"It was because salt is a preservative, and her punishment for looking back with longing was supposed to stand as a remembrance of---"
"I'm sure that's very interesting to people who aren't trying to tell you they're undead, but given that I am a vampire, like it or not---and yes, that's the word, and I'll say it as many times as necessary to get through to you. Good God, Nathan, why won't you face up to the two things that are staring you in the face?"
I cleared my throat and, though I knew I'd regret asking, did so anyway. "And what might they be?"
"One, that I'm not quite human, and two, you want me anyway."
"I can't do this."
"Yes, you can." Adam's reply came in an instant. "You already are."
"We're not..." We weren't actually doing anything; not really. Not yet. Just lying on my bed.
Fully dressed. Adam had sprung off the sofa and hauled me to my feet, kissing me like his life depended on it.
His life. Of everything he'd said, that wasn't even the hardest thing to take. It sounded ridiculous, but I attempted to convince myself it was just a joke. He wasn't serious. He hadn't really been run over and survived it; I'd had a few days to convince myself since that it hadn't happened. I hadn't seen him with a blade pinning his hand to a wooden table. I hadn't watch the skin sew itself back together over quickly-mending flesh and other bloody tissue.
All I knew for certain was that my hands were in his hair as we kissed, and though I gasped for breath occasionally---with half an eye on the door just in case we were discovered---I never heard Adam gasp either. I'd never noticed it before but was now hyperconscious of the fact that he didn't breathe.
"What?" Adam blinked once or twice when I pulled back, studying him.
"You don't breathe."
He never broke a sweat, either. And his skin was cold. Not deathly so; much as he claimed to be a living corpse, he didn't feel like the grave. At most, he felt like a man who'd just walked in from the cold, winter still dusting his skin. His mouth was warm, though, and lust soon melted away any feelings of guilt. I could have died happily after feeling his tongue tangle with mine. The realisation o f this is what I always wanted made me harder still, and Adam grinding against me showed he knew what he did to me. He laughed from time to time---quietly so, respecting my wishes in this one thing---at each new discovery on my part. What it felt like to kiss a man. What it felt like for those kisses to deepen. What it felt like to be pressed against a male body and to be met with only hardness, rather than soft feminine curves, which had never done anything for me.
Adam was the one to pull away. "If I had any breath left in my body, you'd take it away. You're kissing me like a dying man who's just discovered water."
"Or poison," I replied, and he frowned.
"I wish I hadn't said that."
Adam leaned in to kiss me again, but I whispered a near-silent why against his lips.
"There's a war on, you know." He was trying to make a joke of it, I could tell, half-smiling and running the tip of his thumb along my jaw, almost tickling. But he failed. There was a sadness in his eyes.
"Isn't that supposed to be my line?"
"It's just wartime. The blackout's bloody handy for me for obvious reasons, but it's all about..."
"What?"
"Death."
He wasn't joking now. Usually, he was full of what he claimed were true facts and information about his "kind," as he called them, but that simple syllable clearly discomfited him.
"We deal with it every day," I said, trying to conjure up some sort of camaraderie, some reassurance we were on the same level.
"In different ways. You've seen colleagues die, right?"
I nodded, or tried to. It was awkward, being in this horizontal position, wrapped around another man, but he understood my affirmation.
"I've seen people die too."
"Who?"
"Too many to mention." The hand at the side of my face crept up, fingers tangling in my hair so our postures mirrored each other. In that moment, I felt like he didn't want to let me go. "In war. Of disease. Old age."
My heart skipped a beat. I wondered if Adam heard it, as he flinched too.
"Never mind," he said dismissively. "Where were we?"
The kisses weren't enough. Now that we'd crossed that line of being alone together, indoors, even if the "indoors" were my rented rooms, I couldn't see us stopping there. I didn't want to stop, even if the thought of what lay beyond pseudo-chaste kisses and two fully-clothed men grinding against each other scared the hell out of me.
Sometimes, I didn't see him for a few nights at a time. He always came back, though. His skin might be just a degree or two warmer, a tad less chalky. His eyes twinkled more than usual. I didn't ask why. I didn't want to know, but as the saying goes, sometimes you know before you know.
Evidence was there; it was just left up to me to decide to face up to it.
"Miss me?" he'd tease as soon as we made it upstairs, laughing still at Mrs. Hudson's offer of a cup of tea. He'd always politely say, "No, thank you; I've already eaten," or "I've just had something to drink," like everyone's favourite son or brother or friend, and I'd try not to think about what he truly meant.
"Not really," I would say. "I've been busy at work all day."
Adam got into the habit of pushing me down onto the sofa, but it was too small for us both to sprawl comfortably, so it would be a few kisses, maybe undoing a few buttons, then on to the bedroom. Each day---or rather, each night---we
