As much as he ever forgot.

Or maybe he would ignore her body and simply take her blood. Feed the monster that lived within. Slake the vicious hunger that—even now—stalked him every night.

He drew closer.

The girls were talking about some band they’d gone to see. Raving about the handsome singer and laughing about the boys who’d tried to chat them up at the bar. Good-natured teasing for one girl who’d made a date.

Not the brunette. She belonged to Murphy.

His footsteps were silent. Even if the girls turned, all they’d see was a well-dressed man in his late twenties with a rakish smile and a smooth step. They would blush with pleasure when he passed them. They’d giggle when he dipped his head and greeted them with a charming voice and a wink. Then he could double back and stalk them again, drawing out the pleasure of the hunt until their terror tinged the air.

Murphy paused, waiting in the shadows.

Maybe he would cull the brunette from her friends. Isolate her and—

He spun the moment he caught a hint of movement in his periphery, dodging the fist aimed at his jaw. His attacker moved inhumanly fast, the flurry of blows raining on his midsection forcing him farther into a darkened alley and driving any thoughts of hunting from his mind, for this opponent was his oldest and most fierce.

Murphy whirled and struck, hitting the lantern jaw of his attacker with a solid fist that didn’t faze the man. Then Tom caught him in a fierce hug and rained blow after blow into his kidneys as Murphy struggled to breathe.

He was a wall. Even when Murphy wrenched himself from Tom’s grasp and jumped away, he kept coming.

Tom landed one more angry blow to Murphy’s face before he held up a hand.

“Enough, Tom.”

“Fecking hell, Murphy!”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

With a growl, Murphy rammed a fist into the bricks behind Tom and watched in satisfaction as the red clay crumbled beneath his fists. He closed his eyes and let the pain wash over him. It cleared his head, even as the cuts on his face and torso began to close.

“I’m fine,” he whispered again.

Tom grabbed him around the neck and pulled him into a fierce hug. “No, boss. You’re not fine. You’d have hunted her and bled her dry and hated yourself for it. What’s your rule, boss?”

“They have to offer.”

“They have to offer. Not like your bloody bastard of a sire. And if you turned into him, you’d kill yourself.”

“I’m fine, Tom.”

“Come to me and Josie’s place. Come over and let her tell you a story, eh? Have a drink. Sleep in one of the guest rooms if you like.”

He nodded and tried to straighten his jacket, willing his fangs to recede in his mouth. Willing his mind away from the ever-more-distant scent of prey. He finally regained control, but the jacket was past saving. He tugged it off and draped it over some boxes sitting in the alley. It was torn, but it was still wool. It wouldn’t be wasted keeping someone warm, and the boy in him would never be able to throw a coat away.

Tom kept a hold on him as they walked west, heading toward Josie’s old Victorian home in Ballsbridge.

“Do you want to talk about what set you off?”

“No.”

“Was it Brigid?”

He said nothing, which Tom took as an affirmative.

“I’ll talk to the lass,” he said. “She didn’t know.”

“She doesn’t need to know. I’ll be fine, Tom. It was a moment of weakness.”

“She called me, you know. She’s a good girl, Brigid. Smart one.”

“Yes, a little too smart at times.”

“She was just in Galway, yeah? She figure you and Anne out?”

“I don’t know how much Anne told her.” Just the taste of her name on his tongue made Murphy ill, remembering what he’d planned to do to the girl he’d been following. The girl only bore the most superficial resemblance to Anne, and he’d still been on the verge of…

“I know I need to do something,” Murphy said. “I just don’t know what.”

“I know exactly what you need to do,” Tom said cheerfully. “You’re gonna take tomorrow night off, get your fancy arse out to Galway, and go talk to your mate.”

Chapter Four

THE COUNTRY PUB SAT off the road that led nowhere in particular and was only open for business on weekends most nights unless something notable was happening. Anne didn’t care. It still had a decent kitchen, good beer, and a corner booth that no one looked at too closely. Every now and then, when old Mrs. Connelly cast her meaningful looks, she’d sing with whoever was playing in the Friday session. No one remarked on it. No one asked her questions. They gave her a free beer and asked after Ruth and Dan.

And that was that.

Tourists didn’t come here, though Anne knew she’d have an easier time blending in if she frequented the bars that were busier. Every now and then when she was particularly lonely, she’d head into Galway to find amusement. But usually a country pub and a cold beer were enough.

That night she sat with a book on the table, letting the sounds of the traditional music wash over her along with the ebb and flow of human conversation. It was lovely and familiar. There was as much Irish as English spoken in this particular pub, and it reminded her of her human years.

Connection with the past is what grounds us in the present.

Forgetting our human nature allows the monster in us to take control.