The Neverloving Dead (Haunted Hearts)

CHAPTER 12

DEATH

GETHIN

G ethin watched in horror.

One second, he’d hit ‘Mike’ on the head – just like he’d tried to do three years ago when the bastard had been attacking him . The next, he’d shoved the bottle in a bit, then dropped it. And the next...

Well, the next was like a sodding zombie film. The killer was making weird snuffling noises, hips jerking over Patrick like he was trying to hump him, then blood had sprayed the walls, spattering the bedding, the carpet, flicking red lines over Finn’s legs. Patrick hitting an artery or something, Gethin guessed.

Gethin had tried to get him to stop. Not because he wanted his murderer to survive – it had nothing to do with that – just because he knew there was no way Patrick would ever get over doing it. Look what the accidental death had done to him: two hundred years of guilt he’d suffered for that.

He couldn’t imagine what this would do.

He wished he could tell him to leave him for the police, but that boat looked to have sailed. And anyway, the police would be busy with Jonno, wouldn’t they? And the man on the floor wouldn’t survive long enough for that – he was bleeding like a butchered lamb. It was flowing into Patrick’s mouth. Spurting.

Gethin pushed down nausea, watching bits of himself begin to unravel. Patrick didn’t seem to have noticed. He just nuzzled deeper, like a pig rooting for truffles, face scarlet from where it was bubbling and squirting under him. Gethin would have thought he was enjoying it, if it hadn’t been for the little sobs he could hear.

Relief, probably , he thought, rubbing his eyes to try to erase the vision. He’d seen how hard Patrick had fought to keep his form, so he could have the life he’d waited for. He must’ve thought he was going to die, mustn’t he? Killed beneath the same priest Gethin had died under.

Instead, here he was growing stronger.

Recovering .

Like, it was gross, but it was also good. He wanted Patrick to survive: to have everything he’d worked towards for so long. In spite of Gethin’s first impression, Patrick tried to do what was right, even after all these years. He could do with a break. A bit of luck in his life. A bit of happiness.

As to himself, his killer was finally getting justice, of sorts. And Gethin had always struggled to keep his energy here, hadn’t he? He’d be able to let go now. Stop sodding fighting. He just wished he’d been able to give Patrick a bit more joy before he’d gone, instead of pissing him off all the time and getting in his way with Stuart. He wouldn’t have thought the Grim Reaper would be his type, but he’d really bloody liked Patrick.

And he’d fancied him rotten.

He thought back now to Patrick jizzing life back into him in the alley, then to Patrick’s filthy look as he’d tucked into Stuart’s arsehole, then to kissing each other over Stuart’s forgotten dick, then to Patrick’s dick.

Crikey. What he wouldn’t have given for more of that.

The fact was he’d be leaving any minute, though. Thanks to Patrick, his killer wasn’t going to survive. Gethin could feel it: his vow being fulfilled.

There was just one thing he needed to do first.

Taking one last look at Patrick, who was chowing down like an actual vampire now – sucking it all up, the whites of his eyes turning red as he went – he moved off towards the bed, knowing this would cost every scrap of energy still in him.

The killer made a different noise, like actually, he wasn’t going to just lie there and let Patrick suck out his brains.

In truth, Gethin could probably do with some full-on screams from him.

But that didn’t look likely.

Concentrating everything he had on solidity, he pushed Finn’s phone off the bedside table and nudged it under the unconscious man’s hand. Finn’s fingerprint opened the phone. Gethin made it press the call icon and dial 999.

He willed them to answer quickly. Middling Mike was getting really pale...

“Emergency. What service do you require?”

Gethin didn’t try to answer. In the background Patrick slurped, gorging himself. It sounded horrendous. Like feeding time back on the farm.

“Emergency,” she said again. “Do you need fire, police or ambulance?”

The dying priest moaned. Too faintly. More ribbons began to leave Gethin, the effort to maintain solidity costing him dearly now.

“I cannot release your line until you say you do not need an emergency service. If you’re unable to speak, but need an emergency service, please tap the handset, cough or make a noise.”

Gethin tried to lift Finn’s finger to the screen again. His own hand slid through. He tried again. The finger sort of jabbed the phone. He had no idea whether she’d hear it.

There was a brief ringing sound. “This is the Police. If you require any emergency service, please press ‘55’ now – that’s fifty-five.”

Jesus. How the fuck was he meant to do this? He tried Finn’s finger again. The priest let out a gargling half-groan. There was a fucking disgusting breaking sound as something snapped under Patrick’s teeth. It gave Gethin the tiniest burst of horrified solidity. Finn’s finger hit the phone. ‘5’ then ‘5’.

“A police car will be with you shortly. Please leave your phone on to help us pinpoint your location.”

He hoped they’d get here soon. If the Rohypnol wore off and they hadn’t got here yet, they might think Finn had done this. He looked back at it all. For once, Patrick looked like a demon. The dark hair was slick with blood, his teeth were black and red. He adjusted his head over the wound to suck deeper, sobbing more. Gethin’s murderer was no longer conscious.

Whatever Patrick had broken had increased the flow: blood was running freely now, darkening the rug in an almost black halo around the man’s body.

Gethin’s energy weakened suddenly.

The ghost of the priest rose, long shirt covering his dick anyway, which was a relief. The man’s eyes were wide as he stared down at his body. At Patrick feeding from it. He looked revolted. Gethin took some last-minute satisfaction from it: from the man having to watch it happen.

It still wasn’t as bad as what Gethin and Matt had had to watch.

Patrick stopped taking in blood, presumably sensing the life had gone from it. His long, skeletal hands went to the priest’s top, bunching the material as he buried his head in it, sobs rising.

Gethin looked for a few moments longer, sorry he’d driven Patrick to this. Patrick had tried so hard, for so long. And Gethin had messed everything up in about five minutes. Just like he always did.

Just like Patrick had told him.

He hoped Stuart would comfort him.

Wished it could be him instead.

At least Patrick would get his body now, he told himself as the ribbons lengthened, running away from him in earnest now. Carrying him off.

So maybe Patrick would get his life after all. Just like he’d always wanted.

Gethin smiled, at peace finally, despite the pain. Then he relaxed.

And let himself drift away.