Chapter 33
JAMES
What can I possibly say? I’d listened while Dalziel spilled his guts about what he described as the second worst period of his life — the worst being the loss of his children when he was human.
Tears slid unchecked down my cheeks as he recounted the events without any noticeable emotion, but, fuck me, surely reliving this had to hurt him.
I hurt and it wasn’t my pain, although parts of it felt frighteningly similar in places.
He noticed me swiping my eyes dry with my arm. “I didn’t tell you to garner sympathy. That part of my life is in the past and all wrongs have been fully avenged. I don’t dwell on it; it’s done and over. I told you to give you some background as to why I think I might be able to help you.”
“Okay.” How could anything I say not sound pathetic? “So what now?”
“Your turn.”
My turn to what—Oh God, no way! I hugged myself. “Explain, please?”
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear. You need to purge yourself of every thought you’ve been storing in the back of your mind hoping it will stay hidden and quiet, which we’ve seen doesn’t work.
Bring them out into the open and let the light destroy them.
” He huffed. “Quite a vampire metaphor in there somewhere. But this won’t work unless you give it your best shot.
Nothing spared. Not a stone left unturned in those dark recesses that are the kindling for the flames of your nightmares. ”
There was a long pause where I’m sure the only sound was the rising tempo of my heartbeat while I digested his words.
“You want me to tell you everything? Like, relive all the worst days and nights of my entire twenty-three years and detail it all for you. Out loud?” I stared at Dalziel Millar like he’d lost his mind.
But he merely nodded, before saying in a tone that gave me no hint he was kidding, “I do.”
“Fucking Christ,” I muttered, stung into swearing.
I wasn’t scared of this bloke exactly, but I’d been around Edwin and his friends long enough to have a healthy respect for the world of hurt Millar could unleash on me if he felt like it.
Or, more likely, if I hurt one of his vampire coven.
He took his responsibility as their sire very seriously.
You could almost feel it coming off him in waves.
He handed me a paper bag. “A box of tissues. I suspect you might need some. I prefer cloth handkerchiefs myself, but you might wish to burn anything that comes out of this session. A ceremonial ‘fuck you’ to that bastard, shall we say? I will light the fire in the grate later, or if it’s too warm for you inside, I have a small patio area in the back. ”
I continued gawping at him, lost for words.
He didn’t seem to mind my lack of speech, sitting patiently with his hands resting loosely in his lap.
He moved just enough that if you didn’t know, you wouldn’t suspect he was a vampire.
Tiny fidgets, a twitch of his nose, a blink, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, then he circled one ankle in its posh-looking loafer.
Damn, it put me at my ease and I knew he was a vamp.
Eventually, I sighed. “You’ve done this before, right?”
“Sadly, yes. No two circumstances are the same, but as you have realised, the supernatural world doesn’t make it easy to admit what is seen as weakness by some of our kind.
There are no sanctioned therapists that I am aware of.
The Evergreen Council has a wide reach and is growing ever larger, so if they were about, I would know.
It’s possibly not healthy to deal with trauma by kicking seven bells of shite out of the one or ones that hurt you, but as a vampire, I can confirm that it feels fucking fantastic.
” I could feel my eyes were like saucers at his sudden switch to such an informal way of talking.
“Of course, you don’t have the physical advantages to take that route, and even if you did, your assailant is safely returned to the hell from which he evidently escaped.
Which leaves us with less violent methods at our disposal. ”
“Yeah.” He had a point. Cormack was dust, and my Edwin had been the one to avenge me.
Thinking of Edwin gave my heart a rusty jolt.
I was aware I’d been hiding in a cloud, a bubble of numbing foam, for a while.
Why had I done that? I dredged my hazy brain cells for anything that had triggered my retreat into a space I’d not occupied since the time I’d first been taken into care all those years ago.
I couldn’t think why I’d felt I had to run.
I loved Edwin. I was…extremely fond of Trace.
What roadblocks had I thrown into my own path? The answers wouldn’t come.
“I’m a bit lost.” I swallowed the lake of saliva that had somehow formed in my mouth and raised my eyes. “I, uh, perhaps you’re right.” I’d rather remove my own eyeballs and eat them with ketchup than do this, but I had the feeling that therapy wasn’t supposed to be easy.
“Would you like anything before we start? A cup of tea, perhaps?” I shook my head.
“Are you physically comfortable?” As I’m ever likely to be.
The enormous circular armchair with its assorted cushions and a thin fleece blanket was as near to floating as I’d ever managed.
I nodded silently once more. “Then we will begin. In your own time, James.”
“I was out at a club. In Leeds, like. That’s my home. Was my home. I like dancing. I used to like dancing…”
I talked.
I whispered. I yelled. I cried. I cried so much I felt I couldn’t breathe.
When that happened, Dalziel made me a mug of tea and held my hand while I drank it, or fetched a wrung-out cloth with which he bathed my forehead and the back of my neck.
At some point he offered me food, but I could only just force the tea down to soothe my parched throat and didn’t dare ingest anything that might choke me or that I’d throw back up in the middle of another sobbing fit.
I dozed. The armchair became a bed as I drifted off, my eyes swollen and scratchy from weeping.
When I woke, I realised Dalziel had replaced the tear-stained cushions with cool, smooth cotton pillows that cradled my aching head as I slept.
He urged me to my feet and showed me to a bathroom laid out with fresh clothing and a heap of fluffy towels as well as all my toiletries.
I hadn’t even noticed he’d moved my bag.
When I was clean, he produced a mug of soup, a litre of cola, and an assortment of individually wrapped snacks: portions of cheddar and crackers, little pots of chopped-up fruit, miniature chocolate bars.
He switched on a wall-mounted television and cartoons played softly in the background, old familiar favourites from my childhood that didn’t require any energy to watch, but gave me something to focus on apart from the sorry state I was in.
I couldn’t even work out what time of day or night it was.
I supposed it didn’t matter. I was purging what felt like my entire body, soul and all.
Time was irrelevant. I dozed again, replete and utterly worn out.
Then, I talked more, and cried more, and drank more liquid he pushed in my direction. So much fucking talking and crying.
When I woke the next time, the cycle started over.
I wanted to protest, but some tiny, locked-away part of me knew I already felt a bit lighter.
This was brutal, but I suspected, also effective.
Without conscious effort, I began blurting out random statements about my time in care, my various foster parents, even bloody Daz and what I now realised were his constant micro-aggressions.
And then I cried about my mum. Fuck my life, did I cry.
Apparently, twenty-three-year-old James was still a scabby-kneed toddler who wanted his mummy.
This time, Dalziel hauled me into his arms and held me as I sobbed, murmuring words of comfort and singing me songs that sounded to my muzzy ears like lullabies in a foreign language.
I no longer cared he was a terrifying vampire capable of tearing me to pieces, or draining me in moments.
He wasn’t Edwin’s formidable sire, or even a comparative stranger with a tendency to use long words and a poker face that could probably win him a fortune in casinos across the world.
He was simply the man who held me while I fell apart, and the father figure I’d never had.
His skin was cool, but his embrace was every parental assurance I’d ever craved as well as every one I didn’t know I needed.
The next time I awoke, I was in a bed. A quick check confirmed I was still fully dressed.
Another tick in the rapidly-growing fan club of one Dalziel Millar.
It seemed consent really was the hill he would die on.
I rolled onto my side and blinked at the clock handily placed on a small side table.
Then I eased myself upright and popped the tab on the can of lemonade next to it, my throat rejoicing in every lukewarm gulp.
Heavy curtains at the window glided open on a silent rail, revealing a blackout blind.
I levered that up to discover it was evidently six p.m., not a.m. as I’d mistakenly assumed.
This room overlooked a small garden, mostly paved, with a high fence surrounding it, and an assortment of conifers in pots dotted about.
It was immaculate. Of Dalziel there was, of course, no sign.
I pissed and freshened up in the bathroom, then padded downstairs on shaky legs to find him. He met me in the hallway.
“Breakfast?” He didn’t wait for me to answer and headed into the kitchen. “Please, sit down. I assume you’d like tea?”