Eugene paused, the fingertip sachet in his hand, and

looked towards the stairwell with a scowl of

perplexity marking his face.

There it was again, more distinct now: a faint

scraping, like metal on wood. It sounded as if someone

was fiddling with the lock of the door upstairs.

Jerome placed the sachet and blood-filled syringe on

the work-bench and repositioned his wheelchair to try

and get a clearer look at the upper story. He heard a

faint click, and the sound of the traffic outside was

magnified for a brief moment; then the door swung shut

without a sound.

Eugene fretted. He was painfully aware of his helpless

crippled state, plus the fact that he and Jerome had

never thought to provide their home with any kind of

weapon. After all, the threat was to their livelihood,

not their lives. It was stupid, he now realized, that

it had never occured to him that a cripple left alone

all day could still be at risk, even if no-one did

know his real name.

He cleared his throat. "Jerome!" he called. "Is that

you?"

There was no answer; of course not. If Jerome had, for

some inexplicable reason, had to return in the middle

of a workday and had locked himself out, he would have

knocked at the ground-level back door, where Eugene

could have let him in, not picked the lock at the

front. Or even if he had, he would have announced

himself as he entered so that Eugene wouldn't have

been alarmed. Eugene craned his neck trying to see

upstairs, wondering if a blood-filled syringe could

still be used as a weapon in a time when most diseases

could be removed as easily as an inflamed appendix.

Then a figure appeared at the top of the stairs.

Eugene gaped, and his color went from pale with fear

to pale with anger. "You!"

The figure, a handsome, smartly-dressed man of

approximately Eugene's age, smiled and started down

the stairs.

"You bastard!" Eugene snapped. "Don't come in here!

You shouldn't even have this address."

The man, who had remained smiling all throught

Eugene's tirade, now laughed out loud. He reached the

last step and halted before the cripple's chair,

grinning broadly. "Now really, lover," he admonished

in a British accent, "is that any way to greet your

favorite ex?"

Eugene only glared at his visitor's face, his anger

growing at the spiteful enjoyment evinced in his

exulting look. "What the fuck are you doing here,

Damien?" he spat. "You were supposed to stay away from

us till after take-off. I wouldn't've said yes if I'd

known you'd be barging in when you were least welcome.

And you should have known you're not welcome."

Damien made a show of looking hurt. "Now really,

Eugene," - and there was a subtle but distinct

emphasis he gave to the name that made its owner bare

his teeth - "this much hostility just isn't necessary.

Aren't you going to be living with us again soon? And

I just wouldn't feel right if I didn't stop by to see

how you were doing after all this time." Eugene

snorted. Damien studied him narrowly. "You haven't

been entertaining doubts, have you?" he asked in a

tone of gentle menace. "Not letting this Invalid

pretty-boy worm his way into that tender little heart

of yours, are you?"

Eugene returned his stare levelly, pretending not to

notice the sneering inflection on the word "Invalid".

"Don't worry about me, Damien," he said. "I'm not

giving up a second chance for the sake of some common

vagrant."

"I hope not. But if I'm suspicious, you can't really

blame me."

"And why is that?"

"Well, think about it, darling. After your *accident*

you disappear, knowing very well you'd be missed by us

all. When Tania finally tracks you down you seem

anything but pleased to see such and old friend. You

refuse point-blank to even see me. And when Tania

tells you our old hideaway can't last us much longer,

it takes her hours to persuade you to give us shelter

when you know what the consequences would be for us.

To top it all off, you first insist that we give this

god-child time to get off the bloody planet before you

even let us through the door, and here I find you hard

at work preparing samples for him as if you were

planning to supply him for life! What am I supposed to

think?"

"Use your head, Damien. If something was to happen to

the Invalid, hoovers would be all over this place. I'd

go to jail for fraud and you'd be no better off. And

if I leave him with a lifetime of samples, he won't

get worried about me breaking the deal and cause

problems, even if I tell him he has to move. He'd know

it would be easier to keep up his pretence without

some anonymous lodger to raise neighbors' suspicions."



Damien sneered as if disappointed that Eugene's

arguments could not be logically disputed. He turned

his attention to the work table, carelessly running

his hand over a plastic-covered tray of dead skin

flakes.

"Don't touch that," Eugene warned, "you'll contaminate

the sample."

Damien withdrew his hand. "Accent, darling. You're

Cockney's showing."

"So's your Yorkshire."

Damien raised his eyebrows, surprised at Eugene's

spirit. He picked up the blood-filled syringe Eugene

had left on the table and his eyes misted, the

spiteful mocking temporarily banished. "When I think

of the low-life all this is being wasted on ..." He

raise the syringe to his open mouth and depressed the

plunger.

The sound of the thin red stream splashing against the

intruder's soft palate seemed to fill the empty house.

Eugene swallowed bile and gripped his wheelchair's

arms until his knuckles were white. Lowering the empty

syringe, a peculiar and horrible gratification on his

face, Damien noticed Eugene's look and became

agressive. "What, do you resent it?" He dropped the

syringe and quickly moved to stand over the cripple,

pulling his shirt collar open to expose his throat.

"Then take it back," he cried. "There hasn't been

anyone since you. Look, three sets of puncture marks,

the ones you gave me. Don't try to tell me you've

forgotten them! Do you think it's just coincidence

that I've never let anyone else take from me like

that?"

Eugene averted his eyes. Every spark of sanity fired

him to resist, but thirst like he had never known was

overwhelming him. The struggle lasted for many

heartbeats; then he remembered that refusing Damien

now would only reawake his suspicions. Giving in, he

raised his head and sank into the proffered throat

inch-long fangs that had sprouted over his canines the

moment the blood-lust was stirred.

All motion ceased; the warm flood coursed down

Eugene's throat and his eyes rolled unconsciously

back. Damien held his awkward pose, one hand dropping

to cradle the back of Eugene's head. His throat

emitted a low croon that Eugene felt as well as heard.

Finally he stood, moving out of Eugene's reach as

tenderly as a mother disengaging her breast from her

baby's mouth. "I've missed you, Jerome," he whispered.



Eugene licked his lips, struggling to regather. When

he spoke, his tone was softened but still resentful.

"You'd better leave."

But Damien stepped back, his eyes dancing again with

malicious glee. "But darling, you know I can only

travel abroad in daylight hours between twelve and one

and it's ten to now. Where could I go?"

Eugene gaped. "But - oh, no you don't! Not here, I

won't allow it!"

Damien laughed and headed for the basement door. "What

will you do? Throw me out?"

"How did you even get in? I didn't invite you!"

At the door he turned. "I know that, Eugene. But I

dare say you were sound asleep last night when I

knocked. Your pet god-child is a lighter sleeper and

was quite happy to let a motorist in for coffee until

a truck could come tow his broken down car ..."

Then, pausing for one more moment to savor the shock

on Eugene's face, he passed through the door with a

smirk, shutting it smartly behind ...

~ TO BE CONTINUED