London, 1977

Gideon Hartwright had once told himself that he would never again return to London.

But times had changed, and the city was a very different place to the one that he had known. It was, he thought as he watched a man wearing nothing but very tight leather trousers walk past him, a much better place now.

It had only been a couple of weeks since he'd left Brighton, and he was adapting to a new life in London surprisingly fast – thanks in part to the underground gay clubs that he'd discovered, where men and women from all walks of life gathered, and the raw openness of it was like nothing Gideon had imagined possible.

He leaned against the wall in one of the darker corners of the club, feeling the music flow through him, watching the bodies writhing and swaying in time with the beat, his gaze lingering on flexed biceps and broad shoulders, sculpted chests and narrow hips. Here, people kissed and touched without fear – two days ago, Gideon had even stumbled upon a couple discreetly having sex in the toilets. The air was rich with sweat and perfume and lust, and Gideon absorbed it all, a feast for the senses.

When he'd first come here, he'd told himself that he was simply taking advantage of the sexual freedom and dark spaces to hunt for food – twice since coming here, he'd pulled men into corners to drink from, and both times they'd been so lost in the bliss of his bite that they hadn't cared what he was actually doing to them. But nothing had gone beyond the bite.

Ten years ago, he'd taken a stranger home with him on the night that England had declared that homosexuality was no longer a crime, but it had become clear since then that in so many ways it was still a crime, and the appetite that had started to stir to life in him had vanished again. He hadn't slept with anyone since, but here, in these secret places, he felt electric, like he might leap out of his own skin. He wanted to do more than bite people; he just couldn't seem to pluck up the courage.

So he lingered at the edges of the club, watching everyone else revel in the space that they had claimed for themselves.

A man broke away from the crowd, shoving his hair off his face as he made his way to the bar. Gideon's eyes followed him, almost of their own accord, watching the way the muscles in the man's shoulders – clearly defined in the very tight T-shirt he wore – flexed as he leaned on the bar. He laughed at something the barman said, and then turned, a beer in one hand, scanning the club.

His eyes landed on Gideon.

Gideon meant to look away, to pretend that he hadn't been looking, but he couldn't. His gaze had locked with the other man's like a magnet.

The man smiled, slow and inviting, and started walking over.

Gideon almost panicked.

Last time he'd taken someone home he'd been encouraged by Esther and Sarah; this time he had no support, no one to bolster his courage, no one to remind him that it was alright to pursue the things he wanted.

The man reached him and leaned against the wall, his shoulder brushing Gideon's. "I haven't seen you around here before," he said.

"I haven't come very often," Gideon said honestly.

The man held out his hand. "I'm Jerry."

"Gideon."

Jerry grinned, showing off white teeth and deep dimples, and Gideon felt a distinct throb deep inside. With tanned skin and blue eyes, sandy-coloured hair and carved muscles in his arms, Jerry was the most handsome man that Gideon had seen in a long time, and the urges that he'd been trying to ignore since coming to London were flaring up.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Jerry asked.

"Thank you, but I don't drink."

"At all?"

Gideon shook his head.

Jerry shrugged and sipped his own pint. "Each to their own, I suppose." He nodded towards the dancing, gyrating crowd. "Do you want to dance?"

"I don't really know how," Gideon confessed.

"There aren't any rules. Just do what you want."

"Easier said than done," Gideon muttered.

"We don't have to dance. We can stay here and talk if you prefer?" Jerry said. "Tell me about yourself."

Every time he moved to a new place, Gideon made sure he had a story prepared in case anyone probed into his past, carefully utilising aspects of his real life and superimposing them onto the modern world so no one knew how old he really was.

He told Jerry that he'd left home after his family had rejected him, and that since then he'd been travelling all over the country, but he hadn't found anywhere to call home.

"Yeah, I know the feeling. When my family found out I was gay, my dad attacked me. I mean, he physically went for me, and let me tell you, I was only a scrawny little thing back then," Jerry said.

"How old were you?" Gideon asked.

"Fourteen."

Gideon winced. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be. I spent the next six years staying with various gay friends, and now I'm living with a few others in a squat in Brixton. It's not ideal, but it's not like we have much choice."

Gay men could still be fired from their jobs just for being gay, or refused employment to begin with, just as they could be evicted from rented homes, or refused housing, and with so many disowned by their families, they needed somewhere to live. Groups of gay men had started squatting in empty London buildings, claiming these spaces for themselves, the way they had claimed these secret clubs.

"I suppose they've become my family," Jerry added.

"How many of you live there?" Gideon asked.

"There's ten of us at the moment, but people come and go."

Weary anger weighed on Gideon's heart. It wasn't fair. No one asked to be born a certain way, and they didn't deserve to be punished for it.

"Do you ever think that things will get better?" he asked.

Jerry thought about it. "The way I see it, they are getting better. It's slow, yeah, but when I was a kid, I'd never have imagined gay people having their own public rally in London. I'd never imagined us having our own newspaper. But five years ago, a thousand people marched for Gay Pride, and that's a big stepping stone. And look at this?" Jerry held out a hand to encompass the club, the men and women dancing together, kissing without caring who saw, hands sliding across sweat-slicked skin, the sense of euphoria that hung in the air, so strong you could almost breathe it in.

"This club is illegal," Gideon reminded him.

"But it still exists. I'm living with nine other queens in a squat, and yes, that's only because we have nowhere else to go, but we've found each other and we keep each other strong. Once upon a time we wouldn't have had that. We would have been alone," Jerry said.

"I am alone," Gideon said. "Maybe that's why it's hard for me to see the positives that you do."

"You know, you don't have to be alone. We're all in this together," said Jerry seriously.

Except that Gideon was a vampire, which meant that he would always exist on the edges of everything, never fully able to join in.

"You look sad," Jerry said, touching Gideon's face.

"Sometimes it's hard to remember how to be happy."

Jerry put his drink down on a ledge running along the wall behind him. "Can I kiss you?" he asked.

Gideon's mouth felt suddenly dry, and he nodded.

Jerry leaned in and brushed his lips against Gideon's, hesitant at first, then bolder, and then that boldness became something fierce and almost desperate, Jerry pushing Gideon against the wall and devouring him, and they were surrounded by people, which normally would have prevented Gideon from doing anything like this, but here it didn't matter.

Jerry's hips pushed against Gideon's, a distinct rhythm that left no doubt what he wanted, and his hands slid over Gideon's back and shoulders before trailing down between their bodies and gliding over the front of Gideon's trousers. Even that faint touch was more than Gideon had had in so long, and he closed his eyes, leaning into Jerry's touch.

"God, I want you," Jerry groaned, biting Gideon's lower lip.

Gideon managed an answering groan.

Jerry pulled back, his breathing ragged, his eyes bright. "Come with me," he said.

He took Gideon's hand and Gideon eagerly followed.

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