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His long coat faded into the bushes behind him; not a block of shadow as it should have been but instead reflecting the silver light in dancing patches like the moon on leaves. Only the unnaturally pale skin of his face, bald head, hands was visible in the darkness - perhaps that was why she felt she was the only one who could see him, as though the world had agreed for a moment that he didn't exist.

Five years old when she disappeared, had been playing at/with/at fairies all morning, hair tangled and dress muddied and only her shoes, only her shoes were left and the traces of music in the air and it was daylight, this sort of thing wasn't supposed to happen when the sun was shining and for two days and two nights her mother sat by the window and waited. On the third evening she slept, finally, tear tracks on her cheeks, and never saw the tall woman with kind eyes who led her daughter back by the hand and told her it wasn't time, yet. Told her not to speak to strangers. And told her never, never to stay outside when

A clock was striking midnight, somewhere. The cold North wind flattened her jumper against her chest and she folded her arms against it, hugging herself.

Somehow he'd managed to get a match to light, to stay alight, but the yellow light did nothing to relieve his pallor. She wondered if it was some kind of condition - albino, except his eyes were pitch black, or that one that wouldn't let you out into the light. Something in the back of her mind whispered

vampire

a word from story books of her childhood, and she shivered, slightly, watching him pull a cigarette from a battered packet and light it. She almost jumped out of her skin when he offered her one.

"Oh, no. No thank you." She smiled at him, nervous and knowing she looked nervous and hating the glitter in his eyes that looked like hidden laughter. "They're bad for you."

He shrugged, looked her up and down with eyes that surely had a colour - dark chocolate brown, or deep blue, or stormy grey - they surely had a colour by sunlight that wasn't the black of the shadows that gathered around him. His voice was cold.

"This isn't the place for you."

She frowned at him, then looked over her shoulder at the members of the coven who were talking quietly, waiting.

"It's where I want to be. You're not looking to convert me, are you?" It was usually more subtle. Her mother inviting the vicar over to tea, a knock at the door or pamphlets through the letter box. She had become an expert at ignoring the megaphones on street corners proclaiming the proximity of the end of the world. Somehow it didn't feel like it applied to her.

"Convert you to what? The world's moved on." He took a drag on his cigarette, his eyes half-closing against the smoke.

When he spoke, he spoke in clouds.

"This-" and his gesture could mean the coven, the hillside, the distant lights of a town, the night- "isn't mine any more. It's too careful. Too unbalanced. 'Man is lopsided on the side of the angels'. Where are the drums, the dancing, the sex and the blood?" He looked up, eyes silvered by the moonlight, unreadable. "The moon is lonely. The moon dances through her revels and cycles in solitary splendour and she's forgotten the sound of your pounding heart."

The clock was still striking. It seemed to take too long between strokes, like something powerful was happening, bending time

seven, eight, lay them straight

around itself, and she thought what's the time, Mr Wolf, and laughed because laughing was by far the safer option, laughing was a reaction that seemed almost normal even though her hands were shaking. Even though his eyes were trained on hers and she couldn't quite draw breath.

"I'm not here to convert you. My brother has already laid claim."

Five years old when she disappeared, had been playing at/with/at fairies all morning, hair tangled and dress muddied and only her shoes, only her shoes were left, and the traces of music in the air because he was teaching her to dance, the strange wild boy with leaves in his hair and a wicked smile, the boy who laughed with her for the moment but would change as soon as the wind did, sooner, who was as easily cruel as kind and laughed the same for either.

Nine, ten. Nine, ten she remembered... something about a hen.

Nothing to rhyme with twelve. She didn't know if it was important that there was no rhyme for twelve.

The clock struck.

Pale fingers touched her face

she tasted blood

and he was gone.

That night she dreamed of wolves, and the pounding of drums (of her heart).