Acceptance. That's what Adam has here.
He's known. Does he have mere acquaintances, or does he have friends? That's not something I've ever considered with regard to Adam Locke. Oh, he knows people. He has associates, colleagues, those he knows in passing. Probably, oh, what's that phrase again? Fuck buddies.
A shudder of something I don't want to name --- It's called jealousy, Nathan ---ripples my spine as I look this way and that. No reason to be jealous. But it's hard not to feel put out at the thought of Adam being with someone else. I was the one he loved. I was the one he killed.
I was the one he grieved for.
That's what I don't want to dwell on: my unreasonable insistence that Adam feel grief- stricken and guilty forever.
There's no queue outside Vlad's, but people mill around in the courtyard, perhaps walking off the ill-effects of too much alcohol. Or too little blood in their veins after an encounter with an over-enthusiastic bloodsucker.
And I have to find Adam. Mere seconds have passed since he darted off, but he's fast, could be anywhere by now, and given his nickname, he could no doubt slink off somewhere silently. I have to keep my eyes open, all other senses alert.
"Adam." Is there any sense in calling after him? Would he answer me?
Okay; think, Nathan, think. What was he wearing? I cast a quick glance over the groups of people loitering outside, sitting on benches. No, he's not there. Why would he linger, when he quite clearly wanted to get as far away from me as possible?
How dare he? springs into my mind. How bloody dare he run away now, after all those times of following me, stalking, smothering. Now, when I finally decide to reveal myself, he decides no, he doesn't want to have anything to do with me?
Bastard.
The unbidden insult shocks me. I swear. A lot more than I used to. But to call someone that word isn't common for me. It's the anger behind it which shocks.
Beyond the courtyard, someone looks back over his shoulder, checking to see if the person who pursued him has given up, and I'm off again, dodging past benches and planters ringed by abandoned, empty beer bottles, a vampire or two chatting up potential victims, drunk humans looking decidedly worse for wear, and out onto the main road. Looking to my left, I see Adam's off again, but he's not out of my sight, thank God, so I follow.
I have to catch him now, or I may never get this chance again. His cover's blown---that's if he was trying to hide from anyone in the first place.
He doesn't want to speak to me now or even see me, so there's every chance he'll find somewhere else to put down roots. Earn himself another nickname in a new town where I can't so easily find him.
Which doesn't make any sense. None at all.
Why the fuck won't you speak to me, Adam?
The streets aren't exactly crowded, but there are enough people around to express alarm when I barrel straight through groups heading to bars and clubs, paying no attention to linked arms or held hands. I break all connections and don't give a damn, almost laughing at their mutters of, "For fuck's sake," or "Jesus Christ, man, watch what you're doing!"
One guy's blood/alcohol ratio has been thrown so far off its usual levels by beer, I can smell it on him before we even make contact, and my swift, "Out of the way, shit, sorry," isn't enough to help him defy the laws of gravity. He hits the pavement, and I spin round to look at him.
He groans. I shrug; he's not injured enough to warrant any help from me, and besides, I have more pressing matters to speak to.
"Army training, Adam," I call after him, still running. Someone who doesn't breathe can't become out of breath. "You never lose it."
And he stops. Just like that.
We're on a long, straight street, tenements segregated from the pavement and road by shoulder-height iron fencing. He grabs part of this outside the block where he now stands, and he can't be out of breath. So it must be some other reason that necessitates steadying himself. He's no more than forty feet away from me, fifty at most, and from that distance, I could swear I see his shoulders tremble.
"Why..." Still gripping the iron fencing in one hand, he looks over his shoulder at me again, only this time, he isn't running. He's given in and stopped. "Why can't you leave me alone?"
This would be the point where, were I still human, I'd take a deep lungful of fresh air and try to clear the fog of confusion. All I can do is stand here with my hands on my hips, not taking my eyes off him in case he takes off again. I always used to feel easier if I knew where Adam Locke was, and that was never more true than it is now.
"Adam, I don't know what to say."
"You've never spoken before. I don't see why you have to say anything now." Yes, he's definitely trembling.
I frown. This confusion isn't getting any easier to deal with. "What are you...? I don't know what you mean. I always spoke to you---" I gulp back nerves and memories "---before."
Adam lets go of the fencing but stays upright, even manages to turn around. He's wearing dark jeans, a black sweater, and a leather jacket.
Welcome to the twenty-first century. There could be, probably are, a thousand Adams that I've missed out on.
"No." He shakes his head, takes a step closer.
Okay, this is progress. "You only spoke to me when you were..." His Adam's apple--- I could almost laugh at the unintentional pun---bobs before he speaks again. "Alive."
"But
