Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Howard

Plymouth, 1855

A sea breeze rolled in from the English Channel, carrying the tang of salt and wildness, mingled with the thicker smell of pitch from the dockyards, and Gideon Hartwright paused, tipping his head back as that breeze tangled invisible fingers in his blond hair.

Six months ago, he had arrived in the port city of Plymouth.

He'd debated returning to London – it was easy for a vampire to disappear among such a crowded population, and nine years had passed since he'd fled the city after his vampire abilities had been revealed to the group of toshers that he'd worked with in the sewers. That should have been enough time for those toshers to forget what they'd seen – assuming they were even still alive.

But London wasn't the only busy city. There were other places where a vampire could blend in with the human population, places that Gideon hadn't yet visited.

He hadn't ended up in Plymouth for any particular reason. He'd simply drifted into the city one day, taken a job as a dockworker because it could be done by night and because it made good use of his vampire strength.

And then he'd met Howard.

Like Gideon, Howard was a dockworker, though he worked by day rather than night, which didn't always give them as much time together as Gideon might have liked. By the time Howard finished work, they usually only had a couple of hours before it was time for Gideon to start.

So they had to make good use of the time that they had.

Gideon quickened his pace as he headed for the docks, pausing before crossing the road as a horse-drawn bus trundled past.

Dusk had fallen, painting the sky in shades of grey and black and purple, and the gas streetlights cast soft pools of light into the streets. The city really was beautiful, if you could overlook the extreme overcrowding, and the cholera outbreaks that had killed thousands in the last couple of decades.

Howard was just leaving when Gideon arrived at the docks. He grinned, wiping pitch-sticky hands on his trousers, and Gideon had to restrain himself from grabbing the other man and kissing him. That still wasn't something he could do in public. Maybe he never would.

"How was your day?" Gideon asked.

Howard shrugged. "Same as normal. I've got pitch on my hands and my back hurts, but I'm sure you can make that better." His mouth curled into a slow grin.

They started walking and Gideon was careful to keep a certain distance between them, so no one suspected they were anything more than friends. He didn't know if anyone would really pay that close attention to them, but he was always acutely aware that while he was confident that he could escape anyone who tried to arrest him, Howard didn't have vampire abilities. Gideon was more concerned about his lover's safety than he was about his own.

"Are you sure Alma doesn't mind us using her house?" he asked.

Howard's older sister had her own house a mile or so from the docks, a rare occurrence in Plymouth where overcrowding meant that most houses were home to up to ten people. She held down a steady job at a nearby pub, and though she normally made some extra money by renting out rooms to lodgers, there were usually two or three hours each evening during which no one was home. Which was very convenient for Howard and Gideon, because it meant they had somewhere to be alone.

"We can trust her," Howard said, which wasn't what Gideon had asked, and yet it was what had actually been on his mind.

Alma knew about the relationship between them. Apparently she'd always known that Howard preferred the company of men, and unlike most people in Gideon's experience, she supported her brother. Even to the point of allowing him to use her home so he could have some time alone with his secret lover.