The Neverloving Dead (Haunted Hearts)

CHAPTER 7

RULE 4: WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T CARE

PATRICK

“ H ow about him?” Patrick said over a twinge of annoyance, as yet another man left the bar where Gethin used to work, this one in his mid-twenties with pink hair and a pillowy smile.

Gethin folded his arms. It emphasised his biceps, which again had a more tanned look now he was better fed, the energy seeming to shine from them. Nothing like Patrick’s sallow, sickly look. “Actually, no. That one’s a bit ‘pretty boy’ for me.”

“ He is?” Gethin was surely the definition of a pretty boy.

“Yeah, you know? A Princess Please-Me. Happy to get serviced, but you should count yourself lucky, right? Like, I’d shag him, don’t get me wrong – and they’re not all like that, just because they’re pretty, mind – but I prefer my men a bit down and dirty, you know? Or preferred them,” he amended gloomily. He pointed as two more men left, the bar’s 2 a.m. closing time fast approaching. “Shagged the one on the right, though.” He gestured over his shoulder, lifting both eyebrows. “In this very alley.”

Patrick tried not to let it get to him. The sense of his relative sexual inexperience had only grown in the last two-and-a-half weeks, most of which they’d spent here, opposite Gayles , waiting for the killer to return. He had returned once, ten days ago, though he hadn’t stayed long. All he’d done was angle his phone towards the window as if typing a message – taking photos, Gethin had said. After a few minutes, he’d left. They’d followed, holding back for Gethin’s sake. The man had entered Elephant and Castle Tube Station, where it had been too busy for them to go.

Oddly, Patrick hadn’t recognised him. He’d expected to. He’d been in a lot of men’s rooms, all over London. Not that there was anything particularly distinctive about the man. As Gethin had said, he could have been ten different men inside Gayles alone – the owner, Jonno, could have been his brother. He could see why Gethin called him ‘Middling Mike’. Yet Patrick was certain: he’d never seen this man.

So here they both were, watching still, whilst Patrick was treated to a walking montage of all the men Gethin had ever fucked. From this one bar, anyway.

“What’s that, the thirtieth?” he griped. It felt like more. He knew Gethin was just trying to keep the horribly dark stake-out light-hearted and friendly feeling, but it was getting under Patrick’s skin: exacerbating his concern that he was unseasoned and amateur, he told himself over a stab of something else.

Nor did it help that, other than a few meal-trips, Patrick had been confined to licking up deposits from this alley and feeding Gethin himself. He liked the latter more than he cared to admit – watching Gethin on his knees, lips around his cock, fellating him with a skill that far outstripped the skill of the man Patrick had died for. But it wasn’t replacing his energy. As a result, they were both getting weak, and Patrick was getting edgy.

He needed to hunt more.

Gethin gave him a ‘look’, which he probably deserved. “You’re an incubus, Patrick, so stop judging me, alright? I’m sure in the twelve years I lived here, you sucked off a lot more guys than I ever did.” He stared up the street a little wistfully. “Good times, though. Oh, fuck.” He sat up, rubbing his chest uneasily. The golden glow seemed to abate. Anxiety crept into his gaze.

“What? Surely you haven’t seen another one?”

Gethin’s lip curled, as if he’d swallowed something bitter. “The murder-feeling just ramped. Like something made it worse.” He rubbed his chest some more, looking up the street again. “Patrick, I don’t think he’s all that far away.”

Patrick sat forwards, following his gaze. Gethin had never sensed distance before. Was he saying the murderer might do something tonight? Attack someone? Who? He looked back at the bar, where customers were beginning to leave, milling outside. They still hadn’t worked out who the killer was even watching – whether he was a regular at the bar who was only being intermittently stalked, or a non-regular who was also being stalked elsewhere. Whoever it was might not even be in there. “Can you tell where he is ? What direction?”

Gethin shook his head, huffing then rubbing his throat.

After a few seconds, he said something that sounded like ‘dew dew’ then huffed again. “Patrick, we don’t even have a plan. Like, it’s brilliant you’ll be strong enough to do something, but I won’t be, will I?” His gaze drifted over a couple of men kissing just outside the bar as another man walked past and slapped one of their arses.

Patrick had grown more accustomed to hearing his name from Gethin now. He liked it. It felt like a reminder, of sorts, that he’d once been a real person. That he still was, in a way.

As to the question, though, he’d no idea what he’d do. Even if he’d still had as much strength as Gethin believed, it wasn’t that simple. He could hardly pick up a poker and batter a fellow, murderer or not.

He tried not to think about the man he’d once killed.

“I told you. I can help you learn to feed from the living,” he said, the thought needling him. The last thing he wanted to think about was Gethin with yet more attractive men; and besides, he liked the fact Gethin fed only from him. On the other hand, he also liked having his own energy. A future. And Gethin had just said he liked getting ‘down and dirty’, hadn’t he?

So he’d probably prefer it to feeding from Patrick anyway.

The main thing was that the Welshman built his strength, he reminded himself. The sooner he did that, the sooner they’d catch his killer and the sooner he’d move on – leaving Patrick free to focus on his own mission. To build his corporeal form without being constantly drained.

Lately, it was beginning to feel like a refrain.

“It isn’t your fight,” Gethin said. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t just leave me to it.” He looked around. “The murder-feeling’s gone, anyway.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah.” He kept looking up and down the street awhile, then settled where he sat, watching pensively as people vacating the bar began whooping and calling to each other about clubs. Eventually he said, “I dunno. Like he’s pushed it down or something. I can’t be sure, but I think he’s... punishing himself in some way. And I don’t think he was that close. I think he was just thinking about the bar. About whoever it was.”

“You couldn’t see–”

“Nah. I never see anything, do I? I don’t like it that the feelings are getting stronger, though.” After a few seconds, he shuddered, huffed again, then floated to his feet. “I suppose you should feed me again, just in case.” He winced on the word ‘feed’. “Not here, though. Not at kicking out time.” As he said it, a man bounced up beside him, whipped out a thick penis and began urinating against the alley wall, shouting over his shoulder at his friends, swaying a little. The urine glimmered in the full moonlight, trickling back into the street.

Seeing the living man’s prick just reminded Patrick how depleted he was. How hungry. He’d tried, a bit half-heartedly, to tell Gethin in the alley that time: the ‘feedings’ did take energy. Gethin hadn’t mentioned it since – perhaps he’d been too near death to take it in – and Patrick hadn’t repeated it. He should have. He knew that. But Gethin had gone hunting that night because he didn’t want to keep feeding from Patrick. He’d proven their feedings would stop once he could hunt for himself.

And Patrick didn’t like the thought of it not happening again – of not seeing Gethin there. Taking almost his entire length.

He knew it was selfish. Occasionally he passed it off in his mind as being about Gethin’s welfare instead, which it also was. Gethin had nearly died when he’d gone off on his own. And Patrick didn’t want that either. That was a simple matter of safety. Of humanity.

Of not becoming a monster.

“Of course,” he smiled. “We can go to your cwtch. Though I should probably find a meal afterwards.” Or several meals. He stood, pushing down his increasing concern about that. “Just to top up, you know?”

“Repeat after me, Patrick: People aren’t meals.”

Patrick gave him a dry look.

They headed through the wall into Specsavers , silently passing the plinths of frames, making their way through a dark corridor flanked by test rooms, then out through the building’s back wall onto another, quieter street. Gethin’s flat was on the next road along. He appeared thoughtful. Other than when they’d seen his killer, Patrick had noticed he hadn’t been as angry of late – more hopeful, perhaps. Certainly more focused.

He wondered if it was spending so much time watching Gayles . The feeling that he was doing something at last. For Gethin, the nightly reminders of his old life would have galvanised him. All Patrick seemed to have learned was what kinds of men most living men were looking for these days. What kinds of men Gethin had looked for: handsome, earthy, confident.

The opposite of Patrick.

He couldn’t help wishing there was some way of making himself more desirable; not just to Gethin – not to Gethin, he told himself – to any man. Other men. All the men he planned to meet when he had his form again. Gethin was merely a barometer for that, an indicator of what others found attractive. That was why it bothered him so much, he thought. It had nothing to do with Gethin.

He watched the Welshman’s broad back as they floated through the wall into his building – the colourful shirt squeezing his shoulders as he walked up the stairwell. There weren’t any ways to change himself, though: in limbo, one’s physique remained as it had been at death. Bemoaning that was as futile and circular as everything else in damnation. He would always be grim, gaunt and under-sunned. He was already building the only aspect of his body he could.

Or he would be. If only he could stop giving his energy to Gethin.

They reached the door, drifting through it as if it wasn’t there, following a well-worn course through the neat, leather-and-wood lounge towards the bedroom and Gethin’s cwtch . This would be the last time, he told himself. He’d fed the Welshman for three weeks. It was time for Gethin to branch out – for them both to accept he had to get his meals the same way Patrick did.

With others.

He just wished the idea felt better.

The irritation was short-lived. Gethin stopped so abruptly, Patrick almost went through him, which would have given Patrick some of his energy back, at least, but wouldn’t have helped Gethin.

“What are y–” he began. He couldn’t see anything unusual, other than the fact the curtains were open, pouring moonlight into the room. Stuart was sprawled naked atop his covers, yes, but it was almost half two in the morning and Stuart wasn’t one for parties or late nights. And he was frequently naked atop his covers. He had been the first time Patrick had ever set eyes on him.

“Uh,” said Gethin.

Patrick looked harder. “What?”

“Well... what’s going on here?” Gethin whispered – unnecessarily, since between Stuart being asleep and Patrick and Gethin being dead, he was certain they wouldn’t be overheard.

They floated a little closer, Gethin peering intensely. As Patrick moved, the moonlight reflected differently, glittering over what looked like a dry patch of ejaculate on Stuart’s abdomen. Was that all? “If you’re wondering how long sperm lasts – not long enough to get anything from that.”

He supposed it was odd. Stuart was usually so scrupulous. His flat was like a show-home.

Gethin drifted nearer, form flickering, as if he were agitated. Patrick followed.

“He’s breathing alright.” Gethin’s voice was a little anxious. Patrick realised, suddenly, what the Welshman must have thought – returning here, to the same flat in which he’d been raped and murdered...

Stuart’s chest was rising and falling, though. Restful and even. He looked healthy. Just sound asleep.

Patrick eyed the come.

What he’d said to Gethin was correct. Unless it was frozen swiftly, as at the sperm bank, the life force in semen didn’t last. On the other hand...

He looked closely at Stuart, checking he really was asleep, then turned his gaze to Gethin. “You should practice. Instead of feeding from me.” Annoyingly, he found he had to force the words out.

Both of Gethin’s eyebrows lifted. He folded his arms. “Stuart’s asleep ,” he said, as if Patrick had missed that. “He hasn’t asked to have a ghost lick his razzmatazz off him and he probably wouldn’t want a man to anyway since, as I already told you, he’s straight .”

Patrick made himself smile. “Stuart isn’t straight.”

“Oh, really? He watches straight porn to put himself off , does he?”

From which Patrick gathered Gethin hadn’t even been able to bring himself to look at sex on Stuart’s laptop. “He watches multiples. Always one woman.” He gave Gethin his most pointed look. “And the men don’t wait their turn.”

Gethin blinked, looking away from Patrick, at Stuart’s face. “You think he might be bi?”

Patrick shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to him that he’d just made Gethin twice as interested in Stuart. “All that matters is this is an excellent opportunity for you to learn how to touch a man without waking him. How to take his spendings yourself.” He ignored a brief fizzle of discomfort. “You won’t have to do it for long. Just until you stop your killer. Then you can leave.” The fizzle became needles. Swords.

Gethin gave him rather a hard look. “I can leave and you won’t have to feed me your energy anymore.” Patrick couldn’t tell whether it was a statement or a question.

He looked back down at the sperm on Stuart’s belly, mostly so he didn’t have to look at Gethin. “Exactly.” His voice did sound quiet.

“Right. Obviously.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“No,” Gethin said.

The change in atmosphere was so abrupt, Patrick almost felt it. He had no idea what to make of it. This was surely as close to consent as Gethin could get. Stuart had left it there – they’d merely be cleaning him. He shored something up inside him. “You said your murderer’s energy was stronger tonight. What will you do if he strikes and you’re too weak? You have to learn how to feed yoursel–”

“I know all that,” Gethin interrupted, more coldly than Patrick was used to from him. Gethin was many things, but cold wasn’t one of them. “Why do you think I went looking the other week, if not to get out of your bloody hair? Do you think I like feeding from you?” He broke off, frowning down at Stuart with an expression that suggested he was covered in barbs instead of ejaculate.

There was a long silence.

After a few seconds, he rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, Patrick. I’m being a twat. Feeding from you is actually... Well, you never needed to help me, did you, and I really appreciate it that you have. Of course I have to learn.” He huffed. “Look at me, wobbling out over a bit of leftover jizz, eh?”

Patrick studied him.

Gethin had told him what had happened in the room with the couch: how the man had woken and panicked, nearly killing Gethin in the process. Patrick knew he hadn’t tried any other living men since then, so perhaps that was the problem – the fear he might fail again. It had to be that or the general aversion to sperm, didn’t it? To living bodies.

Patrick couldn’t think of anything else.

“Does it get any more ‘down and dirty’ than discarded sperm?” he said. Stuart’s sperm , he’d nearly said . Stuart, who was far more Gethin’s type than Patrick was.

Gethin frowned at him. And why had he even said it? He’d aimed for light-heartedness, to prove none of this bothered him, but he could see it hadn’t come out that way. He’d sounded as creepy and wrongly timed as the Welshman had always found him.

“Just focus on your solidity,” he said instead. “A sleeping person’s energy is more predictable, so you’re far less likely to get suddenly drained – but if he moves, stop and calmly step away. As with the last man you tried, you should be safe so long as neither of you get upset. That’s your priority. Staying safe.” Patrick was taken aback to hear himself phrase it that way. He usually didn’t, when he was thinking about his own feeding. “Keeping your energy safe, I mean,” he amended. “Building energy is more important than anything else.”

He sounded like a bumbling, rambling dimwit.

“Noted,” Gethin replied. Again, the barbed expression flashed over his face. “Anything else?”

Again, Patrick couldn’t see why. Perhaps Gethin thought he was patronising him again. “Go slowly and keep your movements light and steady. You won’t be fellating him anyway, as you do me. Just licking. So that’s probably all you need to know.”

To his surprise, the Welshman blushed a little.

Before Patrick could do more than wonder why, Gethin lowered his head over Stuart’s lovely, furry belly – not as carefully as Patrick would have liked, but he did at least pause a few inches away. He looked up at Patrick.

“This where you want me?” he asked, a little testily.

Stuart’s come glistened under his chin.

Patrick tried to look away, but failed. He knew where he wanted Gethin, and it most certainly wasn’t where he was now. “Perfect, yes,” he managed. “Always remember, when you’re in contact with a living person, watch his face. Keep watching. And listen to his breath. Any change, pause again.”

Gethin’s gaze moved to Stuart, which was both a relief and a disappointment. Patrick tried not to think about either fact.

After a little while, Gethin’s tongue poked out, hesitant. A few moments later, he touched it to Stuart’s belly. Patrick felt a jolt through his groin.

Memories , he told himself, even though it wasn’t the first time it had happened around Gethin.

“Good,” he said, less authoritatively than he’d have liked. “I shall supervise, naturally,” he added, hoping that made it all sound more instructive. As if he, Patrick, lived to teach such things.

Gethin didn’t acknowledge it but, slowly, eyes fixed on Stuart’s face, he began to lick – lightly at first, barely disturbing the dried semen at all, soon a little harder, tongue eventually beginning to stir the belly hair.

Patrick looked at Stuart’s face, mostly because he was afraid watching Gethin lick the man was going to get him either very vexed or very hard – neither of which he had any desire to explain.

Stuart murmured something, hips lifting slightly, drawing Patrick’s attention back to the area.

Gethin stopped. Waited. Correctly.

Patrick considered telling him to back off. Only his throat seemed to have seized up. Gethin looked so beautiful there. So concentrated. So alive. After perhaps half a minute, he began again, lapping at the hair, tracing the semen trail over Stuart’s abdomen, lingering over the navel, where some seemed to have pooled.

If it wasn’t dry yet, it might even contain a little life force.

Patrick watched, spellbound, as Gethin dipped his tongue in. Sampling Stuart.

As careful as Patrick ever was.

Stuart’s cock twitched faintly, soft on his thigh. Patrick watched Gethin’s gaze move to it, frowning as if he might stop. He didn’t, though. He kept his head exactly level, his mouth the perfect distance from Stuart’s skin, his tongue working expertly.

Patrick was growing harder.

He folded his hands over his groin. Ashamed. Wondering if he should stop the experiment.

He imagined Gethin’s tongue on him, instead. On his belly.

On his cock again. Licking his balls, his taint... his arse.

He bit the inside of his lip, a little shocked by the thought. At how he could be thinking about it when Gethin was doing such an incredible job of challenging himself. He wasn’t even sure where the image had come from. He’d never had anything like that happen to him – though he’d seen it many times, of course. Wondered what it might feel like.

Gethin just kept licking. Closer and closer to Stuart’s cock.

Which was also beginning to fill.

Which Gethin could surely see.

He wondered if the Welshman might try it after all, just because it was Stuart. Again, he imagined it: Gethin slipping his mouth around the substantial shaft and...

He had to stop imagining things, he chided himself. It wasn’t just that he was meant to be keeping watch – it was also... unhelpful.

Gethin moved closer still. If he moved any lower, Stuart’s cock would nudge his cheek. All Gethin would have to do would be to turn his head sideways, open his mouth and...

Stuart’s head came up off the pillow.

Gethin threw himself back some ten feet, eyes widening in horror. Patrick appreciated, suddenly, just how savage the last person must have become. “I’m sorr–” he began. What on earth had he been thinking? What was wrong with him?

“I thought you were ‘supervising’!” Gethin hissed.

“I was distracted. I–”

“Shush.” Gethin appeared frozen. He was staring at Stuart.

Stuart had pushed himself onto one elbow. He looked around, then down, fingers of one hand tracing the area Gethin had just been licking. After a few seconds, the hand moved to his cock, feeling its hardness.

“Is someone there?”

The question was so unexpected, Patrick almost didn’t know who’d asked it. It was only when his brain registered the accent wasn’t Welsh that he realised it must have been Stuart. The idea felt so strange, he had to remind himself he’d heard the man speak before. The accent was a normal London one.

Neither of them replied.

What was the point? Even if they shouted, he wouldn’t hear them.

“Look. If there’s someone there...” Stuart stared around. The moonlight was bright enough to illuminate most of the room. Patrick glanced again at the curtains. Open. As if Stuart had expected to look for something. “If there is someone, can you, I don’t know... tap my leg or something?”

Gethin’s eyes widened further. Patrick didn’t know what to do. He understood the question. He just couldn’t understand why anyone would want anything tapping his leg in the middle of the night, let alone something they couldn’t see. Stuart couldn’t think there was a real, visible person there, could he? Not with the curtains open...

“I left some, uh, come on myself tonight. And it’s gone,” the man said. “Another time, all my things were knocked over and my dick felt like it had been sucked, but there wasn’t any, well, come . Another time, some of my come disappeared as I came. In mid-air,” he clarified. “If there’s someone there... please. I just need to know I’m not going round the bloody twist.”

“Is he saying this was a test ?” Gethin said.

It struck Patrick that he was.

Stuart continued to gaze around.

Gethin shuffled uncomfortably. Patrick could see him fighting himself. After a few seconds, he leaned forwards and touched the man’s shin.

“What are you doing?” Patrick snapped.

Stuart paled slightly. Or perhaps it was the full moon. “Was that you? Can you touch my shin again?”

Again? “Gethin, he’ll drain you!”

Gethin looked rigid as he reached forwards. Touched again.

“Jesus.” Stuart huffed out, following it with a long inbreath that puffed his squat chest handsomely. “Okay,” he said, as if he’d waited his whole life for a moment such as this. “Are you a ghost? An invisible man? A demon?”

“What the sodding heck is happening?” Gethin said. “Who asks thin bloody air if it’s a demon?”

There was no way of answering either question.

“I mean fair play to him,” Gethin went on. “If I couldn’t see them right there, I’d think he had bollocks the size of pomegranates, but duw duw , Patrick. Has this ever happened to you before?”

Patrick decided he didn’t want to hear about Stuart’s marvellous balls. “No.”

“Not once in two hundred years?”

“One tap for yes, two for no,” Stuart said. “ Are you a demon?”

“If you keep touching him, he’ll drain you. He’s awake.” Patrick immediately regretted speaking. Not the part about touching – so long as Stuart remained calm and Gethin focused on his form, he’d be fine – but the part about being awake. The man was perfectly able to see Stuart was awake.

Gethin gave him a look that said much the same thing, then tapped twice.

Stuart appeared relieved. As one would. “A ghost, then?”

Gethin tapped once.

“Okay, okay. A ghost.” He peered at his leg. “And just to check: Are you here to harm me?”

“Gethin, stop touching him.” He hoped he didn’t sound as disturbed as he felt. He couldn’t decide whether it was fear for Gethin or just the thought of him with Stuart...

“What? We can’t leave him like this. He already said – poor bugger thought he was going bananas.” Two taps. “And he’s not freaking out, is he? Yet.”

He wasn’t. It made no sense. If this had happened to Patrick in life, he’d have thought it was Satan himself, come to tempt him from the ecclesiastical path. He’d seen men run naked into the streets. Screaming. Stuart appeared to be in his element.

“Okay,” he said, running a hand over his belly again. “Have you been... well, if it’s not too personal a question... Have you been taking my come?”

Gethin merely folded his arms, rounding his biceps, before uncrossing one to point at Stuart, as if to tell Patrick he was really the one who ought to answer that.

“I mean, it is quite personal,” Patrick grumbled, gritting his teeth and looking down, reminding himself this was his plan for the future: to gain enough solidity and visibility, together, so that he could touch living men at any time. Communicate with them. Find happiness.

Despite the situation, it all felt suddenly very abstract.

He tapped once.

Stuart looked surprised. “You moved. Or,” he swallowed, “is there... more than one of you?”

Patrick tapped again.

“Oh my god... uh, how many?”

He tapped twice. Gethin looked satisfied, as if he hadn’t expected someone so morally dubious as Patrick to tell the truth.

“Okay.” Stuart heaved a sigh. “Well, now we’ve got that out of the way, I should ask if you’re taking my come for anything sinister. Like, to steal my soul or something.” He held up a hand. “No offence.”

Patrick had no idea what counted as sinister. He was trying to regain a body, not unlike a vampire, and Gethin was trying to bring down a serial killer. He shrugged at Gethin.

Gethin tapped twice, frowning at Patrick.

“Right, well, that’s a relief. Are you just... I mean, are you getting something from it? Does it help you in some way?”

Gethin picked up his eyebrows.

Patrick tapped once. He thought he could see what the next question might be – whether or not he, Stuart, was losing anything.

Instead he asked, a little shyly, “And do you, uh... like it?”

Patrick looked at Gethin, with no idea why he was doing so. Perhaps because he’d always told the fellow he felt nothing more than cold, hard necessity.

Gethin gave him a flat look. “You can’t say no, or you’ll give the man a complex.”

Patrick tapped once.

“You... you like sucking cock?”

Gethin gave him a long look. Cringing at the idea he was watching, Patrick tapped once.

Stuart’s breath seemed to speed. “What?” he said, in little more than a whisper. “Both of you?”

Honey eyes on Patrick, Gethin leaned forwards. Tapped once.

Stuart leaned back. Patrick realised the man’s hand was back on his prick, massaging, just lightly. “Are you both women?”

Gethin smirked at Patrick. Tapped twice.

“Oh,” said Stuart in an odd, high voice.

Patrick smirked back at Gethin. “He isn’t straight,” he promised.

“Are either of you women?”

Gethin tapped twice.

There was a rather long pause.

“Jesus,” Stuart breathed. “Have I got... gay ghosts?”

Eyes still not moving from Patrick, Gethin tapped once.

Stuart’s cock-massage sped a little.

Patrick allowed his smile to spread. “Not straight,” he mouthed.

“And you’re, uh, like... have I got this right? You’re wanting to suck me ?”

The man’s voice had been a hoarse, bare whisper. Gethin’s gaze dropped to Stuart’s hand. The evidence was clear: Stuart had hardened up nicely as they’d talked. Patrick wasn’t sure how to feel. Gethin had the consent he’d wanted. From an attractive, apparently fearless man, with whom he already lived.

Don’t feel anything , he reminded himself. He tapped the man’s leg.

“Right. Right,” Stuart said in a wonderstruck tone. After a few seconds, he added, “And do you need me to be asleep?”

They both reached forwards simultaneously. Patrick hesitated. Gethin let his own smile spread.

He tapped twice. No.

It struck Patrick for the first time since they’d begun that Gethin didn’t look nauseous.

So perhaps the fact it was Stuart did make all the difference. Patrick wasn’t sure how to feel about that either.

Stuart straightened his legs and bunched his pillow. Breath shallow, cheeks even rosier than usual above his beard, he began teasing his penis with little movements, fondling just behind the head, occasionally shuffling his hand back and forth or squeezing the shaft. “Blimey,” he said awkwardly. He swallowed. “The thing is... well, my Aunt Sal was quite a well-known psychic in her day. Had a parlour in Covent Garden, she did: Sal’s Spirit Salon . When I were fifteen and she was on her deathbed, she says to me, “Stuart, love. You’re gonna help some ghosts someday.” Me! Have to say, I never imagined I’d be helping like this. With a blowjob .” He puffed, widening his eyes as if reliving the conversation. “Wonder if she knew...”

After a few seconds, he added, “You’re sure that’s what you want, yeah?”

Patrick watched as the Welshman reached forwards and tapped. Once.

Stuart muttered, “Wild,” under his breath.

Gethin’s gaze was on Patrick again. He lifted his eyebrows. He might have told Stuart he wanted it, but the question was clear.

Should he do it?

Patrick’s throat tightened. Which was a surprise, actually, since that usually happened when he felt his future shrinking. Stuart was the perfect meal for the Welshman: safe, local, willing. And this would build Gethin’s energy, so he wouldn’t have to take Patrick’s anymore. Stuart feeding Gethin would put Patrick’s future back on track.

Gethin just kept looking at him. He looked stunning in the moonlight – a vision of light brown eyes, golden hair and clean-shaven skin. Patrick imagined Gethin’s hairless body against Stuart’s furry one and felt a sharp stab of something. He did his best to sound professional, detached. “His energy’s too strong.”

It was radiating from Stuart. He was so aroused, he was practically generating gravity.

Gethin made himself as solid as he could. Still nowhere near as solid as Stuart. “I should try. What have I got to lose?”

What did he have to lose? “He could drain you. Both of us,” he added.

“You said yourself I need to learn – so I can face my killer, who’ll be solid too, and so you won’t have to feed me anymore. And Stuart’s calm...ish. And he asked , Patrick. So it won’t feel like, you know. Like my rape.” He looked away, too fast. Surely he wasn’t ashamed ? “As for draining me,” he added quietly. “If I have to stagger away, well, you’ve told me loads of times it costs you almost nothing to feed me.”

He had said that, hadn’t he?

Everything Gethin had said was true.

The Welshman’s gaze was level. Certain. “Patrick, I have to do this.”

Also true.

Stuart’s hand was shuffling a little faster.

Patrick sighed. Pointlessly. “Make yourself as solid as you can,” he said, concern flooding him. He pushed it down. “Stop if you feel drained at all.” He thought he’d done well to say anything.

Gethin just gave him another look, as if to say he wasn’t an idiot. “Patrick, I can do this,” he said. He didn’t look away.

After a few long seconds, in which Patrick wished, with all his heart, that he was Stuart, Gethin lowered his head.