I woke up last night to fangs clamping down on my skull. It’s rarely a pleasant surprise to discover that something in the dark is trying to eat you headfirst, but I was more annoyed than frightened–it was the fourth time this had happened since midnight. I mumbled something incoherent and pushed my attacker away, then fell back asleep almost instantly. The fanged menace slunk back into a shadowy corner of the room to watch me sleep, emerging every so often to pounce on my feet under the blanket. The fifth or sixth time I felt something grab onto my ankle through the comforter, I gave up on sleep. I sat up and stared blearily into the monster’s yellow eyes.

“Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Purrchill,” I said, “I do not bite your feet while you’re sleeping. Kindly return the favor.”

“Mraow,” he said, and tried to bite my eyebrow.

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