I tell him about the vampire who turned to water in my hands, about the Pharmakon—sorry, Modred—about my trip to the CORE reference library, which resulted in nada. We move in little pilgrimages, from the couch to the bed to the floor. We drink gin and devour salt-and-vinegar chips. He talks about Madrid before the dictatorship, about the Retiro pierced by sunlight and his wonder at seeing traffic lights for the first time, how he would watch them in silent awe. He tells me that when his abuela first saw the army of cars circling the Plaza de Cibeles, she couldn’t believe that each of them belonged to a single person. I tell him about my only friend when I was a girl, Eve, whose house burned down around me. We lie propped on pillows, seminude and covered in chip detritus. We’ve switched from gin to ginger ale. I burn off my hangover using thermal materia, which I don’t recommend unless you know what you’re doing. Lucian makes a pearl of black flame in his hand. It’s cold to the touch.
