"Somehow I never made a plan for getting turned into a monstrous creature of the night who sucks on necks and is allergic to silver." Hawke has a dark sense of humor. Always has. And a good thing too, in these circumstances. It's what keeps her from throwing up, or screaming, or destroying the rest of her furniture. "Seems to obvious now that I should have gotten around to that one."

She lifts the mug to her nose and inhales the smell of it, closes her eyes, tries to pretend it smells appetizing, or at least comforting. It doesn't.

The hands that gave it to her are another matter.

She walks across the room, not looking at his face. She doesn't want to see whatever expression he's wearing. "And no. No nighttime grocery runs. Period."