So he didn't get it all. It happens. There's a lot of blood in a man.

He runs his tongue over his fangs as he looks down at her, and then the water between them. After a hesitation, he rests his knee against the slick cobblestone, and maybe he isn't aware of her story, or what she's like ordinarily versus now, or what does and does not make sense, but he does know predators, and he knows territory.

"You're not gonna pull me in, are ya?" But he dips his hands into the water anyway, his sleeves having been rolled and buttoned back away from his wrists, as if water would be the worst thing to happen to his shirt.