Back in the room, Nathan. I'm still tapping the mobile phone's keypad, like a nervous teenager trying to pluck up the courage to ask someone out.
Marvellous little devices, these. From speakeasy phones with which one had to ask the operator to connect you to the desired number, to something that could easily fit in the palm of one's hand. I sometimes hear people say things like, "Do you remember the eighties, when mobiles were the size of house bricks?" and I laugh, because twenty years or so isn't that much of a stretch for me.
These ones think they're delving back into the prehistory period of toys and gadgets, but my memories go a lot further back.
I copied Will's number into my phone, knowing I'm going to use it. I don't want the ceremony of sitting at the computer, re-reading his email, copying out the number, all that build up. If the number's in my phone, I can just grit my teeth, scroll through my meagre phone book, and hit call.
No trying to settle my nerves in front of a glowing computer screen. Just the decision to do it, then done.
In theory. I don't know how long I've been like this, sitting on the edge of an armchair, ready to spring up and run away.
Sergeant, I need your help, followed by some digits. Sergeant, I need your help, a phone number, and nothing else. Nothing overt, that is. I know who the email was from, and I know he needs me, and he knows I can't possibly refuse.
Not after everything I owe him.
How the bloody hell can a vampire get nervous? I wonder, and almost swear my thumb trembles as I hit a button, any button, on the phone to make it light up again.
Phone book. Scroll right to the end. Just do it.
Alphabetically, he's the last one on my list.
Vampires don't throw up except on very rare occasions when we drink from someone who's extremely ill. In my case, cancerous blood never did agree with me, although some of the undead love it. I guess it's an acquired taste.
Anyway, we hardly ever throw up, but I feel pretty damn close to it now. Every time the phone rings at the other end, a wave of something washes over me, and in the moment between the rings ceasing and the call fully connecting, I realise: it's fear.
Sergeant---can't seem to let go of that title---
Nathan Stephenson is capable of fear.
"Hello?"
Christ. That voice. I haven't heard it in so long. We've kept in touch very carefully, not very often. Just checking in every few years with coded messages left in newspaper personals ads, post office boxes, and latterly, emails. The addresses change, but there's always something there to say, "It's me."
"It's me."
Silence on the other end of the line, and naturally, I don't even hear him breathing, but I know he's still there.
"I got your message." Obvious, but I need to say something to break the agonising silence.
"Right."
I almost see him nod in acknowledgement. I might not have seen him in years, but I can't forget what he looks like, his mannerisms, habits, tics.
"Right," he says again. "Thanks for calling."
"You knew I would."
"Yes. Yes."
Another pause, which I have to remedy with words. "You said you needed my help?"
"Can we meet?"
It's a shock, yet at the same time, kind of not.
It has to be something big, judging by the tone of his email. A simple sentence, but with a world of terrible possibility in those five words.
"Nathan?"
"Yes, I'm still here. Still here. You, uh, you want to meet? Why?"
"It's difficult to explain over the phone. Where do you live?"
"What?" It's that serious, then. He's never before asked for my address. What he doesn't know, he can't accidentally pass on to someone else. We've both moved around, but always managed to keep tabs on each other in a remote, dancing-around-each-other way. Email addresses and phone numbers aren't rooted in bricks and mortar. But now he's actually asking where I live?
"I know, I know. We have that little unspoken agreement to look out for each other, but from a distance, yes?"
Yes. That's it exactly. There's a connection between us with a name, deep blue eyes, and a lethal smile, and perhaps, just perhaps, if there's too much communication between us, something alchemical will occur, and together, we'll summon him.
"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
"Will." I take a moment to steady my nerves, the unfamiliar chemical rush of adrenaline through my long-dead veins. Thank goodness I drank recently; otherwise, my insides would be tying themselves up in all sorts of hormonal knots. "Tell me why." Why is this important? Why now? Why can't we just go back to acknowledging each other then fading into the background?
"How safe is it? Where you live?"
"Safe?" I really have to stop echoing what Will says and start thinking and speaking for myself. "Safe for what? Or who? I mean, I live here."
"No, I mean for a newborn."
I feel like I've been punched in the chest. My depth perception zooms in and out, and for what seems like an eternity, I fear crashing forward through the glass-topped coffee table.
"Nathan? Nathan? You still there?"
"Yes." I haven't felt faint in a long while.
"Yes, I'm still here. Sorry, I..." Clasping the edge of the table in one hand, I make a clumsy attempt to steady myself. "Will, tell me you haven't..."
"How safe is your place for a newborn?"
I knew it. I knew he'd only call in the debt when it was something as big as this. Newborns, I can't stand; not because there's inherently anything wrong with them, but they take me back. They remind me of when I started out, the fact I didn't want it. Some enter into it with eagerness, and I hate
