The Neverloving Dead (Haunted Hearts)

CHAPTER 13

RULE 7: SOMETIMES THERE’S NO WAY BACK

PATRICK

P atrick had had no idea that blood was so much stronger than come. It was in the Bible, of course: God had supposedly forbidden Noah from eating flesh “with life, which is the blood , still in it”. Really though, from the strength of the incubus who’d saved him all those years ago, he’d assumed they were roughly equal.

They weren’t. Blood was the most awful revelation. Its energy didn’t just seep in, as with semen, gradually invigorating him. It pounded in like a river, pushed like a hurricane, cracked like electricity. It was so sublime, it hurt. As if the pain of losing Gethin wasn’t enough.

He both hated and loved every second.

He couldn’t even watch as Gethin left. He knew he was there, fading. He’d seen the colourful strips drifting around the room, disintegrating; then closed his eyes to avoid them. Sobbed tears that wouldn’t fall. He was killing the priest for justice, yes. And to save Finn. But mostly so that Gethin could go free.

So he could leave without regret. Complete in his task in a way Patrick would never be.

That didn’t mean he had to see it happen.

As the final spark of the priest’s life rushed nearer, sucked from his very core, Patrick knew, without a doubt, that he was doing it for himself too: not just because he was hungrier than he’d ever been, but because with Gethin gone, everything would be different. He would be different.

Before Gethin, he’d plodded on – disciplined, sober, moral, telling himself he was ‘above’ temptation and earthly desire. Here, savaging the priest for every last drop of life, he could see otherwise. Even the thought of returning to the endless silence of dust and shadow, to manage all that alone, was more than he could bear.

He could see now: he wouldn’t be able to do it. Blood was too powerful for him. Perhaps with practice he could learn to control himself – to not kill – but how many would die as he learned that control? How would he carry that weight? If he relied on Stuart’s sperm, though, he’d kill him. And if he had to spend centuries rebuilding himself with the semen of unconscious men, remembering what had happened to Gethin, he would go mad.

He was already so tired of it. Of emptiness. Of circular days and nights that consisted of nothing more than counting loss and gain. No life. No pleasure.

No hope.

There was only one other choice.

He sucked deeper, drawing the spark through the rich blood, tasting a faint, iron-edged tang that seemed to burn through him: confirmation that the choice was right; that he shouldn’t be here.

It was simple, really. Gethin would never have been his lover, because Gethin was as bright as Patrick was dull, as warm as Patrick was cold, as beautiful as Patrick was plain, as unpredictable as Patrick was rule-driven and ponderous. Next to Gethin, he’d been dead for an age already.

Every time he’d helped Gethin, he’d told himself it was for gain. None of it was true. All of it was because he’d wanted to be near the man. Patrick was a drab moth to a shimmering, vibrant flame. And now that flame was extinguishing.

And anything was better than staying in limbo without it.

The priest’s ghost had risen by this point. Patrick had always done all he could to avoid traumatising or terrorising those from whom he fed. Right now, he couldn’t care less. He was gratified to see his horror. The ribbons of Gethin crumbled. Weakened.

Disappeared.

And pain went through Patrick such as he’d never known.

He opened his mouth, pushing the drained head away, clawing down over the priest’s top, gripping it, wishing he could somehow pull Gethin from it. Drag him back from death. His throat hurt. What the hell had he done? Pressing his face deeper into the priest’s blood-soaked shoulder, he let the agony tear through him. Two hundred years of absolutely nothing. Over and over and over.

Strict separateness. No feeling, no desire, no joy.

And then one small burst of... something.

Something he hadn’t even let himself think . Because once again, he’d been waiting to live.

Had he really believed the reason he hadn’t lived life the first time was because he’d be rewarded with Heaven at some later point? Had he really believed that giving up God would stop him making that mistake again?

What had Gethin said? What you are, Patrick, is afraid of life. This one, the next one – it doesn’t sodding matter cos you’ll never bloody start .

It was why he had to do this now.

Looking up at the priest. Patrick wiped his hands over his face to clear some of the blood. Bits showered off him. Clots. Drips. A small bit of something white. He stood, tugging his cassock straight.

The man was shorter than he was. Taller than Gethin, but with nowhere near the brightness of energy. There was a foulness to him. Patrick hoped his spirit wouldn’t linger, that no one would damn him in the next few minutes. Not for the sake of the priest – just because his was exactly the sort of spirit limbo could do without. The sort who was obsessive and inhuman even before he’d begun to be dead.

Patrick drifted to the bedside table, picked up the five hundred pounds and laid it on the priest’s corpse, over his eyes: paying the ferryman handsomely to take the soul. Just in case there was anything in the custom.

Gethin’s killer watched every move, perhaps disturbed Patrick was doing something non-Christian to his body, perhaps just in trauma. He was pale and trembling slightly, as if he thought Patrick might continue to kill him even here, in limbo. He didn’t understand. Patrick had done what he’d done so Gethin could leave.

And for this...

He imbued his gaze with all the contempt he felt. “There is no Heaven or Hell,” he said. “And if there was, Heaven wouldn’t have you. They were all worth more than you. Gethin was worth a million of you and a thousand of me.”

The priest didn’t reply. He appeared incapable of speech.

“Absolve me,” Patrick said.

He was surprised at how easily the words came. At how sure he felt.

It was the same thing he’d hoped for when he’d first died, of course – the thing he’d sought for years: a priest to give him absolution. It wouldn’t matter that this one was even more monstrous than he was. Or that he was dead. The man was a priest and Last Rites hadn’t been read yet, which would have absolved him already, freeing his spirit to move straight on.

Besides which, with the mangled, bloody heap lying between them, there was no way back. Patrick didn’t deserve another life, any more than the priest did. And he didn’t want one without Gethin. This was now the only one thing he could hope for.

The priest blinked. For all he appeared to understand the order, Patrick might have told him to build a city using only his teeth.

“Absolve me, or I will make limbo worse for you than you can imagine,” Patrick clarified.

Even as he threatened it, the idea of moving on settled a little more, finding a sore but steady crook within him and nesting there. He’d only given up on moving forwards, into the ignorant bliss of oblivion, because every priest had thought him a demon. But that was no reason to run from oblivion now, was it? When he’d more or less proven it.

And who knew? Maybe there would be another life beyond, and he’d see Gethin again, and Gethin would somehow think he wasn’t a depraved psycho, and they’d float off together into the sunset of eternity...

The priest cleared his throat, seemingly in an effort to pull himself together. “And why should I absolve my killer? Why should I liberate your soul to Heav–”

“There is no Heaven,” Patrick repeated, stepping forward, standing almost close enough to drip blood on him. Certainly close enough to assert his height. “And I know you know the prayer well, since you recited it to your victims, one of whom I cared about greatly. I cannot make this plain enough: If you don’t absolve me, I’ll have nowhere to be but here. In limbo. Where you are. Absolution is the only way you will ever be rid of me.” He imparted his iciest look. “I promise.”

The priest glanced at Finn, as if he thought he’d still be able to finish the job if Patrick left. He wouldn’t. Newly dead ghosts were weak, no one had damned him yet and his killer, Patrick, was plainly already dead – so he didn’t even have vengeance to stay for. The priest should be leaving any moment.

So Patrick didn’t set him straight.

The priest gave a stiff half-nod, as if having his life sucked out through his skull had left him with a headache. Again, he glanced at Finn. “Absolve, we ask, O Lord,” he began vaguely, “the soul of your servant, so that dead to the world he may live for You.” His voice cracked on ‘dead to the world’, which seemed to disconcert him. Patrick didn’t soften his expression.

Instead, he steeled himself, waiting for death. Wishing only that the man would deliver it faster.

“And whatever through the frailty of flesh he committed through human interaction,” the man went on more slowly, eyes dropping to his own body, scarlet on the sopping rug. “Wipe away by the forg... by the forgiveness of,” he swallowed, hand going to his throat as if noticing he hadn’t swallowed at all, “of Your most merciful piety. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.” He whispered the last word, frowning.

Realising, Patrick thought.

Not that his actions had been wrong, but that he really was dead.

Patrick looked down at himself, waiting for the ribbons to start unspooling, wondering how easy they would be to see. Knowing only that they would be far, far duller than Gethin’s.

At first, nothing happened.

Which made sense, he told himself. He’d just become very strong, so perhaps it would take a little time. Or perhaps it would start somewhere unusual. He twisted, looking at the backs of his legs.

The priest gasped.

Patrick spun back, looking first at his own front – which looked exactly as it had a moment ago: a blood-soaked black cassock – then at the priest.

“What’s happening?” the man sputtered. His eyes were wide. Mad-looking. Vivid with fear.

Patrick watched, impassive as he’d ever been, as the priest’s spirit began dissolving into spectral tatters.

He knew a second of concern at the idea the man might be anywhere near Gethin again. But even if he could damn him – keep him here forever as he, Patrick, had been kept – he wouldn’t. If the priest had been a predator in life, he would most certainly continue in death.

So Patrick just kept watching.

It didn’t take long. Not compared to Gethin anyway, who’d fought for every ribbon – pitted his will against death itself. And won: ‘Mike’ would kill no more.

‘Mike’ had none of Gethin’s strength, though, and seemingly less will than he’d realised to remain, peering either at his own mauled remains or at the man who’d done it.

In seconds, Patrick was alone again, other than Finn. Outside blue lights flashed. Tyres crunched on the gravel.

And finally, ribbons began to spill from Patrick.

He was right. They were mostly grey. Some were more silver, he supposed, and there were a few brown, green and dark blue colours, none of them even nearly as bright as Gethin’s. The strands grew as he watched – long threads unspooling from elbows, knees, hips, shoulders, hair. Anxiety flared briefly: the idea of two hundred years of death, ending...

Then he thought of Gethin, ended already, and it eased.

After that, things went faster. Layers sloughed off and floated away, consciousness beginning to drift with it. He didn’t mind. It seemed to be picking up purpose and confidence as it went – not towards light at all, but into darkness. Cool and vast.

The darkness pulsed, as if blacker-than-black bands were moving through it towards him. As if he were being consumed. He half-expected rivers of blood. God. The Devil.

Judgement.

A hand closed around his upper arm.

“Patrick? What are you doing?”

His consciousness faltered. The darkness continued to draw him deeper. On. He tried to focus, peering at the hand. Tanned. Broad.

“Patrick.”

Patrick stared, following the hand upwards to an arm, a chest, a body, a head. Blond and bright.

Honey-coloured eyes looked back.

Gethin ?

He’d heard the theory, of course – that those you loved met you at death. Helped to take you onwards.

Vaguely, it struck him that he didn’t question the fact Gethin had qualified.

Either way, it was him. He was here. No ribbons spilling anywhere.

The expression turned a little impatient. Probably the Welshman thought Patrick was taking too long to die. Being too cautious about it. Making a fuss. “You haven’t gone and died, have you?” Gethin said.

And what was that supposed to mean? And why the demanding tone? “Of course I have.” Why would he have stayed? He was a killer, and Gethin had gone.

Except now here he was, glowering at Patrick as if he thought him silly.

“Well, you’d better change your mind, hadn’t you?” Gethin said. “Cos I just had Middling Mike damn me on his way out, which meant I had to sodding talk to him. Lucky for him, he was already dead, so I couldn’t–”

“You got him to...?” He’d what? “ Why ?”

“Why? Cos I thought you might... I assumed you’d still be there. With Finn. Not, you know...” He gestured around them. Again the darkness pulled.

Patrick pushed it away. “You’re damned ?”

Gethin flushed, looking taken aback. “Well, yes. He was a priest, wasn’t he, and he was there – and how else was I gonna stay?” He huffed. “I resolved my unfinished business.”

Patrick still couldn’t quite understand. Limbo was terrible. Awful. Patrick had waited two centuries to leave it, in one direction or another. And now Gethin, who’d wanted to leave, had damned himself ? On purpose? Patrick spread his arms, indicating the abyss – although actually there were shapes in it, he now saw. The outlines of furniture in Stuart’s flat, oddly. “What for ?” The abyss dragged, more insistent. Again, he focused on Gethin. If the Welshman could keep himself here to catch his killer, Patrick could stay for long enough to find out what the fuck Gethin had been thinking.

Gethin looked past him, squinting. “Well, for...” He looked nervous, suddenly. “The thing is, I thought I heard you say I was worth a thousand of... Like, I realise you were probably just talking, you know? And then you said you’d... you know.” He trailed off, losing confidence perhaps. “Cared.”

Patrick stared.

“About me,” Gethin added, as if Patrick might not be clear on that.

Obviously he’d cared. Why on earth had Gethin thought he’d kept turning up and feeding him? Why did he think he’d turned up tonight? “You are worth a thousand of me,” he said instead. Which was just as self-evident: Patrick was an incubus who’d just drunk a man to death.

Gethin lifted his eyebrows. “But you... What about Stuart?.”

Ah, so that was why he’d stayed. For Stuart. Of course. Patrick sighed, rubbing his eyes, noticing as he did so that the blood had left his face when he’d lost form. Which was probably for the best. If Gethin had thought him a monstrous vampiric demon before ...

In any case, Patrick had clearly embarrassed himself. He’d known Gethin had liked Stuart, and now he’d overheard Patrick’s declaration and... Again, the darkness called. Stronger now. “Stuart’s wonderful, but Gethin, you burn with life. I saw it the second I met you. Then I saw your determination at the sperm bank and when you went hunting and every time you made yourself go after your killer. Look what you were willing to do to stop him. How many ghosts do you think could do any of that? You kept yourself living and moving through the power of your will . And you stayed sane. Focused.”

It was dark, so Patrick couldn’t be sure, but Gethin seemed to blush. “Yeah, well, everyone always said I was a stubborn sod.” The tone was quiet. Evasive.

“As to Stuart, I wasn’t jealous of you. I was jealous of him. I’m jealous of everything about him, actually: he’s handsome, he has a body, he can ejaculate and he’s alive .” As if that weren’t enough: “But mostly,” he looked Gethin in the eye, hating himself for what he was about to say, “I’m jealous because you want him. He can have you.”

Gethin frowned.

It was a relief to have said it, Patrick thought as the darkness reached for him. Not because it served any purpose. Just so Gethin would know he’d had some feelings about something after all. About him.

Gethin didn’t laugh anyway, which was a mercy. His eyes were back to their usual dismantling glimmer. He looked like he was thinking. Presumably about how to let Patrick down kindly.

The darkness pulled so hard, Patrick had to steady himself. It occurred to him he probably should dissolve. It would be easier than this conversation anyway. On the other hand, piteously, he did want to stay. Just a little longer...

Gethin’s frown deepened, as if he’d gone over what Patrick had said ten times already and still couldn’t see the point. “I just want to get this straight,” he said at last. “Do you think you’re not worth me ?”

Not the question he’d expected. “Obviously.”

Gethin huffed again. Or possibly it was a laugh. He looked off to one side again. The darkness grew. Thickened.

“Gethin, I...” I need to leave , he was about to say. He did. Everything was pulling at him and if Gethin was staying after all, he’d want to get back to Stuart.

“Alright, look,” Gethin said. “All my life, most people thought I wasn’t worth a sheep’s fart. And honestly, I didn’t care. I never really wanted anything, see? Until you left Stuart’s that day. I hated you for going and I hated you even more for coming back. For helping me.” He widened his eyes. “I don’t know what you think about yourself, but I’ve a crush on you as wide as the Thames.”

Patrick must have misheard. Or the meaning of ‘crush’ must have changed again.

“Which makes me want to give this a go, you know?” Gethin finished. “With you.” He paused. “Jizz only, though. I mean, I know it was me that hit him with the bottle, but that was horrible , Patrick, seriously.”

“ With me?” Patrick couldn’t seem to understand anything at all. Gethin had asked his killer to damn him to stay with Patrick ?

“If you do want,” he repeated. He sounded less certain this time. “With just jizz.”

“I thought you didn’t want to feed off anyone.”

“I don’t want to feed off anyone who doesn’t know it’s happening! And actually, after all this, I’m hoping you’ll at least consider Stuart’s idea. I never got the chance to tell you the whole thing, but it involves a B&B.” Again, he trailed off, looking around a little doubtfully. “Though to be fair, I hadn’t realised you were so jealous of him.”

The darkness was pulling really quite hard. Was Gethin saying he wanted to be with him, or Stuart, or both of them?

“You’re wanting to work towards a body?” he asked instead.

Gethin did laugh this time. “Just enough of a body to not worry about dying every time I either shag or get annoyed. You know? And to travel, maybe. As to the rest, I don’t have an issue with walking through walls, and honestly, in life, I’d have crawled through lava to be invisible.” The smile remained. “So maybe we can just enjoy ourselves, you know? Have weird sex and, I dunno, solve crimes. Together,” he added, swallowing.

Something inside Patrick tightened. Beautifully, for a change. “Together with me?” he checked. Could Gethin be saying what he thought he was saying?

The honey colour seemed very strong. “Well, yeah,” said Gethin. “I mean, it can’t be impossible, can it – enjoying limbo? With each other.”

The darkness pulled yet again. It struck Patrick that if he did stay, he was the one who was going to have to stop himself floating away, while Gethin would be wandering around freely.

The trouble was, he’d never had Gethin’s strength.

As to the Welshman’s suggestion... it was everything Patrick had never let himself have, wasn’t it? Pleasure. With someone. Now. “You mean, enjoy what we have?” he ventured.

Removed from his head – presented there for someone else – it sounded like the world’s most absurd question. The kind of thing a child would ask, not someone who’d existed, in some form, for two hundred and forty-three years. Nearly a quarter of a millennium. All of it spent with his life on hold for the promise of some future reward.

And now, here it seemed to be.

Gethin lifted an eyebrow. “I realise enjoyment is a bit of a fringe concept for you, Patrick – though I always thought you enjoyed me blowing you more than you let on – but yes, that is what I mean. Try it at least, you know? What have we got to lose?” We.

He looked so vivid. The darkness retreated a little, still tugging at him, like a tide. He ignored it, focusing on Gethin. On the possibility of staying. “By fellating strangers in a B&B?”

The Welshman smiled slightly. “Together,” he said again, more quietly. “It was fucking hot when we did it together last time. Over Stuart’s cock.”

Patrick took a breath that, for once, felt entirely necessary. “Because it was with Stuart?”

Gethin’s hand found his. He leaned forwards a little, bringing their mouths within an inch of each other’s. “No,” he said in a tone that suggested Patrick was still an idiot. “Because it was with you.”

Patrick didn’t bother smiling. His lips seemed to be throbbing, which was a first since he’d died. Gethin tipped his head.

And finally, it occurred to Patrick that Gethin meant it. That it wasn’t all some trick played by a callous and unfeeling universe. Stuart wasn’t here, and Gethin still wanted him: not some abstract, future ‘him’ who’d had to earn every scrap of affection and pleasure and joy, but him . Now.

He’d wanted it so much, he’d stayed alive for him.

For Patrick .

As alive as you could in this place, anyway. Which, in Gethin’s case, was quite a lot.

Nevertheless, it was a surprise when their mouths met for the second time – not in a semen-filled feeding frenzy but quietly, just the two of them. The sensation as Gethin’s lips gave, melting at Patrick’s push, was an epiphany. A hand moved up his spine, resting around the back of his neck, and Gethin’s mouth opened wider. Patrick slid his tongue in, hands gliding over Gethin’s gorgeous back, down to his arse.

In response, Gethin pressed his groin close, huffing, tongue curling fantastically around Patrick’s. It wasn’t warm since there was no warmth in limbo, but Patrick seemed to feel heat anyway. And with it, possibility. The idea that one day, if Stuart’s plan worked, he might even get his senses. He imagined how long he’d spend tasting this man: his sweat, his balls, his armpits...

His energy lurched, wobbling horribly as if even the thought of so much pleasure was too large for him to contain, let alone carry forwards. Into an actual future. He broke off, resting his forehead against Gethin’s, closing his eyes, fighting the pull. It was, he now realised, unrelenting.

How had Gethin resisted it?

“I’m afraid,” Patrick muttered. “I want to try. I want you.” So much. “But what if I can’t do it? What if I’m not strong enough?” He looked up. “To stay, I mean.”

Gethin’s arms moved down, circling Patrick’s waist. “Then I suppose we’d better find a priest to damn you again, hadn’t we? Should be pretty easy: from what you said, you couldn’t trip over one before without getting condemned.” He tapped Patrick’s buttocks with both hands. “Let’s do that first. You’re only the second thing I’ve ever committed to. We don’t want to lose you the first time I try to suck you off, do we? Although...”

He lifted his eyebrows consideringly.

“Although what? Have you changed your mind? Would you like to lose me in a fellatio accident?”

Gethin gave him an unexpectedly warm look. “No, Patrick. We’ll have to travel to find a priest, though, won’t we? You’ll need strengthening and I’ve, er... never fed you .” His fingers spread over Patrick’s buttocks, squeezing them rather suggestively. Patrick surged to it.

“But that would drain you ,” he managed.

“Well, I can’t actually die now, can I?”

“But the amount of–” He stopped, not wanting to sound patronising: as if Gethin didn’t know by now what ‘feeding’ entailed. “You actually want to?” he said instead.

Gethin’s eyes rounded faintly. “Do I want to watch you drink energy from my dick?” His tone pulled fire through Patrick.

“Yes,” Patrick mumbled, not sure if he was asking or answering.

“You do realise I’ve never come in you before?” Gethin gave Patrick’s buttocks another long squeeze. “ Anywhere in you...”

Did he mean his arse? Was he saying he might want to fuck Patrick too? “What, here?” he said in a hoarse whisper, aware he was hardening beneath his cassock.

“We could go back to the flat.” Gethin nodded at the coffee table, the yucca and the sofa slowly emerging from the darkness. “I think we’re already there, actually.” He grinned. “Unless you’d prefer me to fuck you elsewhere?”

Patrick didn’t care. He’d do anything so long as it was with this man. Softly, he began tonguing Gethin’s upper lip. “Gethin, you could fuck me all over London.”

He could feel Gethin’s cock getting harder too.

“All over London?” Gethin growled. “ Duw duw , Patrick, is this where I find out all those centuries of repression have made you absolutely filthy?”