"Thanks." Ingrained politeness makes me say something, but it comes out wrong. Thanking someone for a blow job seems like the right thing to do, but it's also the perfect way to silently add, you whore. "That was..." And I give up. Fuck it; there's no point. If Sean was that offended at my post-cocksucking etiquette, he wouldn't come back for more. I say thanks, I never reciprocate, that's the way it goes.
Well, what man would let a guy with fangs suck him off?
Unless we were talking about two vampires; they'd be on a more equal footing then.
I shake my head and push myself away from the wall, only then, as always, recognising how sleazy this all is. The desire, the denial, the speed of it all. That's the only part I enjoy, really---how fast it all happens. I get off quickly so I can slink off home and feel dirty in private.
"I'll see you around, then?" Sean shoves his hands back in his jeans pockets, waiting for the payment of approval, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He won't go until I've tossed him compliments as coins.
"Yeah. Soon." Adjusting the unnecessary scarf, I half-turn away, listening for the sound of his footsteps scampering back to the bar. I wonder if he'll find someone else who's a bit more giving than I am, then I realise I don't particularly care. It wouldn't be cheating if he did; we have an understanding, and if it means a third party takes him off my hands, well, I'll find somewhere else to stick my dick.
God, Nathan, when did you become so determined to be uncaring?
I know the answer, could tell you to the exact day and hour.
Just like I could tell anyone who cared to ask why a vampire who can't feel the cold feels the need to wear a scarf sometimes. It's an affectation.
A reminder of how I don't like to be bitten. An unusual thing for a vampire to think about, one might say, to which I'd always reply, "How do you think I got like this in the first place?"
The bite marks, like the bullet hole in my thigh, don't show anymore, but mental scars take longer than a few decades to fade sometimes.
Sometimes, fate doesn't allow them to fade.
My poky basement flat doesn't look any different when I return; a battered copy of Anna Karenina lies on the coffee table, its bookmark tucked roughly one third through the book for the umpteenth time of reading. Though I favour French literature, I sometimes venture into Russia too. I keep a number of books on the go at once.
Everything's in exactly the same place, just as I left it. Nothing ever changes, and that's just the trouble.
I let out a heavy groan---yet another of my affectations. No need to breathe, and no one around to hear it, but I have to let my frustration out somehow.
I need something to break the monotony but only have routine things to do. Flick though a TV guide. Skim through my CD collection. Open up the netbook and connect to the Internet.
A marvellous invention, that.
I can communicate anonymously with people all over the world. Join fora, discuss books, films, the burgeoning acceptance of the undead walking among us without anyone knowing who I am. What I am.
Communicating anonymously is both a convenience and a burden. Connecting to the internet does not necessarily make for a connection with another person.
Then again, sometimes it does. My email alert makes its electronic announcement, and the pop-up gives away nothing. There's a name I don't recognise, but I click on the message anyway.
It's been a long time since my blood ran cold; being undead, a walking corpse, the blood in my veins is cold already. I drink from other people, yes, but once inside me, it never holds any heat.
Not that cold temperatures bother me; I'm aware of them---I still have that sensation, that awareness, but it no longer troubles me physically.
Rarely, as now, do I feel a chill racing through my veins alongside that lifeless blood, something on a whole new level of cold.
Fuck.
Covering my mouth with one hand, I stare at the screen, wishing I'd never bothered checking my emails. I should have lain down on the settee, tried to sleep. Pretended to, at least. Read a book.
Watched television I don't care for. Anything but this.
Even after I screw my eyes shut, brace myself, and open my eyes again, the message is still there on the screen. A pseudonym, an unrecognised email account (security reasons, in case the wrong person happens along), a coded message and a thinly-veiled calling in of a favour, thanks to a promise long-ago made.
Sergeant, I need your help.
Chapter 4
I MET WILL DURING the Second World War, but only because of Adam, who came first. The two will always be linked in my mind, no matter how much I try to forget Adam.
I'd just been invalided home to London after being shot in the leg, in France. Came back home with a bullet hole in one thigh but with the information I'd been sent to collect. At the time, I didn't know whether to be grateful for getting a Blighty or not. I was out of harm's way, sure enough (discounting bombings of course; I refer to being directly, literally, in the line of fire), but I was stuck behind a desk for the rest of the war filling in paperwork regarding other people's secret missions. Codenames and passwords swam before my eyes, and I resented not being able to bloody do something. But it was what it was; the situation I was stuck with.
I left work late one night, limping home in the darkness. My wound had healed in the sense of not causing any pain, but discomfort niggled me from time to time. My damn thigh knew it was going to rain before I did. I
