They say that you can tell a vampire by the fact that they have no reflection. This, of course, is bullshit. It's common knowledge that vampires are vain and pretty and spend more time in front of mirrors than they will admit to anyone. The distinction between the myth and the truth is that vampires only have a reflection when they're looking for it.

The first two days were fantastic, partly due to the exhilarating relief of having gotten over the hard part of dying and coming out all right, and partly due to a pretty much non-stop party for two in bed in a hotel room with the thick satin curtains drawn tight. I am vaguely aware that this is how sires ensure you warm to the idea of being dead, but I'm not ready to think about that too much yet. It's been like a honeymoon, only with a lot less holy matrimony and a lot more sex than is humanly possible, and also I'm dead.

I also realized that my craving for cake rivaled my newfound craving for blood, which makes no sense, but I'm flexible about logic. It's easy to be flexible about logic when you see a man, who is on fire, pulling a car door off its hinges to save a little girl, and only his clothing is burning.

The other thing about being dead is that you learn, quite quickly, how packed with dead people this place is.

"There are over eight thousand vampires in the greater Seattle area," Rozn, my sire, prattled off casually as we circled for landing above my beloved hometown. "And that's not including the other dead." I absolutely hate his name, almost as much as I hate that maroon velour track suit he insists on wearing because "it feels so sexy against my skin." I wish I could have at least had a vampire from the old school, who sobs into his cravats and writes poetry. Mine wears sweatpants and participates in a voluntary group called the Immortal Defense Team. I told him Warren Ellis had called and wanted his idea back. Blank look.

"We help the living because we can, and they can't help themselves." He explained, as if to an insane person. "It seems the least we can do in exchange for their vital bodily fluids." Hence the man saving the little girl. Tit for tat. Okay, fair.

Anyway, mirrors. It threw me completely off axis the first time I looked in a mirror, and had to search around until my reflection appeared. Then I proceeded to untangle the side of my hair that had been remorselessly shagged into a horrendous mess. While I was touching up my blood red (what else?) lipstick, a pale-looking woman wandered into the bathroom, screaming at the top of her lungs. The silence was deafening. I stared at her.

The door was closed and locked, and when I realized this I noticed that her paleness was really translucency. A ghost, then. She stopped screaming at me and threw her hands up helplessly.

“I know,” I said, agreeing with her. “This dead business takes some getting used to. But at least you know there’s life after death, right? Of a sort. It could be worse, I mean.” I have never really gotten the knack of comforting people. “Look, here’s what you do. Go find some other ghosts. Someone you can talk to, someone who can listen. And actually hear you. And stuff. Anyway, you have a shared experience, which is something you can build on.” She nods, eyes wide, like I’m going to make everything okay. “Build a support network – that’s the key, in any circumstance, is you have to have a network, okay?” She nods again, and clasps her hands, before walking resolutely through the paper towel dispenser.

My immediate needs call for cake, then blood. And maybe a slice of cake for afters. And maybe a slice of Rozn, before dawn. And then we save the world.

I guess.

If I have to.

Я пью за разоренный дом,
За злую жизнь мою,
За одиночество вдвоем,
И за тебя я пью,—
За ложь меня предавших губ,
За мертвый холод глаз,
За то, что мир жесток и груб,
За то, что Бог не спас.