But despite the many temptations I’d faced tonight, I had left that life behind me.

‘I was just leaving, sir. I’m glad your daughter is safe,’ I said, taking a step back towards the shadows.

The man put a meaty hand on my arm, stopping me. His eyes narrowed, and though I could have killed him in an instant, I was surprised at a sudden nervous fluttering in my stomach. ‘What’s your name, son?’

‘Stefan,’ I answered. ‘Stefan Salvatore.’

I realised immediately that telling him my real name like that was stupid, given the mess I had made of things in New Orleans and Mystic Falls.

‘Stefan,’ he repeated, looking me up and down. ‘Not going to press for a reward?’

I tugged on my shirt cuffs, embarrassed at my dishevelled appearance. My black trousers, with my journal tucked into the back pocket, were frayed. My shirt was pulled out and hanging in loose folds around my braces. No hat, no tie, no waistcoat, and above all that, I was dirty and smelled faintly of the outdoors.

‘No, sir. Just glad to help,’ I murmured.

The man was silent, as if he were having trouble processing my words. I wondered if the shock of seeing his daughter, bloodied and frail, had put him in something of a fog. Then he shook his head.

‘Nonsense!’ He clasped my right shoulder. ‘I would give anything to keep my youngest safe. Come inside. I insist! Share a cigar and let me toast your rescue of my baby girl.’

He tugged me into the house, as though I were a stubborn dog on a leash. I started to protest, but fell silent the moment I stepped into the grand foyer. The dark wainscoting was cherry wood. The stained glass windows that were meant to illuminate the doorway during the day sparkled even at night, their colours jewel-like under the gaslight. A giant, formal stairway climbed to the next floor, the balustrade looking as though it had been carved from whole trunks. In my human life, I’d wished to be a scholar of architecture, and I could have gladly studied this home for hours.