Chapter Text
He finished the book but, despite it being as dry and depressing as it had always been—how could anyone enjoy a book like that!— he never felt the desire to put the book down. He stood up, stretched his aching neck, and looked at the clock.
Eight hours had passed.
It didn’t seem like it had been that long. He’d been lost in the flow of the words, in the rhythm of the turning pages, even though he hadn’t enjoyed it.
He didn’t even feel tired.
At least it was morning, now. He could go for a walk, go have something to eat. Maybe that would take his mind off things, or at the very least, give him some clarity about what he should do next.
As he stepped out of the hotel, the early morning air fell crisp and fresh upon his senses in a way he never had before. He could smell the fresh dew, the faint scent of orange blossoms and gasoline. He heard the distant sound of automobiles being driven by those who could afford it. Everything felt sharper, crisper. He could even feel the cobblestones under his feet through the thick soles of his shoes. He wondered what this could be—was this what love felt like? Could he be in love with a man—and one he had known for not much more than a month, at that? Or was it just relief at finally finding somewhere where he felt safe? At there being someone in the world who didn’t want to work him to death, to march him towards enemy bayonets? Someone who just wanted to keep him safe. A vampire who wanted to keep him safe. Maybe he wasn’t safe at all. Maybe he was a larder, a snack being saved for later.
He didn’t feel like one. Though he guessed the apple doesn’t think about being eaten.
Red made the short walk to the small shop he had been eating breakfast at every morning since he could afford such extravagance. He went the long way around, through back alleys and slowly strolling through the gardens he liked the most, taking in the morning air, the half-opened flower buds, the birdsong. As he walked past wrought iron fences, he ran his hands over them, the cool, hard metal feeling good on his still slightly raw palms.
His thoughts were still racing, twisting between two in particular, and he hoped they would work themselves out during the long walk. They didn’t.
The Americans would take Rome soon. Red could hardly believe that the army had gone from so many failures—and dead soldiers—to taking one of the greatest cities in the world back from the Nazis. What did this mean for him? Would the Americans find him? Did they even know he’d deserted? From what he had been able to piece together from rumours and newspaper articles, his battalion had moved forward to Cisterna. They had failed, and the casualties were heavy. He knew somewhere deep down that if he had not run away—if he had not deserted— he would probably be dead. He thought back to his family and wondered if the army had contacted them. It had been five months, now. Surely there had been some news, even if just from his letters no longer arriving. Had they been told he had deserted and was a wanted criminal? Had they been told he had died at the hands of the Luftwaffe? Had they been told nothing, and been left in fear and uncertainty? He wondered what would be worst.
And in addition to all of that guilt and fear, he’d just found out that William was even more strange than he had thought. More than he could have imagined—who could imagine something like that? William was not just an eccentric wealthy man, not a spy, not even the member of a bizarre cult. Red felt the dry scabs on his neck. William had bitten him and eaten his blood, like something out ofSon of Dracula or campfire stories. This was not normal. This man was not human. He could be more dangerous than any spy. What did he say—more dangerous than the army. Did William really believe that? Or did he just mean he had friends from shadowy places who would hide him?
Red thought about Son of Dracula. He and Janet had seen it just before he left, one of the last things they did together in the week the draft office had given him to get his affairs in order. He didn’t realise at the time that it would have been relevant—and maybe, ultimately, more important than Basic had been.
He wondered if the film had had any useful information. He remembered that both vampires were ultimately dispatched when their coffins were destroyed. Red had been in William’s room a lot. He’d moved the furniture twice. There was no coffin at all, so the part about them needing to return to the coffin each night couldn’t be true. Nor was the weakness to crosses; they’d walked past churches with what had to have been reckless abandon if William could be harmed by the shadow of a cross falling on his body. He even stopped to admire the architecture, to point out details to Red. William possibly even liked churches.
What else—Red pondered. Bullets passed through them. That was one he didn’t want to test, but William’s body seemed solid enough, and could a human—vampire?—body really tell the difference between a bullet, which would need to pass through, and the wind, which wouldn’t?
The one thing he was certain about from his dim memory of the movie was that vampires were dangerous. Was William dangerous? There was a certainty and composure and strength to him that Red envied. But he struggled to see William as dangerous. He had fallen asleep next to him, after all. Shouldn’t some primitive part of his brain prevented him sleeping if William was really a threat?
But there were threats outside of William. Much bigger ones. Much bigger, much more immediate ones. Would traveling with him be more dangerous than risking discovery by the Americans? The Americans didn’t even know he was here; maybe they’d never find him. It was a big city and they couldn’t be looking, not for him, not specifically. Perhaps he should stay behind. He’d saved a lot of the wages William had paid before their arrangement had… changed. And he thought there was a good chance Paola would even give him his job back. As much as Red could figure out what she was thinking, she’d seemed impressed that William had hired him, not annoyed that he’d quit.
And yet... Red could not help but think about how it felt to be fed upon. The feeling as his own blood left his body and joined William’s. He had felt William’s presence within him. It was overwhelming, as though such a creature could not fit inside the vessel of Red’s mind.
He wondered if William would bite him like that a lot.
The thought… what was the word? Intrigued him. On some level it made him feel ill. Maybe a little scared. Worried. But it felt good all the same. It wasn’t like anything he had experienced before. He wondered if it should have felt intimatesomehow. And it did. Sort of. Not really.
The closest experience he could think of was vomiting after drinking too much. It was technically disgusting and uncomfortable, but there was a relief that came with it.
He scoffed. He imagined how disgusted William would be if Red told him that was the closest experience he could think of. It wasn’t even close to being the same, but it was the closest he had.
Red wondered if a more intelligent man would describe it better. William must have been bitten once. How would he describe it? Had other people been bitten the same way? What did they think of it?
He pushed the thought of his mind as he reached his destination, the small kitchen where Signora Cerrone made him polenta and a big pot of black coffee each morning. He equally appreciated her cooking and the fact she didn’t ask questions. They exchanged the usual shallow pleasantries and she poured him his coffee. It smelled far better than usual. When he took a sip he could taste something special. It was different. Stronger. The coffee was more subtly flavoured—hints of blackcurrant and cedar, and it lingered for longer on his tongue. And yet somehow it seemed even thinner and more watery than before. Had Signora Cerrone been able to get real coffee? Surely she would have mentioned if she had?
His thoughts went back to William. His lover. His predator? He frowned. He reflected again upon the bite. It hadfelt good. Better than good. He felt better than he had in months. He took another sip of the coffee.
What did it mean, even amid all his fears, that he could think of nothing else but doing it again?
