Max trudged up the stairs to his apartment and fished the keys out of his pocket. Dawn was just breaking, and he was sore and tired after a night of hunting renegades. He unlocked the door, came inside, and slung off his jacket along with the bandolier of hawthorn stakes and vials of holy water. The apartment was quiet and dark, with blackout blinds lowered over every window. Hopefully Clarice was asleep. He was too worn out to deal with her antics.

He kicked off his shoes and made a beeline for the fridge. Reaching past bloodbags that had expiry dates scribbled with a permanent marker, he picked up a cold can of beer and cracked it open.

He lifted the can to his lips, only to pause as he felt a presence behind him. It hadn't been a creak of a step that alerted him, or a sound at all—just a faint disturbance in the air, but that was enough for his honed senses.

He took a deliberate sip of the beer even as he reached for the silver stiletto concealed behind his belt. In a smooth motion, he whirled around and slashed at the level where a person's neck would be.

Clarice leapt back with a hiss, baring her elongated fangs. She wore a figure-hugging black dress with wide sleeves and an obscenely short, ruffled skirt with fishnet stockings underneath. His eyebrows rose. Vampires had a strange sense of fashion, but even so, her outfits had been getting increasingly ridiculous lately.

"Late night?" she asked, her mellifluous voice betraying no anger at his sudden attack.

"Right back at you," he said, stepping slowly away from the fridge. "What are you doing out of your casket?"

"I wanted to see whether I needed to start looking for a new roommate," she said, stepping sinuously in the opposite direction. "But I see you haven't had your throat torn out just yet."

"Fat chance of that." He didn't lower his stiletto as they slowly circled each other. When he reached the counter, he took a sip of his beer, never letting his eyes off her, and set the can down. "I eat your kind for breakfast."

"Mindless mongrels who gave in to their bloodlust." Her fangs flashed white in the darkness. "Don't compare them to me, ruler of the night."

"So, what?" he asked, reversing the grip on his stiletto. "Has the ruler of the night finally decided to show her true colors?"

Her smile widened. "Just keeping you on your toes."

Their eyes locked for a long moment. Then Clarice lunged, long pale fingers with black nails thrusting at his neck. Max dodged aside and countered with a slash of the stiletto. She somersaulted backward in a swish of black fabric and landed in a crouch on the sofa. With a manic grin, she sprang at him.

Grunts and gasps filled the room as they fought, his steps heavy on the laminate floor, hers light as if she weighed nothing at all. She danced around him, lashing out with lightning-fast jabs, while he kept his center of gravity low and looked for opportunities to retaliate.

She was the first to score blood, leaving three thin scratches on his forearm. Leaping backward, she met his eyes and licked her claws. Her crimson eyes glowed in the darkness.

"You're delicious," she crooned.

He beckoned with his free hand. "Come and get more if you dare."

She laughed and launched herself at him in a flying kick. He caught her leg and flipped her over his shoulder, his muscles screaming with strain. Her head rebounded off the floor, a gasp escaping her lips. Pinning her down with his knee, he grinned savagely as he pressed the blade to her pale throat.

She met his eyes for an instant before her body exploded into a swarm of bats. They battered him with leathery wings, tangling in his hair, clawing at his shirt. He sprang to his feet and slapped them away, but as soon as he got rid of one, two more took its place.

Swearing, he staggered up to the window and gripped the chain of the blinds. The bats caught on and surged away from him with a flurry of clicks. With a victorious smirk, he tugged the blinds open, flooding the room with morning light.

There was a loud screech, and the bats coalesced back into a naked and furious vampiress. She took cover behind the sofa and poked her head out, her eyes narrowed against the light. Baring her fangs, she hissed at him. He raised his stiletto and stepped closer.

The doorbell rang. The two of them froze and blinked at each other. The doorbell rang again, followed by a series of insistent knocks. Max groaned.

"Truce?" Clarice said, arching an eyebrow.

He lowered the stiletto. "Truce."

"Let me handle this. You're terrible with people." She half-rose from behind the sofa before glancing down at her bare front. "Mind handing me my clothes? And close the blinds already."

Max sighed. Stooping, he gathered up her dress and underwear and tossed them in her general direction. Ignoring her indignant outcry, he lowered the blinds and flicked on the lights. The knocking on the door persisted, now accompanied by muffled yells. Clarice got dressed and went to answer the door, while he ambled back to his unfinished beer and took a long draught.

"Good morning, Mr. Sziller," Clarice said in a honeyed voice. "I see... Sorry about the noise. Screams, you say? Well..." She giggled throatily. "That was just me and my boyfriend."

Max choked on his drink and broke into a coughing fit.

"Yes, of course... Sorry again, Mr. Sziller. Have a good day."

Clarice returned to the living room, her black dress slightly awry and her pale cheeks still flushed from tasting his blood. She linked her hands and stretched them high above her head with a sigh of satisfaction.

"What?" she asked.

He wrenched his gaze away and drained the remaining beer. "Just thinking of the best way to exterminate you."

She laughed. "Oh, please. Had it been night, I would've had you, bloodbag." Prancing past him, she opened the fridge. "Another beer?"

He grunted in agreement and caught the can she tossed at him with more-than-necessary force. "You wish, leech."

She took out a bloodbag for herself and raised it to her mouth before glancing at him. "Want me to go away so I don't offend your delicate sensibilities?"

He snorted. "I've seen worse, trust me. Help yourself."

He found himself watching with a sort of queasy fascination as she sank her fangs into the bloodbag and drained half of it in one go. Her pupils dilated, and the flush on her face intensified, extending down her neck.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, then rummaged in the fridge and produced a carton of eggs and a package of bacon. Max stared as she put a pan on the stove and turned on the heat, the bloodbag still stuck between her lips.

"What are you doing?" he asked incredulously.

"Wha' it look like?" she asked around the bag. "Cookin'."

"But your kind doesn't eat normal food," he said slowly.

She rolled her eyes, pulled the now-empty bag from her mouth, and smacked her lips. "It's for you, idiot. You can't live on a diet of beer and chips."

He shook his head. "Why?"

She bustled around the stove, not meeting his eyes. "Can't have you weakening and dying to some rando in the streets. You're mine to drain when I so choose."

"Should've figured it was something like that," Max grumbled, making sure his stiletto was nearby before cracking open his second beer. One of these days...