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I knew I still cared about Edward. Of all of the men that Henry had introduced me to in London; he was the only one I would truly call a friend, and it had hurt me when he'd died.
I was not sure, however, how I felt about Vlad.

Groaning I lay back on the perch I'd found. Vlad and I had held our discussion in the depths below the stage where stagehands ruled, and actors weren't necessarily welcome. Favorite props were kept there, waiting for repeat performances, and I had found myself a soft seat on a bed that had graced many a bedroom scene. I covered my eyes with the palms of my hands, shutting out the last of the light. It was dim in the prop store and I suddenly hoped that no one had seen Vlad leave, or the two of us enter, or everyone would be convinced that I was some sort of hireable pretty boy; not necessarily worse than other things I'd been called in the last two or so years but worth a great deal more ribbing than I really wanted to endure. For a stage prop, the bed was comfortable; and I hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. I certainly didn't have time to return to my lodgings , sleep and return before I needed to be back here. Before I'd really made it a conscious decision, I was asleep.

In that hazy state that one gets on awakening, I could almost convince myself the entire thing was a dream; a long strange dream, brought on by thinking about Edward too much. By the time I got back upstairs to get ready for the performance, I had almost convinced myself it was true. That self delusion didn't last long though. For one thing, there was still a faint pink mark where Edward had bitten me. That sparked off a downward spiral that I had to ignore or I would have been insensible for the rest of the night.