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“No, not exactly. But I’ve never heard of a haemophile older than four hundred years. Well”—his face changed—“maybe one, but that’s a whole other story.”
“I thought they all lived forever?”
“Nothing lives forever,” Tom said with a smile, packing the empty plates away.
“But the Blood… Doesn’t that heal everything? Keep away disease and stuff?”
“Yeah, but they can still have accidents—or be killed or…deliberately harm themselves.”
Jesse blinked. “That happen a lot?”
“Not compared to us. But yeah, I’ve heard of a few that couldn’t hack it anymore. The endless years… Losing connection with the world… That’s why they normally live in communes—for protection, yes, but also to try to maintain a society, of a kind.”
“So how do the independents keep going?”
Tom shrugged. “I guess they all find their own ways. Terje Kristiansen has a human partner. Darragh Kelly practices law. Christ knows how many times he’s taken the bar exam to stay current.” Tom’s smile seemed to change, becoming softer. But he shook his head, and it was gone as quickly as it had come. “I’ve heard of a few that curate art, study anthropology—or just wander aimlessly, detached from everything. Anything that makes them able to stand time passing by without them.”
“And Emory?” Jesse said after a pause. “What does he do?”
“You know, I’m not sure,” Tom said after a thoughtful pause. “Before Austria, he lived alone in Bavaria, in the mountains, for years and years. I don’t think anyone even knew he existed. Then he appeared in Vienna out of the blue about eight years ago, just when all the international haemophile stuff was kicking off. I started working there a couple of years later.” Tom shrugged. “And now he’s back in Yorkshire, reclaiming his ancestral lands, running businesses, engaging with the community. Maybe that’s how he’s reconnecting?”
“Why now? Some sort of fourth-lifetime crisis?”
Tom chuckled. “Maybe.”
“He’s been…good to you, right?”
Tom’s eyes were intent. “You can ask me about it, you know.”
Jesse inhaled. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then ran his fingers over the scarring at Tom’s neck. Tom watched his face with interest.
“Was this him? He said not.”
“It wasn’t Emory.”
“But it was a haemophile?”
Tom nodded.
“Who?”
“An ex,” Tom said, voice low. “Several exes.”
“Jesus, man.”
“Yeah…not good,” Tom said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “But as I say, I’ve moved on…or I’m trying to.”
Jesse lowered his hand. Tom’s face was close. Their noses were almost touching. He smelled like coffee and caramel. The heat in his eyes was warming the cold air between them.
Jesse opened his mouth to say something, then Tom kissed him. Slow heat poured through Jesse. He closed his eyes, clutched at Tom’s coat, tilted his head and opened his mouth. Tom swept his tongue in. Jesse tasted him, swallowing the richness of caffeine and sweetener. The way he breathed Jesse’s scent in and sighed it out, shifting his head the other way to kiss him deeper was warm and comforting. Pleasing.
So why wasn’t Jesse’s blood burning the way it had before Magnusson had even touched him?
Tom broke away. His face had changed.
“There’s nothing here, is there?”
Jesse rubbed his eyes. “Shit.”
