"How's this one?"

Julien gave an apathetic glance towards the front of the room, where Sera stood before her wardrobe mirror, hands on her hips and a pout at her mouth. "I think," he said, turning back the book in his hands—it was in Russian, as most of Sera's books were—"that it looks awfully like everything else you've put on up till now."

"Jule."

Julien rolled his eyes, throwing up his arms. "I'm just saying. How many little black dresses can you own, woman?"

But Sera was unconvinced. Julien watched her fuss at herself once more in the mirror—tugging the skirt down, fiddling with her necklace, twisting a strand of her hair around her finger. "I have to own a lot of them, Jule. It keeps me from getting bored."

Julien shook his head, letting his feet down off the ottoman and pushing the book to the side—all the strange Russian letters were starting to give him an awful headache. Taking in a breath, he stood, drifting towards the wardrobe and sliding his hands around Sera's small waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. He closed his eyes, let the scent of her—fine vanilla—lull him to a dream-like state.

"You take too much time figuring out what to wear," Julien murmured, and Sera giggled, folding her hands over his and swaying to an imaginary beat. "You should just wear nothing at all."

A scoff. "The old Julien is coming back, isn't he?"

He hesitated a moment before he said: "He never went away."

Sera turned in his arms, a hand rising to cradle his cheek. Julien opened his eyes, smiling as Sera said, "Have I told you how glad I am that you're here?"

Julien laughed, leaning forward to press a kiss to her lips. She tasted like vanilla too, with the slightest twang of leftover blood. "Many times," Julien said, pressing his mouth to the curve of her pale shoulder, even as Sera groaned and pushed him off.

"You've had too much," Sera said, tossing her hair aside. When Julien looked at her, dumbfounded and somewhat offended, she shrugged as if it were obvious. "No, really. Even years ago you used to get like this when you fed too much. All giddy, like a little boy."

Julien plopped down on the ottoman with a loud harrumph. "There's nothing giddy about me right now. I'm like I always am."

Sera gave a final huff and swung the wardrobe shut; when she turned, just a slice of sunlight through the window caught in her eyes—transforming them to cool glaciers—before she stepped back into the shadows again. "Right. Of course you are—"

Julien's phone thumped against the nightstand, letting out its signature techno beat. Both Sera's and his eyes zipped to it immediately—Julien could not remember the last time anyone had called him. Iman had stopped calling; Fritz had stopped calling. There was no one left to care what he did, really.

Julien sensed Sera's eyes burning like a laser into his back as he rose to his feet to study the screen.

Iman

Julien flinched.

"Who is it?" asked Sera.

A swift swipe of his finger, and he declined the call. "No one."

"You can answer it. I don't care."

Julien turned his back to the phone, facing Sera again. She was leaning against one of the bed's four posters, her head ever so slightly tilted. "No," he said, reaching out to take her hand. "We have to meet Irina and the others soon, don't we? Let's just head down. I'm ready now."

Once again, the phone blared. Sera rose an eyebrow.

It was Iman again. Iman? Julien turned the name over in his head, trying to figure out why she'd bother calling him again. Caulfield had told her everything, surely; she knew that he was back with Sera, that he had joined her clan, that he was feeding from humans again. Surely, he thought, she was disgusted. So why bother calling?

The phone call ended, but not without the light bing signifying a new voicemail.

Sera's fingers slid from his; Julien watched, stunned, as she headed for the door. "I'll be downstairs," she said with narrow eyes. "Don't keep me waiting."

The echo of the door clicking in the jamb rang in Julien's ears.

He picked up his phone.

I don't know what the hell's wrong with you, Julien, and frankly I don't really care anymore, said Iman's voice in his ear, sounding louder, more bold, than he had ever heard it. But I'm getting really tired of wishing for you to come back and wishing for things to be back the way they were. Just—if you care about me at all anymore, if you're still my best friend, you'll come to MedStar right now. That's it.

The message ended abruptly, and for a minute Julien just stood there, frozen with a confusion he did not know how to clarify. One part of him was tugged in Iman's direction, tugged by the uncharacteristic turmoil in her voice, the clear edge that spoke of how close she was to her broken point; and the other part of him was rooted here, his bare feet upon Sera's carpet, Sera in her little black dress waiting downstairs. Don't keep me waiting.

He was so close. He just couldn't give up now.

He ducked his head and thumbed in the number before he could give himself a chance to second guess. When a familiar voice started, "Julien—" he cut it off.

"I know you're mad at me," Julien said. "But if you love me at all, then you'll do this for me."

The doctors were running tests and tests and more tests. Shining lights in Beck's eyes and asking him to read letters off a poster and asking if he could tell when the flashlight was near or far—as if there were anything salvageable, as if he hadn't just been plunged into total darkness.

Frustration brimming within her, Iman stepped outside. She couldn't trust herself not to tell the beady-eyed doctor off or kick something for all her rage. So she paced, walking one direction towards the bathrooms, then turning and walking towards the waiting room again. As she did, her mind wandered, wondering how she was going to tell everyone—her sisters, her mom, Beck's best friend and ex-roommate Ronnie. Mostly she wondered, with every hiss of the hospital doors opening, why she didn't see Julien rounding the corner.

Behind her, there was a soft click. Iman turned to see Wendy edging out of the hospital room, her shoulders slumped with obvious defeat.

"Wendy?"

She didn't look up, her young face perpetually screwed in a frown. "He's totally blind," she said, a dismal emptiness in her voice that chilled Iman to her core. "There's nothing they can do."

Iman had known that. When she had gripped Beck's hand and he had flinched with surprise, she had known that. She'd looked into those eyes, after all, and though specks of his beautiful soul shone through somewhere within them, they were entirely sightless.

Iman had known all of this.

Still, she crumpled against the wall, an unimaginable weight boring into her back. "Jesus."

"First my mom," said Wendy, with a defiant sniffle, "and now Becky. I mean, God—we must be cursed. It's like I think even for a second that everything's going to turn out okay and then it all comes crashing down again."

Iman looked up. "Wendy..."

"Are you going to leave him now?" she asked, neither her tone nor her eyes holding any room for mirth. She held Iman's gaze with an urgent acceptance, as if it were a question that needed to be asked more for formality rather than in the pursuit of an answer. She was eighteen, only a bit younger than Cam, but that fire in her dark eyes was years and years old. "Because he's blind? I know why you would. It'd be a lot of work to take care of him at this point. Just know I'll never forgive you if you break his heart."

For a moment, Iman just blinked at her.

Then she stepped forward, wrapping the younger girl in a hug that seemed to catch both of them off guard. "I'm not going anywhere without Beck," Iman said. "I love him too much to let him go now."

When Iman stepped back, Wendy's face was wet with fresh tears. Iman wiped them away, fighting tears of her own. "It's going to be hard. I know that," she said. "But I know when we come out of this we'll only be stronger. All of us. Right?"

Wendy nodded her head fervently. "Thank you," she said, mopping her nose with her sleeve.

"I didn't do anything."

"You love him," said Wendy. "That's enough."

Before Iman could think to respond, there was a flurry of brisk footsteps coming from the direction of the waiting room. Relief soared up in her chest, but fell again when her eyes met a face that did not belong to Julien.

He was in rather plain clothes—faded jeans and a dark hoodie—compared to the eccentric leather get-up Iman had last seen him in at Julien's housewarming, and there was such genuine sorrow on his face that it startled her.

"Iman," said Fritz. "Hey."

Outside was too cold, so they sat across from each other in the hospital cafeteria, Fritz playing around with a plastic-wrapped sticky bun he'd gotten from the vending machine, Iman drumming her fingers across a styrofoam cup of black coffee.

"Look," said Fritz, grimacing, "Julien may have sent me, but it doesn't mean I'm not as mad at him as you are. He's being a fucking idiot, okay? Believe me, I know."

Iman stared down into the coffee, never letting her eyes drift up. She could no longer sort through all she was feeling; it was too exhausting. She was angry. She was confused. She was disappointed. All she really knew was that joy—whatever, wherever that was—was very far away from her. "I thought maybe he would be here," she said with a sigh. "He knows how much Beck means to me. I just thought maybe he would realize something and come here and be...be Julien again."

Julien who painted abstract pictures in his living room. Julien who made too many cookies on gelid Christmas evenings and then ate them all himself. Julien who watched crappy vampire movies just to make fun of himself, Julien who would never hurt her or anyone else, Julien whom she had once loved as more than a friend. Julien. She kept looking for him, kept searching for him, but she just couldn't find him anymore.

"You know, don't you?" Fritz said, gnawing at his bottom lip. "He's back with Sera again. Beck must have told you."

Iman shuddered. "It's true?"

Fritz nodded.

"What the hell is he doing?"

"He thinks she knows about his past, and that if he stays with her like she wants him to, he'll finally get answers," said Fritz. He turned the sticky bun over in his hands once more, then tossed it to the side, leaning back in his seat. "It's like he doesn't realize she's fucking playing him. Even if she did know something, she'd never tell him. Not if she knows she'll get whatever she wants as long as she's quiet."

Iman took a hesitant sip from her coffee. It tasted mostly like hot water.

"But I didn't come here to talk about Jules," said Fritz. He tapped the table in front of her with a glittery nail. "I came here to talk about you."

"Me?"

Much about Fritz, in the little time she had interacted with him, seemed...sharp. His clothes, his words, his expressions—he was a kaleidoscope image, jarring and full of color, never the same twice. But now, as Iman watched, something about him softened. Maybe it was the gentle smile, or the wrinkle that formed beneath his dark eyes as he did so. Maybe it was the gingerly brush of his fingers along hers, like an old friend's embrace.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "From what I understand, the universe has really been putting you through it lately. It's why Jules asked me here. He wanted me to make sure...to make sure that you were holding on."

Iman took another sip of the coffee, regretted it, and set the cup down again. "I am," she said. "Somehow. I just can't help feeling like it's my fault that Beck is...that he's...that he's blind now."

"Iman," said Fritz with a shake of his head. "You already know that's not true. Shit happens. I know that's not very comforting and I apologize for not being very comforting but it's just the way it is. As much as we wish they were, our lives aren't always in our control."

"I just wish I could fix it," Iman admitted, and Fritz frowned at her. "I just wish I could go back in time and tell him never to get in the car—"

"Wait," said Fritz, his voice alive with a new excitement. The music overhead picked up, changing to a vague pop song Iman had heard on the radio many times before but couldn't place the name of. "I almost forgot. You're a time traveler; that's right. So why don't you go back and fix it?"

Iman thought back to an earlier time, nearly three months ago, the days after she'd lost her father. Then, too, had she felt this knot in her chest like she was doing something wrong, like it was her duty to go back and find that obscure moment—if it was truly just one—where everything had gone wrong, and somehow rewrite the future.

Only that was a rule about her ability she had learned the hard way, when she was twelve and her new kitten had died and she had tried everything to bring it back. Time and fate were related, but they were not one in the same. As much as she played with one, she could never change the other.

So Iman only shook her head. "I can't, Fritz. There's nothing I can do."

Silence. The pop song blared overhead, a countermelody to the clinking of dishes in the kitchen.

Fritz said, "There is one thing."

Iman blinked. "What thing?"

"I'll say it this way—" Fritz started, then hesitated, frowning even as he said the words. "Have you ever heard of a blind vampire, Iman?"

"No."

"Right," said Fritz. With a grim sigh, he finally tore open the sticky bun and peeled a piece of it away. "Because it's not possible."

Iman didn't want to think about it. She couldn't think about it. "You're saying that if you..."

He took another bite from the sticky bun. "A vampire turns you. You die, your body regenerates itself again—everything in tip top working order—you wake up again, and boom, you're a vampire now. So what I'm saying is that if I turned Caulfield, his eyesight would regenerate."

Iman shuddered. "No."

"Uh, yes?"

"No, I mean, I couldn't do that. He wouldn't—want that."

Fritz stood, sticky bun in hand. Iman squinted, unsure if he had always been this tall or if his height was just enunciated now because she was still seated. "You're sure?" Fritz said.

Beck liked reading about vampires. Beck liked knowing vampires. But she could never imagine Beck being a vampire. Beck who cringed every time he squashed a beetle? She couldn't imagine him with fangs and bloodlust.

She didn't want to.

Fritz turned to throw away his trash, then gestured at Iman incoherently until she realized he was asking for her phone. She handed it to him, watching as he thumbed in a number, hit call, and reached to shut off his own phone a second later.

"The offer's still on the table, okay? For however long you and Caulfield need it," he said, handing her phone back to her. "I'm sorry that I can't stick around. But you call me if anything comes up."

"Yeah, I will. Thanks," said Iman as Fritz turned his back. He made for the cafeteria's exit, and it was something in the way he walked, something in the sway of his shoulders, that triggered a prickling sense of déjà vu. "Wait. Fritz?"

He pivoted loftily on one foot, a brisk 180 that was more of a dance move than a step. "Yes, Iman?"

"Why does it feel like I've met you before? I mean, before the housewarming."

Fritz blinked at her for a moment, before his face slid into a rueful grin. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe because you have."

Startled, Iman rose from her chair, but the vampire was gone before she even fully rose to her feet.