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The letter sat in his glovebox for longer than he was willing to admit. Every time he pried himself away from work, every time he asked Fiona to watch over Basilton and left the estate, the letter felt like it was burning a hole in his conscience. He didn’t know what to do. He was pushing 40, and he had never felt so unsure about anything in his life. It was embarrassing.
It had been so long since he’d written the letter that he barely remembered what it said. If he reread it now, he was sure it would say something like ‘I need you. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to help my son.’
He had found the address online, on some sort of forum. In the World of Mages, fraternizing with vampires was strictly prohibited by the Coven. It was punishable by law, and sure to end with a few cold, dark years locked in a tower. And fraternizing with a vampire was precisely what he was intending to do.
He didn’t want to think of Basilton as dead. He was alive, he was playing with a stuffed Paddington Bear in the drawing room, but Malcolm always made sure that the fireplaces stayed unlit. He was cold to the touch, his skin was paler than it used to be, yes, but he still breathed, he still ate (less than he used to, less than he should), he still reached out little hands to clutch at Malcolm at bedtime.
But vampires were dead. Basilton was a vampire. That meant that no matter how he wanted to look at it, Basilton was dead.
There was no guarantee that his letter would ever reach its destination (the forum was for Normals, how much did they know about vampires, truly?), but sending it felt like giving up. It was acknowledging that this was real, that Basilton would never be the same, he might not even grow up. It was admitting his life would never be the same, that something was taken from him the same day that he lost his mother.
Malcolm had almost had enough denial, he had almost had enough waiting. What if there was something he was supposed to be doing, or something he was doing wrong? What if Basilton was hungry (no, thirsty) and he didn’t know how to help him? He didn’t know if he could eat garlic at dinner, and he didn’t even know if he could go outside to play, he had to be so lonely.
Was waiting selfish? Was that letter in the glovebox the difference between salvation and damnation for his son? Malcolm wanted to be a good father. Natasha would have wanted Basilton to be happy. She would have wanted him to live a full life, as full as he could have, and she would have wanted him to play outside with the other children at the Club and to make friends and do something, anything, other than sitting in a dark house with the curtains drawn.
He mailed the letter the next time he was in town.
***
Dear Reader,
I received your letter, and I found your concern for your son touching. I can’t help but wonder what kind of barbarians are running around in London, willing to attack a child. I’m touched that you think that I’m the right person to help you.
Your son, Basilton, is six years old now, is he not?
There are laws here, in Las Vegas, about Turning children. They’re strictly off limits. Has your son grown? Have you noticed any physical changes? What about psychological? Is he more reserved, more contemplative? I don’t mean to assume that you Speakers are less intelligent, of course, but one does have to wonder.
You are a Speaker, are you not? You didn’t say, but I have to assume from your verbiage. I won’t tell your secrets if you don’t tell mine.
Lamb
***
Lamb,
There is no need for pleasantries. I will answer your questions candidly, and I expect the same from you in return.
Basilton has grown six centimeters since the incident in the fall. He’s more pale now, obviously, with the issue of the sun, and he seems thinner. What’s the appropriate diet for a child of his condition? He has always been an intelligent boy, his mother took pride in his education. He’s more withdrawn now, but he suffered a horrific loss.
Tell me, should we be concerned about sunlight? Following his recovery, we transitioned him to a nocturnal schedule so as not to risk anything. He misses playing with his friends, but his safety is my top priority.
Speaking of safety, is he?
I eagerly await your response.
Sincerely,
MG
***
MG,
You should hear yourself, telling me there is no need for pleasantries. You were the one who wanted to be pen pals, were you not? I think pleasantries are the bare minimum.
It’s promising to me that your son has grown. I think six centimeters in a year is standard for a child, though it has been years since I was one myself. You might be able to remember better than I.
But I’m confused. I hope you haven’t been giving him blood before his fangs come in. There’s no precedent for this, but human blood will stunt his growth and stop his aging. You seem like a moral, upstanding man, and I have no doubts that you wouldn’t go out of your way to harm a person to feed your son. Animal blood should be avoided as well until his cravings begin, but it won’t have the same effect on him.
I hope you don’t mean to tell me that you’ve kept him inside this long. Children need time with other children to thrive and develop. Surely you know this, MG. Sunlight will burn him if he is exposed for too long, but this won’t be a concern in dreary Oxford. He should see other children. You don’t want him to grow up to be a recluse like I presume you are.
What do you mean when you ask me if he’s safe? Do you mean with you? You seem like an upstanding father (Is it ostentatious of me to say that, considering my only reason for saying so is that you’ve been brave enough to reach out to me?). If you mean to ask me if he’s safe among Speakers, that may be a different story. There is a reason why I came to the Americas, and there is a reason why I surround myself with people like me, if you catch my meaning.
I eagerly await your response.
Lamb
***
Lamb,
Ignoring my request to avoid pleasantries is so very American of you. You’re originally from London, aren't you? I dread to inform you that you seem to have fallen in with the locals. I will oblige, since you’ve been so prompt and helpful in your responses. I would hardly call us pen pals, though.
I haven’t given him any blood. I wondered if he was thirsty and too afraid to tell me. I want him to have as normal a life as possible. I doubt you will approve, but when he’s old enough, I will discourage him from human blood. I want him to have a chance to grow old, to find someone he loves, and to choose to live as he was meant to. To us (you called us Speakers, but we call ourselves Mages), turning to vampirism is forbidden. There is no opportunity to have one foot on each side. To allow him to embrace what he is will leave him without a community, and there is nothing worse than that to a Mage.
Of course, he’s safe with me. I love him enough to exchange letters with you and even consider becoming pen pals. (This is a joke, Lamb, since I’ve graciously agreed to exchange pleasantries with you).
I wonder if he’s safe around the other children. Will he hurt them? I would never condemn another parent to this life. It’s incredibly lonely.
MG
***
MG,
I would love to spend time delving deeper into your offer to become pen pals. Yes, I’ve taken your last letter as an offer. But you said a few things that disturbed me.
Of course, I disapprove of you discouraging Basilton from drinking from a human. To ask him to subsist on animal blood is like asking a car to run on water. It’s unthinkable. Forcing him to turn away from what he is (and there will be no denying what he is when the time comes) will only serve to drive him closer to death. His skin will be pale, and he will never be warm. He will never feel right. I would encourage, no implore, you to rethink this. Yes, he will grow old, and he will die, but it will hurt him.
I agree that in London, there is no way to walk the line between the two sides, vampire and speaker. Since you have just decided to allow yourself to be friendly with me- I did laugh at your joke, by the way- I hesitate to offer this, but there would always be a place for Basilton in Las Vegas. There would be a place for you, too, if you didn’t mind hiding. I’ve never been a father, but fatherhood seems to be all about sacrifice.
Basilton will be perfectly safe around other children. Please don’t deprive him of their company any longer. Not for his sake.
Your pen pal,
Lamb
***
Lamb,
You mentioned Basilton’s fangs coming in. When should I look out for that? When he teethed as a child, it was dreadful. There was no appeasing him. Will it happen when he’s older, after puberty?
I will consider what you’ve said about the blood. Is there a way to abate his thirst?
MG
***
MG,
You wound me. I waited so long for your response, and you could only dignify yourself to write me back with questions and no conversation. I hope you know, I am a very busy man. I don’t have to entertain you.
Lamb
***
Lamb’s last letter stayed crumpled on Malcolm’s writing desk for months. He was ashamed to look at it. What did he have to feel guilty about? Lamb was a means to an end. A way to help his son. He wasn’t an ally, and he wasn’t a friend. Lamb didn’t write again.
What was he doing, asking for parenting advice from a vampire?
***
“Get yourself some fucking help, Malcolm,” He was used to Fiona yelling, but she almost never yelled at him in front of Basilton. She still had that shock of white hair. It was escaping from the bun at the top of her head. (When she wore a bun, Malcolm thought, it was just more evidence that she was not her sister. Natasha’s hair was always neat, smooth, and collected. Fiona’s was the opposite; it was a lightning strike.)
“Do not speak to me like that in my own home.” He was dangerous. He wanted to get some fucking help. He wanted to get Basilton some help. He was seven years old, and when he grabbed Malcolm’s hand, he left tiny finger-shaped bruises, and when he ran through the house, there was no chance of slowing him down. He was too fast, faster than Malcolm could keep up with.
“It should be my fucking home.” Fiona jabbed her finger into his chest. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep his wife alive.”
“Get out.”
“You can’t fucking raise him on your own, Malcolm. You’re too wrapped up in your own grief to think about anyone but you.”
“Speak for yourself.” That was a spell. He didn’t cast it. Fiona laughed, and it was more like a sob. Her face twisted up into a cruel smile.
“If you think I’ve made a single selfish decision in the past two years, you’re more insane than I thought.” She left, and for the first time in two years, Malcolm was completely alone. He didn’t have a fucking clue what to do.
***
Lamb,
I should start by saying I’m sorry. I’ve been a dreadful pen pal. Your help was invaluable.
I was afraid when you asked me to bring my son to stay with you. I’ve held onto this with a white knuckled, clenched-teeth kind of determination. I want to do this right. I want to be the man that my late wife thought I was when she married me.
My sister-in-law doesn’t think that I can do this. I don’t know what she would have me do. I just want to make sure that Basilton is happy and healthy. I want him to be safe. I want him to have a good life, and I’m afraid I can’t give that to him.
Please write me back. I need you help.
MG
***
When Malcolm saw Basilton play with his cousin, something twisted in his chest. He thought it was worry at first that Basilton would hurt his cousin, but he came to realize it was guilt. He shouldn’t have kept him away.
***
MG,
I thought I might never hear from you again. Was my last letter too harsh? I should have been a better pen pal.
I never wanted you to think I was implying you were unfit for fatherhood, nor that I thought I would be better suited. I have far too many antiques to consider raising a child. I have a hotel in Las Vegas, the Katherine. If you choose, you and Basilton could visit when he gets older. I give you my solemn word to keep him away from any Las Vegas debauchery.
Please consider it.
Speakers are unnecessarily cruel to us, especially in London. Don’t pretend you’re not aware of the political climate there. We’ve taken refugees.
I hope I’m not overstepping again. If I have, do you promise to tell me this time?
Your pen pal,
Lamb
***
Malcolm would be stupid if he were to say he hadn’t considered the political climate. Davy Cadwallader had taken over Watford and had all but waged war on the vampires since they had invaded. Malcolm thought that Davy expected his thanks, but he had dismantled every institution that Natasha had stood for. If he and Fiona were talking, she would have something to say about that.
Was he condemning Basilton to a lifetime of loneliness? Of risk and fear of being found out?
***
Lamb,
I appreciate your candor. I worry about my son’s safety. Constantly. I presume I will worry more once his fangs come in. I already worry that he won’t be able to control himself. I worry that he will be hunted, persecuted. You’re right, Mages don’t take kindly to vampires, and my family isn’t held in good esteem as it is.
Will you oblige me with a phone call? Unless you’re too old to know how to use a landline. This is another joke.
Reluctantly,
MG
***
“Will you tell me your name?” Lamb sounded younger than Malcolm expected.
“I’ll consider it,” Malcolm said, and he felt like something had shifted between the two of them. Hearing Lamb’s voice rearranged the image of him that Malcolm had of him in his mind. It was disorienting.
“What can I do to convince you to take a trip to Las Vegas?”
“Talk me into it.” What was he saying? Lamb laughed, and it came too easily for him. Malcolm was sitting in his study. Basilton was in bed already. It was earlier in Las Vegas, but he wasn’t sure what time it was.
“How long do you have?” Lamb made him nervous. He was old enough, smart enough to recognize that he hadn’t felt nervous like this in years.
“Long enough.”
“How old are you, Malcolm?”
“Forty-one.” Lamb hummed. Malcolm wondered if it was the wrong answer.
“I can keep you safe if you come to visit me. You said your family was in poor esteem. No one here would know who you are.”
“To anyone else, that would sound like a threat.”
“But not to you.” There was silence on the line. “You’re a powerful man, I can tell. You care about your son. Your letters smell like love and desperation. I want to meet you.”
Malcolm thought that was very forward of Lamb, and he said so.
“I want to be direct with you, so forgive me if I say anything untoward. You’re a fascinating man, and I would like to see if you fascinate me here instead. It’s not often that a Speaker reaches out to me. I want to help your son. I think we have that in common.”
“Do you want to help Basilton, or do you want to take him from me?”
“I assured you months ago, I don’t have any interest in raising a child.”
“I believe you. But I worry about losing him.”
“To me?”
“To undeath.”
“Come visit the Katherine. You’ll see that there’s more to this than undeath.”
***
Malcolm Grimm was supposed to be at a conference learning about sustainable agriculture and magical creatures. Malcolm Grimm was not supposed to be meeting a vampire at the Harry Reid International Airport.
Lamb was out of place at the baggage claim, but so was Malcolm, in his three-piece suit. He was nervous, and he wanted, strangely, to impress Lamb.
He looked younger than Malcolm; his hair was auburn and cut to his chin. He was pale, but not as pale as Malcolm was expecting him to be. He smiled and shook his hand, and it was warmer than his son’s.
“Lamb.”
“Will you tell me your name now?”
“Malcolm.”
“Do you have a last name, Malcolm?”
“Do you?” Malcolm said. It came out wrong, overly familiar. He cleared his throat.
Lamb cocked his head and gave him another smile. It was a different kind of smile. Basilton was always complaining that things smelled too strongly; he couldn’t imagine him in a place like this, surrounded by so many people, but Lamb was unfazed.
“You must be tired. Would you like me to show you to your room?”
***
“Where are your fangs?” Malcolm was losing his edge. He had drunk too much red wine at dinner, and Lamb kept touching his hand.
“Would you like to see?” Lamb asked. Malcolm had definitely lost his edge- and possibly his mind as well.
Another kind of smile. There was a sound, almost too quiet for Malcolm to hear, and gleaming, white teeth were filling his mouth, covering his lateral incisors and his canine teeth. Malcolm leaned forward. He needed to know what this would look like when it happened to his son.
“You can do that on command?”
“It takes practice.”
“Explain it to me.”
“I will, but only if you consider bringing Basilton here when he’s older.” Malcolm almost regretted telling Lamb his son’s name.
“I will.” He wasn’t lying.
***
Lamb hadn’t retracted his teeth. He was good at talking around them. Malcolm felt like he was being driven insane.
There was another bottle of wine, a trip down Fremont Street, and ice cream. Malcolm had lost three hundred pounds at poker.
Lamb kept smiling at him and touching his hand, then touching his shoulder, then his neck. It took everything in Malcolm not to bare it to him. He unbuttoned the collar on his shirt and he loosened his tie. It was hot in Las Vegas.
“Your first letter said you needed me,” Lamb said, like it was a casual observation. He was good at putting on a front, but he didn’t have Malcolm fooled. There wasn’t anything that he did that was casual. “Have you gotten what you need yet?”
Malcolm didn’t answer him until they were back in the lift, hurtling up Lamb’s flat at the top of the Katherine.
“I’m not sure.” He said coolly. It was hard to be cool about anything when he felt like he was aching all over.
“Do you think you can be sure? I can hear your heartbeat.” Suddenly, he was too close and not close enough.
Malcolm was lonely. Lamb was the only one who understood. He felt like the only person in the world who could help. He didn’t care that he was walking straight into the jaws of a predator, because the predator had blue eyes and a charming smile, and he promised to protect him.
Malcolm crowded him against the door of the lift.
“Almost. I’ve almost got it.” He was so alone in Oxford, and he wasn’t alone here. Malcolm was a dangerous man too.
Lamb’s finger was on his neck, on his carotid artery. He could hear himself breathing. He could hear his own heart beating. Did Lamb need to breathe?
He leaned down. Lamb was shorter than him, and his eyes were shining, bright, amused, like he’d finally gotten what he was waiting for.
Malcolm kissed him. His mouth was cool, it tasted like red wine and like desire. Lamb opened his mouth and drank him in. He had finally stopped smiling, Malcolm thought. Finally stopped teasing and needling him. He could feel his pulse thrumming against Lamb’s thumb. He could feel Lamb’s fangs, sharp and dangerous, against his lips. He ran his tongue over them. Lamb made a contented noise in the back of his throat. His other hand came up to rest on Malcolm’s shoulder, and he was pressed against him in a long, hard line. Malcolm hadn’t felt like this in years. Could he feel how badly he wanted this? Smell it? The thought that Lamb was letting him take what he wanted, that he could stop him, overpower him at any point, made his knees buckle.
Lamb pushed his hand through Malcolm’s hair and took a handful, wrenching his head back in a way that made his vision go black around the edges.
“Is this what you need?” He asked. “You came here to let me take care of you. Do you feel taken care of?” Lamb slotted a leg between Malcolm’s and licked a stripe up his neck.
“I do.”
***
“Did it hurt him?” What he wanted to ask was ‘would it hurt me?’
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Only if they wanted it to.”
“Would you?”
“No.” Lamb was too bright for what he was, too many pastel suits and blunt haircuts, and he was offering something that Malcolm wasn’t sure he was ready to accept.
“You never want anything to hurt.” Malcolm closed his eyes and didn’t think.
“We both know that isn’t true.”
***
There were teeth on Malcolm’s neck, and Lamb’s hand felt like a brand on his chest, between his legs. He felt broken open. He felt like a circuit that hadn’t known it needed to be completed.
Lamb sank his teeth in, and it felt good, it felt right. Lamb’s tongue was pressing against his neck, soothing over the bite, then he sucked, and it went straight to his cock.
He wanted to taste good, he wanted to be good. His head fell back, and he was panting. He couldn’t remember feeling like this before, feeling this kind of want. Feeling this kind of wanted.
He wanted Lamb to take whatever he needed to be strong enough to protect him, to keep him safe, and to teach Basilton how to be a good man and a good vampire.
There was fire in his veins, and Lamb was on his lap. He wished he could see himself. It was surrender, it was more than that.
Lamb was insistent; he was tireless. He gave the bite on Malcolm’s neck a kiss and soothed the skin around it with his thumb. He kissed him, and Malcolm could taste his blood on his lips. He let himself fall apart.