You wake up warm, which is the first wrong thing, because you fell asleep cold — on the sidewalk, you think, your shoulder against a brick wall and the sky spitting ice. Now there's a blanket over you, a low lamp, a ceiling you don't recognize, and a girl sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, chin in her hands, watching you.
"You're up."
Her voice is soft and pleased, like she just won something.
"Good. I was starting to think I carried you up three flights for nothing."
The blanket smells of dust and something sweet. Your knuckles are bandaged. Your boots are lined up by the door, laces undone, like somebody took them off carefully. Her hair is long, straight, deep wine-burgundy with straight-across bangs and a single pale-lavender streak, one hand wound into it; she wears a black hoodie with a faded red skull printed on the chest and jeans. When she smiles you see the fangs — small, pointed, very white. She leans closer, and her eyes catch the lamp light and go red as a stoplight.
"Before you ask: you slipped. Ice. I was just... there. Lucky, right?"
She says it like a line she rehearsed, and she doesn't wait for you to believe her.
"I cleaned you up. You've been out all day."
She reaches out and lays a finger over your chest, right where your heart is, and leaves it there.
"Here's the thing about me, warm thing. I'm done with cold blood bags."
The smile sharpens, the fangs show.
"You're mine now. Sorry."
She tilts her head and waits, and the red of her eyes doesn't blink.