I Saw The Logic That They Used,

All That Children Need Is Love, A Grown-up To Take Responsibility For Them, And A Soft Place To Land.

It Was A Brutal Picture, A Tug-of-war Between Two Equal But Opposing Impulses. It Had The Ring Of Truth, However.

My Experiences Thus Far Had Me Planning To Throttle The First Tudor Historian I Met Upon My Return For Gross Dereliction Of Duty.

Somewhere In The Center Of My Soul, A Rusty Chain Began To Unwind. It Freed Itself, Link By Link, From Where It Had Rested, Unobserved, Waiting For Him. My Hands, Which Had Been Balled Up And Pressed Against His Chest, Unfurled With It. The Chain Continued To Drop, To An Unfathomable Depth Where There Was Nothing But Darkness And Matthew. At Last It Snapped To Its Full Length, Anchoring Me To A Vampire. Despite The Manuscript, Despite The Fact That My Hands Contained Enough Voltage To Run A Microwave, And Despite The Photograph, As Long As I Was Connected To Him, I Was Safe.

English Vampires May Not Be As Well Behaved Around Witches As The American Ones Are.