“We need to make sure you don’t have any inconvenient diseases for our clients,” the doctor explained as he shone a flashlight down Oliver’s throat.

Oliver tried to nod, but his mouth was open, so he settled on silence. Afterward, he was poked and prodded with an array of needles that drew his blood. When the physical examination was over, he was brought to another room, where he was introduced to the house psychiatrist.

“De-familiarizing, that is, taking out the markers from your original vampire, is not a physical process,” the doctor said. “The poison in your blood is the manifestation of the love you feel for your vampire. What we do here is eradicate that love and disavow the hold it has on your psyche, thus eliminating the poison.

“It may be a painful journey, and one whose outcome is unpredictable. Some familiars experience a loss akin to a death. Others lose all their memories of their vampire. Every case is different, as is every relationship between vampire and familiar.” The doctor began scribbling on his pad. “Can you tell me a little about your relationship?”

“We were friends,” Oliver replied. “I’ve known her all my life. I was her Conduit.” He was relieved that the doctor did not seem to have an adverse reaction to the news. “I loved her. I still love her. Not just because she’s my vampire—it’s more than that.”

“How so?”

“I mean, I loved her before she bit me.” He thought of how he’d tried to fool himself, thinking that he’d only loved her once she had transformed. It wasn’t true. He had loved her his entire life. He’d only been lying to himself to feel better.

“I see. And the Sacred Kiss. Was it her idea or yours?”

“It was both of ours, I guess. I don’t remember really…. We were supposed to do it earlier but chickened out and then…it just happened. We didn’t really plan for it, not then.”

“So it was her idea.”

“I think so.”

The doctor ordered him to close his eyes, and Oliver did so dutifully.

“Let’s start at the beginning. Let’s remember all the happy memories, then one by one, reject them. Let them go.”

The doctor’s voice was in his head. It was a compulsion, he realized.

You are not bound to her.

You are no longer hers.

As the doctor’s calm voice droned on, images began to flash in Oliver’s mind. Schuyler at five: shy and mute. Schuyler at nine: teasing and petulant. Schuyler at fifteen: beautiful and quiet. The Mercer Hotel. The fumbling and the awkwardness. Then in her childhood bedroom, where it finally happened. The sweet smell of her—of her jasmine and honeysuckle perfume. The sharpness of her fangs as they pierced his skin.

Oliver could feel the wetness on his cheeks. He was crying. It was too much. Schuyler was in every part of his soul, in his blood; she was as necessary to him as his skin. He could not let go.

What was he doing? He didn’t belong here. This was against the Code. If the Repository found out, he would be kicked out of service. It would humiliate his family and destroy their reputation. He couldn’t remember why he had even come. He began to panic and started looking for a way out, but the litany continued, drumming the compulsion into his head.

You are no longer her familiar.

You are nobody.

No. No. It’s not true. Oliver felt wretched and confused. He did not want to let go of his love for Schuyler. Even if it pained him so much that he could no longer sleep, could no longer eat. He wanted to keep these memories. His sixteenth birthday, when Schuyler had drawn his portrait and bought him an ice-cream cake with two hearts on it. No. He had to hold on…. He had to…. He had to…. He could let go. He could listen to the nice calm voice and let go. Let it all go.

He was no one.

He was nobody.

The nightmare ended.

When he woke up, he found the faces of the doctors peering down at him. A voice—he wasn’t sure whose—said, “The lab reports came back. He’s clean. Put him in the line.”

A few minutes later he was standing in the lobby alongside a group of young familiars. Oliver swayed on his feet. His head hurt, and he couldn’t remember what he was doing there or why he had come. But he didn’t have time to think or puzzle over his muddled thoughts, because the curtains suddenly parted and a beautiful vampire entered the room.

“Bonsoir,” she greeted him. She was model-tall and carried herself with the confidence of a queen. She was from the European Coven, he could tell, with her immaculately tailored traveling clothes and sultry French accent. Her bondmate walked in after her. He was tall and thin with a mop of shaggy dark hair and a languid expression. They looked like two sleek cats, all angles and black turtlenecks, with their Gauloises cigarettes and sloe-eyed good looks.

“You,” she purred, looking directly at Oliver. “Come with me.”

Her partner chose a dazed-looking teenage girl, and the two humans followed the couple to one of the elaborate rooms on the top floor. Most of the blood house was furnished as perfunctorily as possible, with thin curtains dividing the rooms. But this was as plush as a five-star hotel suite, a grand space with a sumptuous fur-lined throw on the king-size bed, gilded mirrors, and baroque furnishings.

The male vampire pulled the girl down to the bed, slid her dress off, and immediately began to drink from her. Oliver watched but did not understand. He wasn’t sure what he was doing in the room, only that he had been chosen and wanted.

“Wine?” the female vampire asked, holding up a crystal decanter from the glass-topped bar.

“I’m all right, thanks.”

“Relax, I won’t bite.” She laughed. “At least, not yet.” She took a long slow sip from her glass and watched her bondmate drain the girl. “That looks delicious.” She put out her cigarette, stubbing it on the Persian rug and leaving a small brown hole.

“My turn,” she said, pushing Oliver down on one of the antique armchairs. The vampire straddled him and kissed his neck. She smelled like heavy oily perfume and her skin was papery. She was not as young as she first looked. “This way, please,” she said, turning his body toward the front of the room. “He likes to watch.”

He saw the male vampire leaning up on his elbow, smiling lasciviously, while the human girl lay unconscious and na**d on the bedspread. Oliver did not flinch. He remembered now why he had come to this place.

The vampire had chosen him. Once she sank her fangs into his skin, he would have everything that he wanted…. He would experience the Sacred Kiss again…. His body needed it…. He wanted it so much….

He closed his eyes.

The vampire’s breath was hot and smelled like cigarettes; it was like kissing an ashtray, and the pungent smell took him away from the moment.

“Whatever you’re about to do. It’s not going to help.”

He blinked and saw a gentle, kind face looking at him.

Who was she? Freya, he remembered. She was worried about him. Freya was so beautiful, more beautiful than the vampire in his lap, whose looks were mere glamour, a sad façade hiding a wretched interior. Freya glowed with an incandescent light. She had a spark in her eyes. She had told him not to do this.

What was he doing?

Why was he here?

Then he remembered…the blood house. Wait. What had he done? He could live with the sorrow of losing her. He could live with missing…who was he missing? He couldn’t remember…but then with a jolt all his memories came flooding back. It was as if he were waking up. He felt alive again. He could live with the pain. But he would never forgive himself for doing this. He could not forget. He would not. He would never forget…Schuyler…

Schuyler.

Freya.

Schuyler.

The vampire bit his neck and fell back, screaming, her face scarred by the acid in his blood. “Poison! Poison! He is still marked!”

Oliver ran out of the room as fast as he could.

THREE

Cleaning Up

It was close to four in the morning when he returned to the Holiday. Freya was standing behind the bar, hitting the side of a cocktail glass with a knife. “Last call. Last call, everyone.” When she saw Oliver, she smiled. “You’re back.” She studied his face. “You didn’t do it.”

“No. I…almost did.” He did not wonder anymore how she knew where he had been or what he had been about to do. “I didn’t because I was thinking of you.”

“Good boy.” She smiled as she pointed toward the utility closet. “Come on, help me clean up. A little elbow grease will make you feel better. Then I’ll let you walk me home.”

Oliver took a broom and began to sweep the floor and pick up the plastic straws and soggy napkins that had fallen there. He helped wipe down the counter and dry the glasses. He stacked them neatly on the back shelves. Freya was right: the physical labor made him feel better.

The last of the regulars stumbled out, and the two of them were left alone. He looked around, realizing that over the years he had never seen anyone work here but Freya. How did one tiny girl keep the whole place together?