It’s grown while he was gone, enveloping the house in coppery-green leaves glinting in fading sunlight. Stephan reaches to pull down vines creeping along the door frame; Wren bats his had away before the poison has a chance to do more than blister.

“Home, sweet home?” Stephan’s more maudlin than sarcastic, but Wren’s already worked her way inside. “Hey, that’s my house –well, what’s left of it– aren’t you supposed to ask first?”

“Different kind of vampire,” a muffled answer, followed by dust clouds as bookcases collapse. “You need better hiding places.”

“Running for my life, remember?”

“Excuses, excuses.”