Malachy had a habit of biting his nails when he was anxious.

A rather stupid habit for someone with fangs, considering he'd drawn blood more times than he cared to admit.

Tonight was no exception.

He sat hunched forward, his thumb pressed against his lips, staring at absolutely nothing.

Fuck. Not again.

He could feel it creeping in. That familiar tightness in his chest, the restless energy beneath his skin, the sudden awareness of every sound around him.

He hated nights like this.

There was no danger. No hunters waiting outside. No reason for his body to behave as though something terrible was about to happen.

And yet, here he was.

One hundred and thirty years old, and still frightened of things that had happened decades ago.

"Get a fucking grip, Mal," he muttered.

He dragged a hand through his crimson hair, accidentally catching a ring in the tangled strands.

"Ow. Brilliant."

For a moment, he almost laughed.

Almost.

His gaze dropped to the silver cross hanging against his chest. He rubbed the pendant between his fingers, remembering a time when he'd believed wearing it might actually protect him.

Funny how that worked out.

Malachy exhaled slowly.

He knew the feeling would pass. It always did, eventually.

But knowing that didn't make enduring it any easier.

So he sat there, counting his breaths, waiting for his hands to stop trembling.

Just another night.

Just another ghost.

And God, he was getting tired of being haunted.