He cocks his head, narrows his eyes.
Suspicious, but curious. "You're looking for someone." Not a question.
"I'm trying to locate an old friend, yes."
"Not much of an old friend if you don't know where he is, then, huh?"
"How do you know it's a male I'm looking for?"
"Lucky guess." Scott winks. "We get a lot of gay vampires in here; twice the chance of being shunned in society, they come here; takes all sorts. No one judges, you know."
"Just because I'm looking for a man doesn't mean I'm---"
"It doesn't." Another wink. "You are, though, right?"
This man's infuriating, and all the more so because he's right and he knows it. I can't think of anything to say that wouldn't make him even more smug, or me even more embarrassed.
"You're looking for someone?"
"I am, yes."
"You do realise a barman of my stature sticks to the same doctor/patient privilege as a doctor would? Or a priest?"
"Of your stature?" I know I sound mocking, but he's being irritating, so he probably deserves it. Just to add to the scorn, I raise my eyebrows and look him in the eye. "This is a vampire-friendly bar, not a church."
"Yeah, and aren't you grateful? I mean, you'd probably burst into flames or something if you---"
He stops when I shake my head. "No? I've always wondered about that. I used to know a guy, one of your lot, you know."
"My lot?"
"Yeah, one of you. Anyway, he'd always refuse to walk into a church. I always wondered why that was."
"An affectation. Some people---sorry, we're not strictly speaking people, are we?"
"Oh, now, I didn't say that---"
"Some people refuse to go into churches to perpetuate the various vampire myths." I wave a dismissive hand.
"Churches, not crossing thresholds until invited, garlic, running water, that kind of thing."
"Why do they do it, though? What does it achieve?"
"You really want to know?"
Scott nods, and I beckon with a crooked finger. He leans in even closer.
"So you lot, humans, bother yourselves with fiction, while failing to figure out how dangerous we really are."
He swallows slowly, more of a gulp, and I have to admire his nerve; he holds my gaze like he's not nervous at all. Maybe he thinks it's safer to keep his eyes on me. I'm less dangerous if you know where I am.
Scott inhales sharply, holds his breath, then lets out a short burst of laughter. "Wait, you nearly had me there."
"I nearly did, didn't I?"
"Swindling bastard; I thought you were going to..."
"Now would I?"
"I don't know, do I? I don't know you."
"No, you don't." I wink and leave him to work out if it was a friendly or threatening gesture.
"Now, where were we? Oh yes; you were about to tell me if you know the person I'm looking for."
"I was, was I?" Scott stands up straight but keeps his palms resting on the bar. He's not ready to turn on his heels and walk away just yet. "Got a photo?"
"Nope. We don't show up on film."
His eyes narrow, and he cocks his head at a slight angle. "Another one of those fake myth things again, right?"
"Right." For someone who works in a vampire-friendly bar, he doesn't know much about how the world works. Maybe he's new here. New and as green as freshly-mown grass. "Now here's the thing. I'm looking for the..." It's not nerves which make me pause, but the realisation of what I'm about to say. "I'm looking for the one who made me."
"Your sire?"
My shoulders slump. Maybe I should introduce Scott to Jason back at the hotel. They seem of a type. "Yes, my sire, if you want to call him that. Only..."
"Only...?"
I'm about to say, "Only he doesn't know I exist," but it would take too long to explain to this piece of work how one could create another vampire without knowing. I'd have to go into the reluctance I felt, the violence of the situation, the decades of deceit, my reasons for suddenly showing up now out of the blue, reasons of which even I'm not entirely sure. So I opt for linguistic chicanery instead, otherwise known as lying. "He doesn't know I'm here. It's a surprise." Okay, not quite lying. That part was true. Adam doesn't know I'm here.
Yet.
"Trip down memory lane, you mean?"
"You could say that."
"Fangs for the memories and all that." Again, Scott catches my eye before clearing his throat.
The throat I would quite happily tear out, but that sort of thing is frowned upon here. They have a sign on the wall barring necking, for goodness' sake. "Um, okay. I'll shut up now."
"Wise choice."
"Apart from asking if this guy's got a name."
"Ad---Actually, I'm not even sure if he's still going under the same name these days." The thought's just occurred to me, and my long-dead heart sinks. No, no, it's a stupid idea. If Adam used an alias while he was on the prowl, surely he'd have mentioned it to Will during one of their occasional communiqués? Unless said alias was used for nefarious purposes, say, covering up a violent underbelly to an outwardly respectable lifestyle?
Calm down, Stephenson. Calm down. You're worrying over nothing. His name's Adam. Always has been, always will be.
"Never mind." I shake my head, as if doing so will rid my mind of all sorts of worries. "When I knew him, he went by Adam Locke."
"Adam Locke...Adam Locke..."
Scott frowns, evidently searching his memory banks.
Well, that's something. He's trying to help.
And I know Adam's a regular here; Will said so, a n d he got it straight from the horse's fanged mouth.
"Describe him to me?"
"Like I said, it's been a while since we met. Not from this part of the world, so his accent won't fit. Mind you, he might have grown into something else by now. From London, originally. Dark hair, kept it pretty short back then, had..." I can feel myself sinking back into the past and automatically beat myself up about it emotionally.
But this is essential. I need to think about him. "He had the most piercing blue eyes."
"Oh, you mean Padlock?" Enlightenment spreads across Scott's face like---and I hate myself for this simile---like a rising sun. Not that I can remember what that looks like in real life; television has been my only window on the world in that regard for many a long year.
And pleasure at getting somewhere has another, instant effect on me.
I want to vomit.
"Padlock?" I echo. "Is that some sort of...?"
"Nickname, yeah. We, the bar staff, that is, started calling him Padlock 'cause he pads about. You can't hear him coming; he seems to glide, you know?"
I do know. I still remember.
"And he can sneak up on you without you even knowing he's there. So there's that, and the fact his surname is---"
"Locke, yes." I nod, partly to pacify him, partly to hurry him along. "Very clever. So." I pause, wondering how to phrase this, eventually opting to just blurt it out. "You know him? He's a regular here?"
"He comes in a couple of nights a week."
I don't know whether my heart wants to sink or not. A couple of nights, so two. That's a two in seven chance of my seeing him tonight. If he's not here this evening, I'll probably turn tail and flee, like the coward I am. I'll be able to tell Will I at least tried, but if I can stay on the run for decades, so can he and Kieran. Besides which, if Adam's as determined to destroy anyone else's happiness as Will claims, the fact he and Kieran got away at all proves they, together, are more wily than Adam alone.
"It's funny," Scott says. "Padlock---" he catches the look on my face and clears his throat "---I mean, Adam never struck me as the type to make anyone. He doesn't seem particularly...you know---" a brief shrug "---aggressive."
I snort in derision, unsure of whether I want to call this man an idiot or simply laugh at him.
"You think someone has to be aggressive to make another vampire?" I could tell
him he's closer to the truth than he knows, but...
"It doesn't strike me as a particular peaceful thing to do. Killing someone..." His eyes lose focus, and he wraps one hand round his neck, as if soothing a former injury.
"Ever been bitten?"
"Me? No." His hand drops, and focused again, he stares at me.
"Good. Word to the wise. Keep it that way. Now, if you'll excuse---"
"Well, how about that?" Scott's no longer looking at me; the target of his attentions is on the other side of the room, in the direction of the entryway.
Oh God. I'm not going to like this.
"Speak of the devil."
"Fuck. Are you telling me...?"
"He's here. Just this second, he walked in. Almost as if he knew you were gonna be here."
Adam Locke always was good at showing up when I least wanted to see him. My masochism brought me here, and I only have myself to blame.
I screw my eyes shut and grip the bar with both hands, almost tightly enough to scratch the wood. When I was human, and nervous, I used to hear the blood pounding in my ears so loudly, it would block out all other sound. And it's almost like that now, even though I have no heartbeat. I'm so scared of turning around, but I know that I must, and that fear blocks out everything. Right down to Scott's inane chatter.
Opening my eyes, I force my fingertips to let go of the bar. No scratches or marks, which surprises me. On shaking legs, I turn on the spot, bracing myself for the first sight in decades of the man who killed me.
I don't see him at first. The lighting in this bar isn't overwhelming, but nervous confusion stops me from focusing. And he comes into focus, like he's materialising in front of me. Strolling past a table where he knows someone, Adam stops, and I gasp, sure that this means he's sensed me in the room. But no, he's just saying a few words to someone sitting at that table. A friend? A past lover? Someone from whom he drank in the past?
And like Scott did earlier, I raise a hand to my neck and run my fingers over that long-faded scar. I only hope for this anonymous friend's sake that if Adam has drunk from him, no accidents have happened. It seems that way. He's smiling up at Adam, laughing.
I'm sure there's music playing; I heard it when I first came in, but no more. The faint hum of voices and glasses clinking dance around the edges of my consciousness but don't intrude on this focus on Adam.
He runs a hand down the back of his neck, and I shudder as if feeling his hand on my neck again after all these years.
At that point, he freezes, but for a simple cock of his head, and he's heard me. Sensed me, somehow.
He throws a glance over his shoulder, looking in my direction, not seeing me. I'm not close enough to see, but I imagine the vertical lines appearing at the bridge of his nose, as they always did whenever he frowned.
Adam continues to look around the room, and I'm just waiting, waiting for realisation to hit him.
I could turn around, hope he misses me, then sneak out when I judge the situation to be safe, but...
It's too late.
His mouth drops open, works a couple of times like he's chewing on his own uncertainty, and that oh-so-familiar frown? It's there. It's definitely there.
He stares, either trying to process what he sees or to remember me at all.
"Adam," I murmur, knowing he won't hear me at this distance; he's a supernatural being, but his hearing isn't that good. I wonder whether to say any more, but the pointless words, "It's me," are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Now, after all my nerves and fear and regret and second- guessing, I'm almost angry that he's taking this long to react beyond astonishment. He can't have forgotten me. Not me. Not us.
I've been leaning on the bar and straighten; he startles and takes a step back. Oh, so now he's the scared one. And it's all in my power.
I can't move for a few seconds; Scott's voice insinuates itself into my consciousness. Some nonsense asking if I'm all right, or what's going on. I'm not fully aware of anything except Adam grabbing a hold of the back of a chair, needing to steady himself all because he thinks he sees someone who looks like someone he used to know.
And on his territory.
Yeah, how d'y'like me now? I want to say before laughing in his face. I never knew I could be this malicious. I never knew Adam could be this thrown. I could enjoy this sense of power, if I weren't so on edge, waiting for the next move.
He pales. Strange to say that under the club's lighting, which would normally distort anyone's complexion, but I see it. What little blood there is drains from his face, and he presses a palm to his abdomen.
Going to throw up, Adam? Without thinking, I take a step forward. Am I going to help him through his temporary nausea, or confront him?
Throw accusations?
No matter. He answers the question for me by turning his back. Now this I didn't expect.
He looks at the exit then back at me.
Something works in his throat; is he swallowing back nerves? Wondering what to do now?
And he runs. I'm rooted to the spot while Adam pushes his way through the crowd and tries to get as far away from me as possible, as quickly as possible.
I never knew he was afraid of ghosts.
Chapter 10
"ADAM!" I ONLY START SHOUTING after he's run out of the club and I reach the exit seconds afterwards.
Indoors, such a loss of vocal control wouldn't have done any good. If anyone heard me above the music, they'd have dismissed me as a drunk or troublemaker. And all I want to do now is catch up with Adam and explain.
Strange, because at the start of this evening, I felt far differently. But now, after building myself up to...to what? A conversation with him?
Something? After building myself up to whatever, his denial of such an expectation has turned me in completely the opposite direction. Whatever Adam denies me, I want.
The doormen throw brief frowns at me, but nothing more than that. Frowns and curiosity, not punches. I could probably take them both at once; they look like mortals, and really, what can they do? Throw me out? I'm leaving anyway.
"You must really be something if you scared Padlock off," one of the doormen says, adding a brief chuckle, so I know he's not scared of me. Not challenging me to explain myself.
The use of his nickname reminds me that Adam's put down roots here, of a sort. I don't know how long he's been around, but it's long enough to earn a nickname. And it's not just time that does that. One can be part of a social group for years without being accepted in that way.
Acceptance. That's what Adam has here.
He's known. Does he have mere acquaintances, or does he have friends? That's not something I've ever considered with regard to Adam Locke. Oh, he knows people. He has associates, colleagues, those he knows in passing. Probably, oh, what's that phrase again? Fuck buddies.
A shudder of something I don't want to name --- It's called jealousy, Nathan ---ripples my spine as I look this way and that. No reason to be jealous. But it's hard not to feel put out at the thought of Adam being with someone else. I was the one he loved. I was the one he killed.
I was the one he grieved for.
That's what I don't want to dwell on: my unreasonable insistence that Adam feel grief- stricken and guilty forever.
There's no queue outside Vlad's, but people mill around in the courtyard, perhaps walking off the ill-effects of too much alcohol. Or too little blood in their veins after an encounter with an over-enthusiastic bloodsucker.
And I have to find Adam. Mere seconds have passed since he darted off, but he's fast, could be anywhere by now, and given his nickname, he could no doubt slink off somewhere silently. I have to keep my eyes open, all other senses alert.
"Adam." Is there any sense in calling after him? Would he answer me?
Okay; think, Nathan, think. What was he wearing? I cast a quick glance over the groups of people loitering outside, sitting on benches. No, he's not there. Why would he linger, when he quite clearly wanted to get as far
away from me as possible?
How dare he? springs into my mind. How bloody dare he run away now, after all those times of following me, stalking, smothering. Now, when I finally decide to reveal myself, he decides no, he doesn't want to have anything to do with me?
Bastard.
The unbidden insult shocks me. I swear. A lot more than I used to. But to call someone that word isn't common for me. It's the anger behind it which shocks.
Beyond the courtyard, someone looks back over his shoulder, checking to see if the person who pursued him has given up, and I'm off again, dodging past benches and planters ringed by abandoned, empty beer bottles, a vampire or two chatting up potential victims, drunk humans looking decidedly worse for wear, and out onto the main road. Looking to my left, I see Adam's off again, but he's not out of my sight, thank God, so I follow.
I have to catch him now, or I may never get this chance again. His cover's blown---that's if he was trying to hide from anyone in the first place.
He doesn't want to speak to me now or even see me, so there's every chance he'll find somewhere else to put down roots. Earn himself another nickname in a new town where I can't so easily find him.
Which doesn't make any sense. None at all.
Why the fuck won't you speak to me, Adam?
The streets aren't exactly crowded, but there are enough people around to express alarm when I barrel straight through groups heading to bars and clubs, paying no attention to linked arms or held hands. I break all connections and don't give a damn, almost laughing at their mutters of, "For fuck's sake," or "Jesus Christ, man, watch what you're doing!"
One guy's blood/alcohol ratio has been thrown so far off its usual levels by beer, I can smell it on him before we even make contact, and my swift, "Out of the way, shit, sorry," isn't enough to help him defy the laws of gravity. He hits the pavement, and I spin round to look at him.
He groans. I shrug; he's not injured enough to warrant any help from me, and besides, I have more pressing matters to speak to.
"Army training, Adam," I call after him, still running. Someone who doesn't breathe can't become out of breath. "You never lose it."
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