It is a true measure of how unhappy I had been in Gretchenville that things at home in Spektor began to feel normal for me.

As eccentric as she was, I had a real connection with my Great-Aunt Celia – something I’d always lacked with my Aunt Georgia. Celia was like a fairy godmother to me. (Or perhaps a vampire godmother, minus the troublesome teeth.) She gave me tips on sartorial elegance, shared stories about her life as a designer, and answered some of my questions about my family history. Bit by bit she was helping me piece together the puzzle of my existence. It would be a slow process, I could tell, but I was finally coming to terms with my ‘gift’ of communicating with the dead, and that seemed to hold some important key to my identity.

Harold’s Grocer did indeed seem to be open day and night, as the unusual-looking Harold had promised, and he insisted that he was always open, despite what I’d seen that night from the cab. I got the cheese he promised, and ordered some of the crackers I’d liked back home, and he also sourced for me the satchel I’d seen on the cover of Mia magazine, which I thought was pretty cool.

The vampire Samantha did not attempt to lunge at my throat again. We were even becoming friends, although I showed more caution traversing the building after dark, just in case she – or another like her – had another moment of blind thirst. But though I sensed there were many other residents in Spektor, the little suburb remained quiet to me, as if they had not yet decided to trust me or introduce themselves.

At Pandora I worked quietly on my piece about vintage clothing (between fetching beverages and whatever other tasks I was given), but I admit my mind was fairly caught up with considering the more important new things I’d learned. Fangs. Blood. Spirits of the dead. I did some research on Edmund Barrett but, amazingly, not one article mentioned Spektor or the building that was my new home. This ‘safe house’ for the undead was, quite literally, off the grid. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. It did surprise me, though, that Pepper had no further questions about the article I had given her.

Lieutenant Luke didn’t visit me, and I found I really wanted to see him again. I missed him something terrible. But where could it all go? He was dead. Jay Rockwell, however, was not dead. He and I exchanged emails and though I wouldn’t give him my number – because I didn’t have one – it was by email that I finally I agreed to have dinner with him. I’d heard that Little Italy was nice, so he agreed to show me a place there.

It was quarter to six on a Friday evening when I left the Pandora magazine offices for my first date in New York. It had already been a strange day, and though I didn’t know it yet, it was scheduled to get a whole lot stranger . . .

I carried my new black leather satchel on my shoulder. I wore one of Celia’s nicest silk dresses under a warm camel-coloured cashmere winter coat. I had on my great-aunt’s ruby red shoes, which gave my calves a nice shape, and I’d dabbed on some perfume, applied a slick of fresh red lipstick and brushed out my light brown hair.

‘So, who is he?’ Morticia pressed. She was leaving the office at the same time, so we were walking out together.

Thanks to my date preparations and Celia’s lovely clothes, I looked pretty good, but I was feeling quiet after the day I’d had. (More on that later.) Possibly against my better judgment, I’d admitted to Morticia that I was going on a date, so naturally she wouldn’t stop asking me about it. Due to my mood, I remained vague and a little sullen, though I couldn’t tell her why. Besides, I figured I ought to see how it went before I started sharing my thoughts and feelings about Jay Rockwell. I didn’t want to put too much pressure on things, and I didn’t need the whole office knowing the details of my personal life, right? (Ghosts and all . . .) Needless to say, my uncharacteristically unresponsive attitude had made things awkward by the time Morticia and I stepped onto the chilly streets of SoHo outside.

Vlad.

Celia’s tight-lipped chauffeur was waiting for me at the kerb. I hadn’t expected that. He was looking as formidable and expressionless as ever, standing by the door of his black, polished car, in the pose of a bodyguard from a Hollywood movie: feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped behind his back. His pressed black suit, impressive stature, and the fact that he always wore dark sunglasses – even now with the sun about to set – combined to add weight to the illusion that he was either CIA or hired muscle. New York traffic flew past on the street behind him in a clamorous blur, seeming like a totally separate, noisy, fast-moving dimension set against his static, silent figure in the foreground.

I hadn’t counted on Vlad picking me up, though I should have guessed Celia would send him. (I’d told her about my date, too. It seems I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about it.) With Vlad and his car waiting outside Pandora, I felt a vague, immature desire to have Pepper or Skye there to witness little me, office peasant, getting into the fancy chauffeured car. The idea surfaced as a little shameful bubble of vanity.

‘The illusion of importance’, and all that. As it was, the only witness was Morticia.

‘Well, this is me. Have a good weekend,’ I told her, without having answered any of her previous questions about my date.

I got into the back of the big sleek car, put my seat belt on and held my leather satchel in my lap. Silent Vlad closed the door behind me, and I saw through the window that Morticia’s eyes were as big as saucers. She stood on the sidewalk and stared, red hair flying around her pale face in the winter wind. The car pulled away, and part of me felt bad that she would be taking the subway home while I was being driven off in a luxurious car. There were bound to be a lot of questions on Monday.

Although I couldn’t remember telling Celia where I had agreed to meet Jay, Vlad already had the address for my date it seemed, and, typically, he drove me there without a word. When he slowed and pulled up at the kerb I saw the name of the restaurant in glowing neon outside, and my heart sped up. Giovanni’s, the sign said. I hopped out before he could come around to open my door.

I took a few steps along the cobblestone street then turned. ‘Thanks, Vlad,’ I said. ‘Have a good weekend.’

Vlad was standing beside his door again, and he nodded silently in response. Since he never seemed to speak, I fancied this nod to mean ‘Have a good time’ or something similar. He watched me walk up the path in front of the restaurant before he climbed into his car. When I was safely inside he would drive off to some mysterious destination at which silent men named ‘Vlad’ spent their evenings. Where was that exactly?

This was my first visit to the area of Manhattan called Little Italy, and I was excited. I’d wanted to see it ever since I saw The Godfather: Part II. The sun was setting in soft oranges and reds, and the darkening streets were already filled with glowing white fairy lights. The winter evenings in New York could be bitterly cold, I’d found, but here warmth radiated from the many outdoor heaters set up on the sidewalks. Restaurants were nestled side by side, decorated with traditional décor and Italian flags. Patrons already sat under the heat lamps enjoying bottles of wine, their collars pulled up around their throats and their smiles wide. My nostrils filled with the delicious smells of Italian cooking. All around me I could hear laughter, music and the clanging of plates.

Wonderful.

I had insisted to Jay that I didn’t want anything fancy, and after some consideration he’d suggested a casual ‘Ma and Pa pasta joint’ that had a good reputation. Though I suspected Jay had a lot of connections with the maître d’s at the bigger restaurants in trendier places, he evidently didn’t at this one. Their only opening for us was at six-fifteen. That had seemed fine by me, though it necessitated bringing a change of clothes to work and leaving directly from the office – via Vlad, apparently.

I negotiated the uneven cobblestones in Celia’s beautiful ruby red shoes, stepped up to the door, ran a hand over my hair to smooth it down again, and pushed my way inside.

Here we go . . .

I was hit with a wall of chatter and a pleasant blast of warm air, infused with the smells of Italian cooking. The place was almost filled to capacity already, each little table set with the traditional red and white checked tablecloth, wine glasses, cutlery and a basket of bread. A few couples were already eating from overflowing plates of spaghetti. I quickly located my attractive date, waiting for me at an intimate window table in one corner. He stood – all six-foot-hunky-six of him – and I moved towards him through the crowd of tables. Some of the patrons stopped what they were doing to watch us. (I still wasn’t used to the way people in this town always checked each other out. Was it a New York thing? Or a big-city thing?) Jay looked good enough to eat in a black collared shirt and blue jeans. His sleeves were rolled partway up his forearms and I noticed the masculine veins and sinewy muscle with some pleasure. As we weren’t on kissing terms, he gave me a friendly hug as a greeting, and the closeness gave me a rush of excitement.

‘Hi,’ we said simultaneously.

Jay helped me with Celia’s cashmere coat, and in a flash a thin young Italian waiter had taken it from us. He offered me a complimentary nod of approval. ‘Bella,’ he murmured. ‘I hang up your coat, beautiful lady.’ He made an animated gesture with his fingers at his lips, as if to blow me a kiss.

The amorous waiter left us and my date pulled out my chair for me.

‘You have a chauffeur?’ Jay Rockwell remarked, seeming surprised and possibly a little impressed. I took my seat, and he sat opposite. Our chairs squealed when we moved them forward. Jay leaned in attentively, his hazel eyes alive with mischief. ‘I thought you didn’t like things too fancy?’ he said teasingly.

‘I don’t. And I don’t,’ I replied in answer to both questions. ‘That’s Celia’s driver. She insisted he pick me up,’ I explained. ‘And I don’t need you taking me to some swish, overpriced restaurant.’ Truthfully, I didn’t want the pressure of a fancy restaurant. The idea of a room full of rich New Yorkers was terrifying to me. I’m sure I would have used the wrong fork or something.

‘You sure are an unusual lady,’ Jay remarked with a shake of his head, and in a flash I had a vision of him impressing other women by taking them out to expensive Manhattan restaurants and buying them fifty-dollar cocktails and exorbitant meals. The idea made me a touch jealous.

‘I’d like to meet your great-aunt one day,’ he added. ‘She sounds like an extraordinary woman.’

‘She is,’ I told him. I nervously smoothed down my silk dress, and shifted my heavy satchel to one side under our table with my foot. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I came straight from work.’

‘I came straight from work, too,’ he said. ‘I should have mentioned you look gorgeous tonight. You are the best-dressed person here.’

I felt myself blush, though I doubted what he said was really true. ‘Thanks.’

A period of awkward silence descended on us, and we opened our menus to cover the lack of conversation.

‘So, did you end up writing that piece on the BloodofYouth launch? How did it go?’ he asked me.

I stiffened.

The question, I’m sure, was an innocent one. I’d last seen him in person at the launch, after all. Jay had no idea about the detective work I’d done in the interim, or the bizarre things I’d uncovered. I hadn’t mentioned a word of it in our email exchange. Pepper had been quite clear that I wasn’t to tell anyone because it was an exclusive for our magazine. Thus, unless he happened to pick up the first copy of Pandora hot off the press today, Jay probably knew nothing of my accusations about BloodofYouth, and certainly no one knew about my outrageous suspicions regarding the BloodofYouth model, Athanasia, or what I believed she had done to my predecessor, Samantha. After a lifetime of repressing the urge to tell my parents – and later Aunt Georgia – about every strange imagining or visitation I experienced, it seemed I was getting pretty good at keeping extraordinary secrets. And that was doubtless a good thing in this case. Who could I confide in about these otherworldly conundrums? Who would believe me? No one. Except Celia. Or perhaps the Sanguine Samantha, and my friend Second Lieutenant Luke Thomas, who had died a century and a half ago.

‘Didn’t the new issue come out today?’ my date added, unknowingly pursuing an unwelcome topic.

‘Um, yes. I can’t talk about it right now,’ I responded cryptically.

A copy of the new issue of Pandora magazine was in fact sitting in the satchel at my feet. Though I was eagerly awaiting this new issue, no one had said anything about it to me at the office, not even Morticia. Through the day I’d had a creeping suspicion that the deputy editor, Pepper, was avoiding me. Skye was on the mend after her mysterious illness, but she hadn’t come in, or called me about my piece. Finally I’d seen the magazine during my afternoon coffee break and grabbed it. When I read the cover piece, the atmosphere in the office became all too clear. (I’d had to fix my eye makeup in the hall bathroom before returning to work.) No one had wanted to be the one to let me down. Pepper had avoided me for good reason.

I didn’t want to show the magazine to Jay. I couldn’t discuss it. Awkwardly, I changed the subject. ‘So how are things at Men Only?’

Jay noted my evasive response, and looked at me quizzically for a moment, his hazel eyes searching mine. Then he said, ‘Things are good. I have a couple of big new clients. The advertising base is growing.’

Jay managed the advertising accounts for Men Only.

‘Oh, good,’ I said vaguely, still stewing about what Pepper had done with the article I’d written.

My date sensed something was amiss, and leaned in. He took my hand gently in his and said, ‘Who cares about all that work stuff? I’m not here to talk shop with you. I’m here to enjoy your company.’

I managed a smile.