Firstly, I am very sorry for not getting this up sooner! However, hopefully you can forgive me for that? Thank you to those who took the time to review the last chapter, it's much appreciated! If you could review this chapter I'd be very grateful too. I've decided that this will be the last chapter of this story as I'm struggling to really get into this. Plus, I have many other plot bunnies bouncing around my head! I may come back to this one in the future but for now this is it.

All mistakes are mine but I'm hoping that there aren't too many!

"He's resigned. Sorry"

Mitchell led the way through the café with George following, struggling to keep up with the brisk pace.

He kept his face forward, trying to block out the stunned stares from the rest of the room as they took in the bloody mess behind him. However, though he tried his best to ignore them, Mitchell could still make out George's almost incomprehensible mumbled answers to the owners outraged exclamations.

Mitchell didn't really know where he was heading; he was just hunting for any stairs that may take them up to where the attendant was staying.

The last time he had ever been in a room that was situated above a working shop was a long time ago. And besides, Mitchell hardly remembered what had happened. He knew exactly who she had been, of course. He knew who she was, how she had reacted – those memories never left him. But apart from that it was all rather fuzzy. The 50s had been quite busy...

He pushed the unwelcome recollection out of his head, ashamed with himself for bringing it up. He knew quite well that it had been a long time since he had last fed and could clearly sense the thirst bubbling up inside. He realised though that now would be the very worst time to let his inner demons out for George looked shaken enough as it was.

Mitchell halted by the stairs, allowing George to catch up with him and slide past him. Staggering up, he glanced back frantically to where his fuming boss appeared only moments later.

The man watched helplessly as George vanished from sight. His round cheeks were crimson with rage because of the sudden notice but his eyes were wide with shock at seeing one of his, admittedly better, workers looking like he had just been thrown against a wall.

He then saw Mitchell. The man stormed up to him, determined to get to the bottom of all this but was arrested as Mitchell's hand clasped around his neck and was guided roughly towards the wall behind him.

Looking back at the café, Mitchell was relieved that they were out of sight. Any interruptions at this moment in time and he felt that things would get messy. He turned his hard glare back to his captive whose blood was already starting to drain from his face.

"I'm going to take my hand away now but whatever you do I don't suggest you go running or screaming. Do I make myself clear?"

Even though it had been all those months, all the tactics and all the dialogue came flooding back almost as if they had been hiding just below the surface, just ready, waiting for the right time to burst through again.

He detected that his accent became stronger too like it always did when he was angry, lustful or, in this case, aggravated.

The man nodded his head slowly. Mitchell released his neck and he doubled over coughing.

The vampire watched assertively for any wrong moves made by the owner of the café as he regained himself. It would be so easy just to kill him now and succumb to his perpetual needs. But he didn't.

"Look, I understand that..."

"G-George Sands," the man croaked, rubbing hard against his throat.

"Ok. I understand that George must be very important in the café but he has to leave. He has to leave now and I don't suggest you try to stop him. I don't suggest you should ask any questions either. Now, don't you have your work to go back to?"

The man stood there, too scared to move. Mitchell saw his refusal and growled again, harsh and fierce.

"Go!"

This time he did start backing away but Mitchell had lost all of the little patience and control he had previously. He took a step forward and closed his eyes.

He opened them, ready to attack. The man had turned and was almost at the flimsy strips of plastic that hung between the little back room and the main bustle of the café.

"Mitchell?"

He spun around to spy George standing at the top of the stairs, his face a mix of confusion and shock. Mitchell relaxed and his sudden burst of hunger vanished. However by the sudden wideness of George's eyes and the slight stumble as he hastily made his way back to his flat, Mitchell realised that his new acquaintance had just witnessed the inhuman glossy black of his eyes which he possessed every time he was filled with that powerful craving.

Herrick had called that their 'party trick'.

Mitchell looked back towards the opening to find that his would be victim had gone.

Frustrated, he kicked the wall before he set off up the stairs which led up to the room. He was frustrated, not because he had lost food, but because he had let himself give in to that creature so easily. It was true, he was in desperate need of blood; he could feel it clawing it at his skin. However this was certainly not the place or the time to enjoy a meal. It was almost disgraceful. A little under half a year on the wagon and he was going to snack on a middle-aged, red-faced café owner? All his work and all the pain he had suffered – was suffering – on staying dry to just disappear because of losing his patience.

He had reached the top and was staring into George's cramped living room through the opened door. He could hear the faint sounds of running water coming from, he presumed, the bathroom.

"George?"

"I'm in – I'm in the bathroom."

Mitchell sighed, annoyed with himself for forgetting that George wouldn't be accustomed with vampire laws.

"Can I come in?"

"What? Um, yeah, of course."

He entered into the apartment and went over to a bookcase situated beside the window at the other end of the room.

Standing relaxed with his hands in his pockets, Mitchell looked around, eyes darting over the rest of the cosy room. An ancient wooden chair was positioned to the left of him, underneath an equally old table. George's apron hung limply across it, stained light pink as a consequence of the fight. He looked away quickly.

Other than that the room was rather bare. There was another chair placed in front of a TV and a brown coat rack but apart from these simple objects there wasn't anything else that showed a person lived here. Mitchell's own room was the complete opposite – clothes, music, a whole horde of stuff that he had collected over the last 90 or so years just carelessly poured over the carpet. 'Messy's your middle name John Mitchell,' his mam used to say to him all those years ago. Nothing much had changed.

Mitchell heard the quiet sucking as the drain consumed the water and moments later George appeared, wiping his face with a towel.

He almost didn't recognise him. Only a few minutes earlier George had entered the building dishevelled and wounded; now he stood clean and well, normal. Even Mitchell struggled to smell the reeking stench that usually emitted from lycos.

He had to admire him though. Sometimes it had taken a couple of days for him to scrub out the last bits of dry blood out from his tangled mass of hair but George had managed to do it in such a small amount of time.

"I left the door open for you..." he murmured whilst trying to avoid eye contact.

"Yeah, I know. It's a sort of vampire rule. We're not allowed in unless we get invited. It's a pretty stupid rule."

"Oh, ok. You came in the café though?"

"There're exceptions: If the occupant of the house is dead or if it's a public building then we can enter without being invited."[K1]

As he said these words he remembered Herrick telling him this over ninety years ago when he had just begun his new life. Back then he had been excited at the prospect of eternal life, the power that suddenly seemed to course through his veins. It had taken many decades for that excitement to die down but it was too late; the damage had been done.

He understood how George must feel. He had experienced it many times before, the first time it had been him who had to go through it all. Then it had been other people. He knew how scary it was, how confusing but also how intriguing it was, that the monsters under your bed really did exist.

Mitchell took a hand out of his pockets and started to fiddle with a button that lay dejectedly on the top of the bookcase.

"I'm sorry for earlier, downstairs with your boss."

George looked taken aback by the apology.

"No, it's ok," he smiled a soft smile, "I hope I won't be seeing him again."

"I meant with me. It was unlucky that you had to see that."

He looked back up from the button to see that George had moved through to his bedroom.

"I know that's what you meant," he called back, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

Mitchell let the words sink in and mentally kicked himself before following George. If they were going to spend more time together he needed to tell him something.

"Look, I wasn't – shit!"

Mitchell yelled out in pain as he backed out of the room, protecting his eyes with his hands. He felt the smoothness of the table beside him and grabbed at the edge with one hand whilst messaging his blinded eyes with the other, trying to rub any sight back into them.

"M-Mitchell? What's –"

George took a hesitant step forwards only to be met with a snarl as the vampire in front backed further away. He waved his hands urgently.

"Take it off. Take it off!"

George looked down startled at his Star of David necklace that hung loosely round his neck and back again, his eyes wide with confusion. "This?"

"Yes! Just put it somewhere else! Please..." came the strained, agonised reply.

Mitchell heard George's hurried footsteps as he tried to find a place to put the piece of jewellery and then felt the pain subside and his sight slowly return.

He straightened himself and blinked twice before glaring at George whose face was a mixed picture of shock and fright.

"You're religious?"

"Yeah, well, sort of... I'm Jewish... what's wrong?"

Mitchell glanced away and struggled to stop a smile forming. Out of all the werewolves he could have chosen, he chose one who was religious.

"We don't get along brilliantly with religion, that's all. Holy books, buildings of worship, religious symbols," he gestured to George.

George took a moment to absorb the information before nodding quickly.

"I guess that makes sense. Sorry. Um, do you want anything?"

"A beer would be great, thanks."

George left the room for a moment before returning holding two bottles. Placing one on the table, he gave the other to Mitchell who took it, murmured his thanks and wrapped his gloved hands around it protectively.

In a rather awkward fashion George sat down by the table and stared at his drink, trying to avoid eye contact with Mitchell.

Mitchell too avoided looking at the other man – not because he detested him but because he didn't know how to hold a conversation with him. The only people in the last 90-odd years he had spoken properly to were fellow vampires or humans. And the exchanges formed with the latter had normally ended... unfortunately. He had spoken to werewolves before of course, but George was somehow different. This was almost a kind, comforting conversation. When was the last time he had done that?

He unscrewed the top of his bottle and gulped down some of the beer, savouring its taste. It wasn't the same as blood, nothing was, but it was very nearly as satisfying. He drank some more before placing it down on the bookcase.

George shifted in his seat. "I was wondering... those men, who were they? And why do they hate me – the creature that I become?"

Mitchell sighed and puffed out his cheeks, figuring out how to answer. He had known that this was going to come sooner or later.

"Those men were Seth, Marco and Jason. They're arseholes but they're dangerous. I haven't really met Marco and Jason before but I see them tagging along with Seth, worshiping him like he's their God. I've known Seth for a long time, longer than I'd like. He was recruited before me and he was there when I was. He's always been an idiot.

"Our hate for lycos – I mean werewolves," Mitchell raised his eyebrows at the sight of George flinching at the word.

He continued his explanation, "No one knows for sure why we can't stand you. It might be your smell; something might have happened between our kinds; it could just be pure rivalry... It could be that you only have to deal with your thing once a month. We've got to deal with ours every day."

"You're jealous?" George asked incredulously.

The vampire found himself laughing at this. The conversation was getting easier and less awkward by the second.

"Yeah, I guess you could call it that. Jesus, it's pathetic!"

He flashed a grin at George's startled reaction to the earlier outburst of laughter.

"Now my turn for a question," he paused, "Have you got a girlfriend? I mean, it's just if you're going to leave you may want to think about what you're going to say to her."

George turned his head away, shame faced. "No. I did have one, she was wonderful but," he smiled and gestured to himself, "I decided that she'd be better without all this. As soon as I got out of the hospital I fled. I didn't even say goodbye. The worst part was after the first night. I came back for my clothes, terrified at what –" he stopped and breathed in, clearly trying to stop himself from breaking down again, "-at what had happened and there she was. She said to me: 'As soon as this is finished we can go away on a holiday; anywhere you like.' And I just felt so... What about you?"

It took Mitchell a few seconds to work out that the question was directed at him. He began fiddling with the button again.

"Me? Oh well... sort of. I've been with hundreds of girls but things... never really seem to finish off well. I guess I've only had one or two that I've actually liked but even then I need to leave before anything...unfortunate happens. For some reason people get suspicious when your partner's aging but you're not. Things get complicated."

George nodded once again. Mitchell couldn't help thinking that he was taking this all very well.

"Mitchell, I really don't know what to do. I don't know where to go, I don't – I just don't know whether I can manage this all over again. You don't have to do it! But-"

"No," Mitchell answered, surprising himself. What was he getting himself into? "No, I'll help. I don't know whether the others will take this bullshit but... yeah."

George looked up and smiled properly for the first time.

"That will be great. Thank you Mitchell."

Mitchell found himself get annoyed at this. Thanks wasn't something he was used to; screams, tears and pleading, on the other hand, were. He could cope with them.

He glowered and took a step forward.

"Look," he growled, "just because I've agreed to watch your back doesn't mean I can't fucking kill you. And believe me; I've killed a hell load of dogs before."

He sighed at George's expression.

"Sorry," he apologised, "I need to be somewhere. Someone to meet. I'll be back as soon as I can."

After mumbling a goodbye, Mitchell left the flat and exited through the back door of the café.

George stood by the window and stared through the curtains after the retreating figure as he slowly disappeared into the shadowy streets of Bristol and out of sight.

Somehow, he felt that things were going to work out fine.

END