Chapter 37
EDWIN
The summer slipped by. August became early September and the nights noticeably drew in.
Trace and James enjoyed barbecues in the little triangular patch of garden Trace had appropriated as his private space.
Of course, I enjoyed them too, but without the food, unless I persuaded James to offer a vein while their burgers were cooking.
James was livelier in the evenings than at any other time.
Something about the slide of day into night brought him alive, no matter his insistence he loved the sun.
He smiled more easily and was definitely way more relaxed around Trace than ever.
I loved watching them grow closer, laughing as they argued over the best way to chop onions, or slice a crusty loaf of bread — on the diagonal, even my vamp arse knew that much — or on more serious nights, the frightening amount of pollution in the sea, microplastics in general, the melting ice sheet, and other subjects I felt woefully ignorant of.
James made the point I should care, because if humans disappeared due to ruining the planet, my food source disappeared right along with them.
Chastened, I made an effort to catch up on world affairs.
These men really were good for me. I’d spent the past century wallowing in what I now realised was mourning for Bertie and my mother, coupled with shell shock — now called PTSD — that I’d made no effort to address, attempting to paper over the cracks in my heart with one meaningless fuck after another, one pub, one nightclub, one chase across the moors in search of a missing person, rather than stop to smell the proverbial roses and see what I had right under my nose.
I had Baxter, the best sister a fellow could ever dream of, a father figure in Dalziel who guided me and kept me from expiring from my worst mistakes, my other vampire siblings, and a number of other supernatural acquaintances of all varieties who had the potential to become friends.
I owned my own home, I was gifted enough at art to keep my bank account thoroughly in the black, and the Council paid me for services rendered.
It was about time I pulled my head out of my bum and acknowledged how lucky I was.
And, somehow, the scent of a blood so sweet it had made my senses reel and my sluggish heart pound had turned into a relationship with one of the best men I’d ever met, or was ever likely to, even if my immortal life offered me more scope than most. Make that two men, because Trace had also become someone I didn’t want to imagine ever living without.
And that, I realised, was a me problem, because Trace couldn’t help being mortal.
Although he enjoyed it when it happened, he wasn’t fussed about being fed from too often, so it wasn’t as if I could take him on as a second shadow, even if that might have been doable.
I wasn’t about to pressure him to take the bite in order to stay with me long term either.
I’d be fucking blessed to spend decades with James who would barely age.
If I’d still been human, I’d have been pushing up daisies by now, so I shouldn’t complain about finding love in any format.
I’d been pathetically grateful when Dalziel had turned me, because I’d known even then that doing myself in wasn’t how I wanted to be remembered.
So, having the privilege of loving Trace was something I would treasure for as long as it lasted. And when the inevitable happened, I would hope James and I would honour his memory by loving each other doubly hard for the remainder of time.
Wow. What a depressing avenue I’d wandered down.
Trace and James had been working hard all day — a change for mostly-nocturnal James, but Trace had stuff to harvest. They’d showered and eaten and were slumped watching something mindless on TV.
Even Terrance was asleep, with his head under his wing, perched on my bookshelf.
I was restless and antsy, my thoughts not ones I wanted to share, but I didn’t think I could keep a poker face this evening. I needed to head out.
“D’you boys mind if I head out for some drinks?”
Both turned and looked at me. James said, “We could come too. If you like?” He sounded so unsure that I couldn’t say no. He’d so rarely left the property since his first breakdown that it would be cruel to deny him. I’d work on my poker face. I regarded Trace. “You too?”
“Sure, why not?” He bestowed on me his best lazy smile, the one that usually signalled the promise of some utterly filthy sexy times, but rose and stretched his arms over his head.
“I’d better find something more appropriate than these old rags.
” He squeezed my arse as he headed out towards his carriage to dig through what I knew was a very modest wardrobe.
Didn’t matter what he wore, I still fancied him something chronic.
I regarded James, curled on the sofa in worn joggers and a thin sweatshirt. “You sure you’re up to it? You’ve barely slept the past two days.”
“I’m fine. Your blood keeps me going or something. I’m tired, but not stupidly so. A few drinks might be nice. We never go out together.” He stood and stared down at himself. “I’ll change as well. Been ages since I wore my new trainers.” He turned towards the bedrooms.
Ha, his new trainers. The only pair he had that weren’t falling apart, more like.
The only pair he’d allowed me to buy him.
I wished he’d let me spoil him a bit more, but at least I hadn’t picked a shadow who bled me dry with constant demands for ‘stuff’.
His needs seemed ridiculously modest to me, but as Baxter pointed out when we’d spoken about this exact subject, both James and I had grown up poor.
We’d just reacted to money in very different ways; me with glee and a sense of recklessness, him with cautious gratitude.
“And you know damn well who I’m gonna say is the better man for it, treacle,” Baxter had chirped down the phone at me.
“Surprise! It ain’t you, Mister I need ten pairs of identical pinstripe trousers. ”
“I’m not that bad!” But my protestations fell on unforgiving ears.
“You are and you know it, Marsh. Don’t make me arm wrestle you to prove it.” Baxter was a strange woman, prone to kicking my arse physically as a form of amusement.
So I splashed some cologne behind my ears and on my wrists, brushed my teeth, and ran a cloth over my shoes as I waited to see which pair of jeans — so far the only clothing weakness of his I’d discovered — James would choose tonight.
This pub was not my choice, but Trace had talked me out of the Dalston Superstore, stating it might be a bit much for James on top of the time it would take to get there, even assuming we could grab a taxi quickly.
But it was nearby and served decent enough drinks, so I shoved down my not-so-inner diva and remembered not to flirt with the probably very het bar staff.
It started off innocently enough with a couple of rounds by the bar, then we managed to snag a table in the corner.
I could happily stand all night, but I was getting used to thinking of my less robust boyfriends; they’d been on their feet all day.
The place filled up, a crowd of gobby youths with coarse language and questionable views piling in soon after we arrived, demanding and impatient as the staff raced to fill their orders.
We ignored them and leaned in closer so James could hear us without struggling or trying to lip read.
We didn’t talk about anything significant, but discussed music tastes, who we wanted to win the latest tropical island reality show, even the weather.
The latter was, of course, vitally important to Trace, but he seemed content with the long-range forecast and was happily predicting an autumn with enough time to finish all the harvesting that had been delayed earlier in the year by his move.
“You don’t regret it ever, do you?” I asked him.
A dozen emotions flitted over his face before he frowned. “Should I?”
Oh gods, no. “I hope not! I love having you with us. I just meant…it must have been quite a letdown, squeezing into such a small area after where you were before, and rarely having time to yourself. I’ve seen pictures of your old place.
” I’d asked Baxter to get some photos taken of his old cottage and the surrounding lands before his shit of an ex-landlord had bulldozed the lot.
I’d no idea if Trace was sentimental about the place, but the pictures were stored on a hard drive in case the right moment presented itself.
Was that sappy of me? Probably, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Trace quirked a brow at my statement but let it pass. I guess he knew well enough the array of equipment the Council had available. He twisted a cardboard drinks mat between his long fingers.
“It’s been an adjustment,” he admitted. “And a steep learning curve. I’m sociable, but I’ve never lived with anyone.
Or, not for a very long time. But I don’t regret a second of it.
” He raised his face and smiled, the one that crinkled his eyes and highlighted his broken nose. “I consider myself a very lucky man.”
“We’re the lucky ones.” James, in an unexpected PDA, rested his hand briefly over Trace’s where it lay on the table, before getting to his feet. “Gotta take a leak.”
We watched him thread his way through the throng, the set of his shoulders tense.
“Stop it,” Trace cautioned me, in turn placing his hand over mine.
“Stop what?”
“Do not follow him. He will lose his shit if he thinks we’re bubble-wrapping him. He grew up in care and lived in a shithole doing a variety of dodgy jobs before he met you. He’s tougher than he looks.”
I sighed. “Busted. I just want to glue myself to him to ensure his safety at all times.”
Trace smirked. “I know. I get the same urges, but he’s never going to trust us if we coddle him.”
I leaned closer than was necessary across the table. “I really want to kiss you right now.”
His pupils flared. “Oh yeah?”
“So damn much. But I don’t trust some of the meatheads in here.
” The rowdy bunch were now lobbing darts in the general direction of an ancient dart board, but a couple of them had set themselves on the edge of the crowd and kept shooting what they probably thought were furtive glances around the pub.
Trace scanned the room. “Hmm. Drug dealing?”
“Could be.” I shrugged. “Is it bad I don’t care as long as they don’t bother us?
Am I too divorced from my humanity to give a shit about what humans get up to?
” My conscience occasionally prodded me, as if to say I should care.
Like James had pointed out, I didn’t need my only food source irrevocably fucking itself over, leaving me starving.
Trace echoed my shrug. “Tonight is not the time for a battle of any kind. Let’s just drink, chat, an—”
“The fuck is that?” I spoke over him. “Shit, that’s James’ heartbeat. It’s going like the clappers.” I shot to my feet, only Trace’s iron grip on my wrist preventing me from slicing through the crowd like an avenging angel.
“Whoa, calm the hell down,” he hissed, standing and blocking my view across the room.
“Your fangs just dropped. Sort yourself out and take a damn breath. Take ten. I’ll go.
” His glare was so fierce I almost took a step back.
I retracted my fangs — Christ, Dalziel would have my bollocks if he heard about this — and faked a few hasty inhales and exhales.
“Okay, I’m good.”
Trace’s sceptical look would have withered an entire hospital of old-school matrons. “Sure you are,” he drawled. “Do not fucking move unless I call for you. You’ll hear me if I do. Stay. There.” He jabbed a finger into my chest for emphasis and strode off in the direction of the bogs.