gained through bitter experience.

I continued to listen, childlike and dumb, as he outlined his terms.

‘Understand this. If you refuse, things can remain much the same. Life will go on. You may still visit me each week and we will continue to enjoy each other’s company. This, at least, is the surface truth. The reality is you would never consider me to be the same person and I am sure the knowledge you now possess will eventually drive you away. I will find this disappointing but I will survive. Eventually, there will be someone who deserves and desires my gift. Rest assured also that I’m confident you will not betray the nature of my true being to anyone else. I am old and powerful. I know how to protect my secrets.’

For a second, a flicker of change flashed across his features. It happened so quickly that I might have believed I’d dredged it up from my own mind, but of course I knew what I’d seen and the meaning behind it. Later, I saw the transformation enough times to be sure it had really taken place. The monster was within him, and in that instant it rose to the surface, twisting his passive, almost kindly face into a mask of horror. His cheekbones jutted out into twin slashes of malice, the liver-spotted skin darkened, turning richer and golden, and his mouth widened, exposing a jagged row of brilliant white teeth that were anything but human in their length and sharpness. Worst of all were the eyes, turning an even brighter blue under the hood of his knotted brow. They were no longer the familiar soft blue I’d come to know, but something animal, hungry and driven. Years later, the memory of them had the power to haunt my dreams, those infinite pools into which I could sink forever.

Not that it made any difference. I was under his spell, and even though I’d said nothing he had me, and he knew it. Joseph held out his hand and I placed mine in it. It occurred to me that I had never actually touched his skin, which was papery and frail yet deceptive, because beneath the obvious signs of old age was a wiry strength, a steeliness that let him force my arm over without any resistance. I didn’t try to stop him, just stared dumbly at my open wrist. With the tenderness of a father, he leaned over to prevent me from seeing his mouth open just over the vein.

I was growing warm, an uncomfortable internal heat that came from a mix of alcohol, heating and something else. Sweat mingled above my lip. I could smell my own moisture and it was that sensation I remembered as he pierced my skin. With the silence of experience, he found my blood and started to drink. I felt a numbness that was almost medical in its lack of pain, but I could hear him, the sound of lips smacking against skin – my skin! – and what may well have been swallowing. It was possible the latter came from me, as I suffered a sort of sticky warmth that enveloped me, my breath quickening into laboured, asthmatic rasps.

In the long years to follow, I would discover how quickly I could work through eight pints of human blood, easily yielded to my endless thirst. It was so fast that the victim hardly had a chance to feel anything beyond a sense of faintness, of becoming queasy from their sudden loss of life force. Joseph wasn’t so fast. He took me at a pace that was leisurely, only later informing he did so because he had wanted to taste me for so long that he needed to savour the moment, to indulge himself in a pleasure that lasted fleetingly. It was for this reason that the nausea in me rose to match the heat, rendering me dizzy and pissed and unable to focus.

By all accounts, his attack on my vein was over in no time at all. From Joseph’s perspective, it had all taken place over an exquisitely minute amount of time, to me much longer than that. I realised it was over when he stopped to look up at me, his face flushed from my blood. There was no inky red drizzle running down his chin, no sign of those extended canines of which I’d seen just a glance. He seemed healthy, like he’d polished off a fine roast dinner in good company. Words came out of his mouth, yet to me they were distant sounds, mumbled and out of focus, and then he was reaching forward through the fog to catch my head, cushioning it in his hands as it fell back. What caused my state was the fact he had drained me of almost everything. I was close to death, too weak to operate my own body, and there was nothing either of us could do to stop it.

He brought a cup to my lips and I barely registered it. I recall, distantly, some liquid being poured into my mouth, pressure exerted on my nostrils to force my throat open, and I knew even then that it was a measure of his blood. The taste was vile, thickened and black, and somehow it was forced into me; somehow I didn’t simply retch it back up.

By the point, I had no strength left, no power to push him away as he completed the transaction that would see me become one of his kind. The cup’s contents finding their way into my body, he let me sink back into my chair and continued to hold my hand as he spoke soft words, describing in exact detail what was going to happen next.

‘You are letting go of your old form,’ he said, perversely sounding like he was cooing me. ‘And your human life is not so easily extinguished. What is left of it continues to fight and that is the pain you are feeling. You are tired because you’re slipping away, and the slowing, fading beat is nothing more than your heart. In a moment, it will stop entirely.

‘This is the worst part. I’m told it is like sinking and that there is no way to push back to the surface. Your body knows it is dying and so sends fearful messages to all parts of you, inducing you to panic. Don’t. Concentrate on my words, and they will provide a small comfort to you. Your heart is beating its last and for this short time you will think it is the end.’

It’s difficult for me to describe that period, that brief clutch of minutes amidst an oceanic time on this world, but it’s something I can still recall with the clarity of yesterday. Joseph was quite right. I was dying. I could feel its process, the shutdown of my body, and I wanted to thrash against it with any force left within me. This turned out to be very little. Since the moment he took his first gulps of my blood, I had started to freeze, to undergo a numbing process just as claustrophobic heat consumed my skin. I tried to wave my arms, but managed little more than spasms. My head shook in spastic jerks and my legs twitched when I wanted to pump them, but soon enough these efforts slackened and finally ceased altogether. Save for something like a nervous tic that forced my head to twist to the left before pulling it back, I no longer had any control over myself.

I was scared; why would I be anything else? The thought occurred that Joseph had played a monstrous trick on me. He was a serial killer and I his latest victim, egged on by fantastical promises and my own naiveté. It didn’t matter that no one would go to the lengths he had to murder someone. Despite my inability to move, the lingering sense that I was on my way out, I panicked. Throughout the dying process, I was always able to see. It was the last of my faculties to go. Joseph told me later that the mad bulging of my eyes, which looked like they were attempting to rip themselves from their sockets, unsettled even him; such was the extent of my desolate fear. And yet the room remained constant. It didn’t swim, merging into a random collage of images as I suspected it might. His army of books sat on their shelves, silent sentinels. The clock ticked on, and when I thought its beat was slowing down it dawned on me that the failing pulse was in fact my heart, struggling against the inevitable. There was nothing left for it to pump.

I tend to remember this as my most horrific episode, and yet I felt no actual pain. The worst of it was the desperate attempt to breathe. I realised my throat was closing; the slight, precious breaths I was taking were inhaling less and less oxygen each time. My efforts were forlorn, and when my mouth made a rasping motion it was because I had begun to choke, fighting an inability to perform the most basic of human functions. I sensed wetness at the top of my legs before I lost any sensation of what my body could feel, and knew I had pissed myself.

Joseph’s mellow voice continued to keep me alert. Though my ears could no longer take in sound, I could still hear him from somewhere inside my head. He was telling me that I had died, but not to worry as it was temporary. Again, it was his truth, real or something I imagined in those final seconds, which kept me sane. The closing heartbeat was a broken and overlong dull thud. It was feeble, yet echoed throughout my entire frame. My death knell. A rancid breath escaped from my lungs, up my oesophagus and out into the atmosphere; my last. It was obvious enough to me that I shouldn’t have been able to detect any of this. By now my brain should surely have stopped transmitting any signals or sensations. I drew a measure of solace from that thought, pitiful as it was, despite the hope that exited with that thimbleful of oxygen.

My companion talked on. I couldn’t tell whether he held my hand or not, or how close to me his face was. All I could see was the ceiling, the mottled green paint that was dulled and greying through a century of pipe smoke. But Joseph was there. Never letting his words alter speed or pitch, he continued to remind me that this would pass; shortly my new life would commence. He sounded like he really believed it. The innate confidence he seemed to have in my recovery, along with the utter stillness of his voice, made me cling to the possibility that he was correct.

Blackness then. My sight went.

Silence. The void.

Nothing. No white light. No tunnel. Not even a vision of mum crying at my funeral, a vague, corporeal figure on the periphery that could have been my father. None of that. Just the fulfilment of a promise.

My return to the surface was so slight that I didn’t even notice the first signal. It was the scent of Joseph’s pipe, the wave of tobacco as it entered my nostrils. That’s rich, I thought; smoke while I die, huh? At least treat this sad occasion with the respect and solemnity it deserved. The smell was so commonplace that I forgot I had lost my ability to experience it, and just as suddenly it came flooding back to me. The aroma grew stronger, never overpowering me but in some way it was enhanced, so that I could almost separate the substances making up his blend, before other smells entered my range. So many smells. I could place each one, filter and distinguish them, from the dust of Joseph’s shelves and the dampened paper of his old books, the plant he kept by their side, the soil it stood in, the musty carpet and his curtains that contained a vast array of odours, through to the man himself, the inescapable inkiness of extreme age and an almost imperceptible dead rankness that underpinned his being, and the tobacco he continued to blow in my direction.

That was it at first, but it was enough. I marvelled at my new ability, and stretched it out into the world, trying to catch yet more traces from other rooms and even beyond the confines of the house. Doing so was effortless and natural. I could tell that a dog was sniffing the ground outside Joseph’s front wall, and I also knew it was pregnant and carried a liver infection. All from the complex array of scents it emitted, all categorised by my nose.

Hearing followed. Joseph’s voice, still present within me, now faded in softly as though the volume dial was being steadily turned. As with my sense of smell the improvements were there, hardly noticeable at first but growing stronger and infinitely more alert. It felt as though a new dimension of sound had opened up before me; it should have terrified me and yet I felt at one with it, as though I had always possessed this talent. Everything, from the explosion of a nuclear weapon to a flower opening, has its own sound, and I detected them all. The mice I had always suspected lived in this house were now confirmed as present. I knew where they nested along with where they all were at this precise moment. In the corner of our room, above the door, a fat spider weaved its web with diligent, deliberate grace. The purr of thread expelling from its bloated body clashed with the tapping made by its busy legs on existing strands.

As my heart spurted back into life, gaining in speed and vitality, I felt new power rush through me, my might emerging in waves as I revitalised. I couldn’t yet move, but appeared normal enough and besides Joseph was there, making his warning that the process of reanimation was slow. My body had to learn to perform once again, he whispered, but when it did the results would be better than I could ever imagine. My palm felt the dry, leathery warmth of his as it continued to rest where it has since he engineered my change, and the effect was tremendous, a rush of heat shooting up my arm.

‘Pretty soon, you will lift a finger or wiggle your toes and the rest will come quickly,’ he said, through lips I could tell were upturned into a smile. ‘You are experiencing nothing less than nature’s finest gift, a very rare and expensive boon. At this moment, you are wondering how much new strength you have. I can tell you it will be far in excess of anything you have ever known or could imagine back in your old form. And this is just a beginning. You never stop growing. Your development will never cease. Welcome to a new world of wonders, my boy! This is old magic at its dark finest, and here you are standing on the threshold!’

The telephone rang. This new sound, an old fashioned briiinnnngggg, was piercing to me, not just because of my amplified hearing abilities but that I had never known Joseph to taken a call throughout the time I knew him. For all I was aware, until now he existed in a world that was blissfully unaware of the advent of telecommunications. He patted my hand and excused himself, leaving me there as he slipped out of the room and into his hall. It felt strange to me that of all the things I could detect, his movement and even his voice was muffled, inconclusive and peripheral to everything else, as though Joseph jostled for and lost his place to the wider world. I was left to conclude that he could somehow mask himself, shield his trace from the prying eardrum, and I asked myself why he would do this.

He wasn’t gone long. By the time he returned, moving into my field of vision so that he could stare down at me with proud eyes, I was able to twist my head a little.

‘You see how fast it all takes place?’ he said, clapping his hands in a rare show of glee. ‘The worst is now a long way behind you. Stretching ahead is eternal life, peeled open for your talents. Oh yes, and we have a visitor arriving in ten minutes.’

I frowned and must have said something, because he answered me.

‘Ah, your new voice,’ he said, gleaming. ‘Rich, is it not?’

I tested it, uttering some banal words and hearing my tones, infinitely deeper than I was used to and echoing around the room. It was as if the acoustics were utterly inadequate to cope with the power of my larynx.

‘That is your vampire’s voice,’ Joseph said, and for emphasis allowed me a glimpse of his own. Despite being stood over me, his mouth perhaps as far as six feet away from my ears, he was talking in the softest whisper. This was his ‘vampire’s voice’ then, the one he had used as I lost the grip on all my senses’ even now it could fill my head. ‘An impressive addition to your range of new powers, I think. I expect you’re wondering how to use it to charm the ladies, but try to suppress it. You’ll find doing so isn’t difficult, yet it is necessary if you are to mask your identity. Only use it when you need to; it could betray you.’

As he gazed down on me, showing all the pleasure visible in a new father, I played with my voice. Sure enough, reducing its potency was much like talking normally then dropping to a whisper, as I began to chatter in the familiar northern drawl I had only ever used. The thought of what I was keeping in reserve gave me a rush of pleasure, and Joseph’s beatific look appeared to reflect the feeling.

‘Splendid,’ he said, clapping his hands together theatrically in a smack of flesh that was jarring to me. ‘There is nothing to match the birth of a new vampire. To see the flush of wonderment at abilities you have never known previously, to witness first-hand the sudden improvement in your entire being. We are the master race and we possess all the attributes to prove it.’

Had I not been overwhelmed by the constant allure of his language, combined with the joy of discovering my new self, I might have felt a jerk of unease at his comments. That short speech returned to me many times later in my life, when I questioned what I had become and even challenged it, and it always filled me with dread that for all his verbal acrobatics, the way he used his words as a sort of seductive alchemy, his view was essentially narrow, dangerous even.

Not that any of this mattered as I soaked him up, enjoyed my rebirth and continued to feel the pulse of strength surge through me. It felt like my body was being heated in all areas, kissing everything to life with the transparent love of gentle but omnipotent warmth.

To his evident pleasure, I managed a smile, and then with some effort raised my still sluggish arms so that they rested on my legs. I built an arching roof with my fingers just because I could, taking in the sensation on my thighs, and started a rhythm of tapping with my feet. From deep inside me, I experienced a new sensation, something that both intrigued and concerned me. It was the initial pang of something that would dominate my life, the never-ending lust for blood – my hunger. But even then, it was only part of a bigger picture, an emptiness that could never be quenched, no matter how much I fed. I would come to see this as an almost spiritual disconnection from the living earth, like I’d been cut off from the grace of the natural universe. It gnawed. From the beginning, it would mark a terrible truth about my being, as though I had no right to take my place.

‘There is so much to tell you.’ Joseph moved around the room as he spoke, yet his voice didn’t once change in pitch. ‘We have little time, so forgive me if this is brief. In the coming weeks, you will know all about your new kind and why you are significant. For now, let me offer a small introduction to what you are, to assuage some of your concerns, I hope, and answer one or two burning questions.’

He flitted about with a speed that didn’t seem to match his wizened appearance, darting from place to place to clear away dust, tidy a bookshelf, remove our glasses and, most significantly, the cup that had contained the essence of my second life.

‘As a vampire, you will continue to look, act and for all the world be a normal human being in as much as you wish to do so. You can continue to live your usual life if that is your preference, blend back into your present circumstances if it gives you a feeling of continuity. I think this may be best for you, at least in the short term. Enjoy your differences and practice the things you can do when you find no eyes are watching; you will know when they are. The most important thing for now is to learn to be human on the outside, even though you appreciate you are superior in every way.

‘Our race, I prefer the word species, endures but our numbers are diminished. There are few of us left who are proud enough to celebrate what makes us special. Many embrace humanity with a love so fierce what they very nearly become human again, and it is a lonely feeling, to know you are so very different to the millions. Popular culture has turned us into monsters, as I’m sure you know, but we are far from the caped bloodsuckers of Bram Stoker’s imagination. Having said that, we do rely on blood to survive.

‘Crucifixes and garlic have no effect on us. Silver bullets would do as much damage as those made of lead, which is none at all, and yes, you will be able to see your fine reflection in the mirror as you always have. Our legend is based on peasant superstitions, you’ll find. Some contain a grain of truth whilst most do not. My personal favourite is the myth that we cannot cross running water, which makes me suppress a chuckle every time I use a bridge. Daylight is something you will want to take more seriously. You can survive when the sun is up, but you will be averse to its light at first, so much so that it takes some years to acclimatise. In time, you will be able to test how long you can manage when outside night’s embrace, but for now use the day for resting. As for sleeping, there is no need to do so in a tomb. Some vampires prefer it, but coffins should only ever be a hiding place. You aren’t dead, so why spend your sleeping hours in a vessel for corpses?

‘And finally, we come to the need for blood. I’m afraid this is as much a part of the real vampire’s life as it is in fiction, and what is worse is that nothing else will provide you with nourishment. That said, your supply can come from any animal, and I would not recommend you go on a killing spree throughout Greater Manchester simply because the company of humans provides a perpetual source. You are welcome to eat anything you want in the meantime, to enjoy a glass of whatever tipple takes you. But know that anything but blood will have no taste for you at all; neither will it provide you with sustenance. It will be as though you are stuffing dirt into your mouth. Only blood keeps you alive and sated. It is your curse, and your hunger for it will be constant.’

By now I could move my upper body, albeit sluggishly, so I pulled myself upright in my chair before having to slump down again. There was still a weird paralysis affecting my legs, like they were being held in temporary clamps, and as yet they were under that dead influence. All the same I could tell I was working toward full functionality, and I even managed to reach for the glass of red wine Joseph had left for me.

‘Careful son,’ he said, stretching out a hand but too late. As I absorbed his use of the word ‘son’ my fingers wrapped around the goblet and crushed it, snapping together without effort. My pressure on the glass had been minimal. Merlot splashed along my hand in sticky streaks, the purple clashing in a shock against the whiteness of my skin. Shards of glass hovered around my fingers for an almost lazy second, as though considering whether to dig themselves into my flesh, yet the pieces left no impression at all, bouncing off the skin before falling to the floor. I recoiled and glanced up at Joseph in horror.

He had that odd smile back, a look of pride that felt almost fatherly.

‘I’m sorry, I should have warned you, as I should of most things,’ he said, meeting me with untroubled eyes. His expression lulled me, sapped at my concern. ‘You weren’t to know that you must get used to adjusting to your new strength. Look on this as an early lesson.’

As I mumbled an apology that clearly wasn’t necessary, he moved quickly to remove the damage, then returned with a fresh, whole glass. I had to try again, all under his scrutiny, and the effort was horrible. It was after all such a simple task, lifting a glass, the sort of act that comes so naturally it’s taken for granted, yet I suffered. I could sense the material yielding to my grip, using only the barest pressure to gain purchase, then as I felt it slip applied minimal force again. Slowly, after much concentration, greater frustration, near breakages and gasps from my one-man audience, I at last managed to get the glass to my lips and take a rewarding sip.

Then I shattered it as the wine hit my tongue, letting wine spill all over my shirt.

Joseph sighed.

‘And you were doing so well.’

I gagged, barely able to swallow the liquid. If I had opened my mouth to accept paste, the flavour could not have been less odious or alien to my senses. What should have been delicious and fruity had no essence at all and the effect on my tongue was awful.

‘So much to get used to. I know what happened and now you must understand that few of the old rituals and customs have any meaning for you.’

Again, with methodical patience he buzzed around me, offering to give me a clean white shirt to change into and leaving yet another glass. He advised it was just for show and urged me to drink from it only if I was prepared to get used to the sensation of digesting matter that held no goodness for me, and it was at that moment the doorbell rang.

‘Our guest’! Joseph clapped his hands, his customary smile threatening to break into a leer as his eyes flicked in the direction of the door. ‘I have a surprise for you, son. Act normally and follow my lead. You are about to discover what being a vampire is all about.’

With that remark, and all it implied, he gave himself a second to shrink back into his usual self, the Joseph I had known previously. The transformation he had undergone over the last hour hadn’t registered with me, the way his frame seemed to grow until he was a giant, dominating the room, still more or less the same but more upright, firmer, stronger. Or perhaps it was an illusion and I had simply imagined him larger. I couldn’t be certain, but it was for certain that as he shuffled in that cosy, old man’s doddering towards the door that the real Joseph was something quite different to what I held as true.

I used the moment to practice again with the glass, lifting it up and down with an increasing sense of ease while I grew used to the adjustments I had to make. As Joseph had predicted, it didn’t take long for me to come to terms with my power, to simply lighten my grip as I gauged the weight of the matter held between my fingers. I pulled the glass towards me, held it against my chest, and swung it around as though shifting my arm whilst illustrating a spoken point.

In the meantime, Joseph was saying hello to the person at the door, someone with a voice I kind of recognised. As our guest entered the room, I could scarcely believe what was happening. It was a familiar face, a face from the television.

‘Let me introduce William Duffy,’ Joseph said, performing an elaborate bow as the large man walked over to shake my hand. It was then I felt fortunate to have suffered the incident with the wine. Duffy’s bones seemed brittle as I gripped his hand, his fragility exposed as I returned his gesture with an easy firmness.

I told him that my mother was a huge fan of his, and it was true he had the sort of constant presence in our home that bred intimacy. Duffy was the booming Bill Arkwright in Fulton Square, the long running soap opera that my mum imbibed like a new religion. The show’s title theme was a fixture of my formative years, and Kenwright its main player, a heartthrob for older women. In the Square, Duffy’s character was a middle-aged bachelor who managed the local stationery depot, which in turn supplied a series of plotlines for the other personalities, all of whom had at some point or other worked there. If they were female, they invariably got themselves involved in Kenwright’s  dizzy game of spinning women like plates; every so often, the story would contrive to put his various affairs on a collision course, but he always came out smiling and ready for the next round, which kept the viewing figures high. A favourite of TV listings magazine covers, it helped that Duffy was tall, broad and dark. In the flesh, he appeared to have all the easy charisma for which Kenwright was famed, though in harsh reality his perma-tan gave him an orange look. My generation found him laughably phoney, with his jet-black hair that suggested either liberal dyeing treatments or baldness cures, or maybe both, but my mum would have been as jealous as hell if she’d known he was here.

A flash of revulsion that was no doubt genuine crossed Duffy’s features, exposing the dark sacs beneath his eyes, but then he settled back into his rehearsed persona and gave me a line of something that he served up for the masses. It would have been easy then to increase my grip, I felt with stabbing hunger, really make his Welsh baritone rise to a strangled shriek, but I let the thought pass, giving into to his piteous ego and expensive cologne. And at least the voice wasn’t a fake, right? No wonder the ladies loved him, with that deep and luxurious voice from the Valleys.

‘William and I are old friends,’ Joseph said, favouring me a conspiratorial grin from behind Duffy’s back. ‘He’s been known to buy books from me in the past.’

‘I’m fascinated about anything to do with Welsh art,’ Duffy went on, sitting in the chair opposite me without being asked. ‘Some years ago, a bookseller I visit in Littleborough recommended this private collector who might be able to help. He could, and I’ve been an occasional caller ever since.’

‘Mr Duffy has given this old man a purpose in life.’ Joseph handed his new guest a generous measure of scotch. ‘We might have met for business, but I think we can call each other friend now.’

 ‘You should have become a dealer, Abe. I’ve never known anyone with such a love for literature, or that kind of knowledge. I remember the time I came to collect that volume on Cyril Ifold, and there you were, holding this book like it was a baby, stroking its spine. The tears were nearly in his eyes. Mine too, as it happens. It was a very emotional moment.’

‘It’s precisely my love that stops me from dealing. I couldn’t bear to see them go to the wrong person.’

With that, Duffy toasted his host, winked and downed half his drink in one practised motion. Slouched in Joseph’s armchair, he seemed utterly at home, gently patting the soft gloss of a tobacco packet that happened to be resting there and staring at the bookcases. There was a craving in his eyes, a restlessness. Was it hunger? Was he one of… us?

‘How’s your wife, William?’ Joseph stood by Duffy and offered him his full attention,

‘It’s Will, or Bill, you know that,’ Duffy said, starting to sound irritated as though this was a regular point of order. ‘Sometimes, you sound like my father.’

‘Forgive me, it’s my way.’ We both watched as the remaining scotch went down with all the potency of tap water. ‘I’m a good deal older than you and sometimes I forget my informalities. And William is a lovely name.’

‘She’s fine. Fine. Well, you may as well hear it from me, we’re splitting up.’

‘Oh. I thought I would hear about that first from one of the tabloid papers.’

‘As if you read the rags, Abe,’ Duffy said, his laugh harsh and lacking any warmth. ‘It’ll be in there soon enough, I expect. Angela will make sure of that.’ The words that spilled out had a pitying ring to them, but there was nothing but coldness in the way he continued to glare ahead of him, focusing on nothing. ‘The agents are keeping it quiet for now, what with her new show opening and all. We look better when we’re together, they tell us, but they’re all just waiting for the right time to let the story out, like the day before opening night or whatever time suits darling Angela.’

Joseph replenished Duffy’s glass and laid a hand on his shoulder. The gesture appeared kind, but I noticed the way the actor was being engulfed by his host’s shadow, a void that was swallowing him up, little by little. Duffy drank. Perhaps he was thinking about his wife, one of those ever-so British actresses who was loved in the States and chose her own appearances, her fame eclipsing his to the extent that he may have been a British institution but she was truly global.

‘It’s actually one hell of a story,’ he said, plugging the gaps in his speech with alcohol. ‘But much of it is the usual sad business. We do the circuit as a couple, but the truth is we’ve led separate lives for so long now that we might see each other once a month. There was this one time, I swear it’s true, when I was appearing on a chat show in this big studio used by various production companies. So I’m in my dressing room, getting made up, when we hear a commotion next door as they’re getting ready for a top secret guest to arrive. Guess who it was. Talk about getting the stuffing knocked out.’

He paused to throw back both his generous main of hair and a further dram.

‘Then there was Amanda. Things were never the same after she died.’

We could do nothing after he let this line out, watching him drain his glass before Joseph took it for a merciful refill, and I followed his progress to save me from a potential meeting with Duffy’s eyes. Everyone had read about Amanda Duffy in the papers. She was their daughter, a beautiful miracle of life born naturally of the couple when they were well into their forties and scientifically given a microscopic chance of becoming parents. I remember the covers of mum’s magazines, the beaming couple with their bundle; it was unavoidable. How she later came to pass away, at the age of one, remained a mystery, but as far as I knew she was one of those horrible cases of unaccountable cot death.

‘I just loved her, Abe. It doesn’t matter what Angela says. She was my angel and I wouldn’t have lifted a finger to harm her.’

In response, Joseph patted Duffy on the shoulder and handed over his glass.

‘But I don’t suppose it’s the only reason we aren’t together anymore,’ he continued, more or less to himself as his focus remained on the bookcase he’d been staring at for several minutes. Joseph went to his stacks and, without thinking about it, fetched down a volume from the forest. 

‘I’m sorry William. Sometimes, I forget that you don’t come here for the pleasure of my company alone.’

‘Come on Abe, not now,’ Duffy replied, his voice strangled, the words slurred out.

‘Don’t worry about the boy. He won’t say anything. On that you have my word.’

Both men turned to me then, and Joseph produced a packet from a hollow cut out of the book where pages ought to have been. It was a heroin bag, and not a small one from the looks and weight of it. Quick and furtive, Duffy secreted the packet into a fold of his raincoat.

As soon as the transaction had taken place, he seemed to relax once more. It became suddenly apparent that Duffy would never truly calm himself until he was sure he could walk out of there with his fix and now it was in his possession he began to unwind.

‘Hey it’s not like I’m the only user. Angela has her own remedies. I know.’

‘We’re not judging you,’ Joseph said and took a slow, deliberate sip of his whiskey. There was no sign of distaste as the liquid ran down his throat, nothing that was not precise and composed. ‘What you do with your life is your own business.’

‘Truthfully, she never forgave me for Amanda. She thinks it’s my fault but we’re both her parents, you know? We’re equally to blame. You talk to her, though, and she’ll convince you I didn’t care, not about Amanda and definitely not about our marriage. Just because I was there when it happened, doesn’t make me the only responsible one.’

‘You were there at the time?’ Duffy didn’t look up and therefore he failed to see the marked lack of shock on Joseph’s face. The expression was something different entirely.

‘Yeah,’ he said, receding off into his own distance. Another glass of hard liquor drained, and its effects were taking place. A frown appeared on Duffy’s face and a think mask of perspiration had become visible. The glass was replenished. ‘It’s this to blame really,’ he said, patting the vague outline in his coat into which the baggy had vanished.

‘I am truly sorry, William.’

‘One of those things, I suppose, just one of those bloody awful things. It’s all fallen apart since then. Angela’s gone, but not so far that I don’t see her whenever I switch on the television. The only times she calls are when she’s surfaced from doing a line. She always did put herself first, that fucking career of hers. If only she’d stayed, Abe. We might have sorted it out, but that’s all gone now.’

The moment settled for a while. Duffy hung his head and we watched him. In his funk, he probably didn’t hear the sounds from behind his chair, Joseph pacing like a caged beast, growing in stature, the look of malice in his eyes naked and unleashed.

‘The press attention must have been awful for you,’ he said, the heavy note of sympathy restricted to the sounds coming out of his mouth.

‘It was. Those people are animals. They’ve no respect for our grief.’

‘The low point must have been when they printed those photos of Angela with bruises on her face.’

‘Hey, I’m not a monster!’ he barked, animated again suddenly. Joseph’s hand shot out to touch him before he could storm out, which seemed to have an instant soothing effect. The squared shoulders relaxed; the head returned to its prone state. ‘I’m not a monster,’ he said, a low, feeble mumble. He was still holding onto the glass, a pissed and broken man. ‘No one sees it from my point of view. After Amanda, she never stopped taking it out on me. She accused me of being a failure, told me I didn’t care. We were both strung out and tired one night, another argument, and I just… well, it was just the once, just to shut her up, but she didn’t shut up so I had to do it some more before she did. But you know what? I could swear she was smiling the whole time. Well, that’s all folks. Before I could say another word, she’d packed a few things and left.’

‘I’ve been around far longer than you and I don’t fully understand women,’ Joseph said, motioning at me to lean closer. It was clear we were supposed to crowd Duffy, to take him on the signal. A low churning was riding my gut. I was starting to feel uncomfortable and restless.

‘You have it right there, Abe,’ he said, snarling a weak attempt at a laugh. ‘We just don’t understand women.’

‘No, but you are a monster.’

What followed was a blur of action. With a strength that belied his appearance, Joseph swung around the chair, clasped a hand beneath Duffy’s chin and lifted him awkwardly to his feet. For a crazy instant, it looked as though the balancing act was an impossibility and Duffy would surely fall. His legs struggled to find any control and he more or less dangled, kept upright by Joseph’s precarious grip alone. Eventually, he did manage to stand by himself, a stare of wild shock on his addled face. The older man towered over him, pushing his head forward until the two men were inches apart.

‘What… what are you doing?’ was about all Duffy could manage. My stomach was in knots, shooting spasms of empty pain to my head. I stared at the veins on Duffy’s hands, held limply at his sides. I was famished.

‘I called you a monster.’ Joseph’s words were a blazing, white hot hiss. ‘You want to use those drugs now, don’t you? I should inject the entire supply into your arm and leave you, like you left that baby. You don’t deserve to live.’

He let his hand slip from Duffy’s neck, a break that somehow held him in place, as if entranced. A series of clicks issued from him, but otherwise Duffy was held, kept him upright for the moment that Joseph’s fingernail, which had grown into a grotesque talon, worked itself into the base of his throat. The pressure grew, and I could clearly see Duffy’s Adam’s apple fluttering uselessly. A thin line of blood trickled down his neck, a sight and smell that made me feel delirious.

‘Because of your addiction, you killed your daughter, and then you sought to blame others for what happened,’ Joseph said, spitting his judgement out. ‘You had a family. A family that relied on you and you failed them both. You’re a pathetic specimen, and you don’t deserve to live.’

 Duffy rasped something, an unintelligible something that might have been his defiant retort. His hand even worked itself into a fist, but he hadn’t raised his arm very far before Joseph had gripped him by the wrist, a sure hold, and ran it up his arm, taking his shirt sleeve and bunching it up to the elbow before squeezing and emphasising the vein. I could see the needle tracks, the haphazard pattern of puncture marks.

‘Now my boy, it’s time for you to find what your food tastes like.’ And then Joseph turned to face me and I looked upon him as he truly was. What struck me was the absence of humanity. He was both terrible and magnificent, a killing machine with no emotion, only instinct, from the supremely white teeth points to his visceral, demonic eyes, fiercely blue save for tiny black pupils that contained only doom.  There was a beauty about him and the love I felt for him was borne of our kinship. Before Duffy, the flailing and cowering animal whose expression now registered some sickened confusion, I saw only greatness.

And then I was on him, at Duffy’s arm, clutching it for steadiness and then plunging into his vein. Joseph would tell me later that he had been stunned at my speed, the way I had cast aside my paralysis in one fluid moment, launching from my seat and crossing the few feet to take my first vampiric feed. It was a blur, but I didn’t recall any of it. The first sensation I could relate was the initial wave of nausea that washed over me as a fat spurt of blood flooded into my mouth. It was perhaps my last human sensation, a natural revulsion over my action that sent bile rushing to my head. It passed. I couldn’t move, taking my fill as though starved to the point of my own death, swallowing the liquid in quick bursts, sinking my teeth deeper all the while into what was once a man and was now simply meat.

The loathing ended as a blaze of white filled my vision and I became. I lost all sense of what was happening around me. I didn’t know if Duffy could see what I was doing, could feel his life ebbing away and tried to struggle against it, or whether Joseph had to restrain him in order for the feed to continue. All that mattered was the blood, the blood, the blood, the way it filled me with strength as it coursed through my body. My spine pulsed and arched, connecting with muscles that had either never been there or that I’d not used before, and my torso grew to incredible dimensions, my thighs became elastic, my feet like springboards, my arms mighty and the rush of thoughts that came to me held no sense of limit, no pain, everything replaced with vigour and youth and power and the overwhelming realisation that I was a God I could do anything I wanted there was nothing that could stop me no barriers no no no…

The hand formed a cup that held my chin and then lifted it away from the ruined vein. It had a firmness I couldn’t match yet no apparent force was used.

‘That’s all, son,’ Joseph said. He was using his vampire voice, but it wasn’t unkind. I found myself back on the chair, watching the nearly dead man from a distance again. I was spent, exhausted. ‘I think that was good for you.’

I might have said something, but in truth I was slipping away. The onslaught to my senses had been too full and I was rapidly sinking from the waking world. Of all the feeds I would have in my life, from all those countless blood givers, it would always be the first time I’d remember the most. That feeling of strength, harnessed in later times, was like nothing I could ever have conceived, and I possessed not the mental ability to control it. Clearly, it was something that would come with experience, and for now I lapsed into my high, letting that thought and the prospect of future meals give me comfort. There would be others, many others. As my head lo