James

James sat at the clavichord and ran his fingers on the keys. The melody, he played without thinking about it. A joyous sound howled by a ghost.

Alone again. Of course, Aidan had left. What had he been thinking? That he would stay after the scene he had made? They were together because of lust, not for him to be comforted, like a whining kid. He should have been stronger. He should have kept his failures to himself. He should have been what Aidan wanted him to be. He should have.

His fingers tensed on the keyboard as his stomach dropped. The memory of Aidan's embrace, of his warm hand on the small of his back. He shuddered and hit a false note.

Aidan had pitied him at first but that was the end of it. Then, he didn't want James to touch him any longer. That had said it all.

The young vampire was alone again. But more alone than ever. He was so tired. Lonelier each time. He deserved it, though, didn't he? What did he have to offer? He was surrounded by a chain of ghosts. The ghosts of the ones he had failed to protect and those of the ones he had killed. Death was the only constant in his life.

James stood up abruptly to walk to the window. His eyes caught the sight of the piece of paper Aidan had left and he had thrown on the floor. I can't do this. He could hear Aidan's voice in his head. I'm sorry.

James ran his hand in his hair, still pacing up and down the creaking floor. I can't do this. Do what? He should have said something. None of them had said enough. But maybe it was already too much. He had seen the sadness in Aidan's eyes. He had thought it was compassion because he was upset. But in the light of the words on the paper, James wondered if it had already been a goodbye. It was always going to end this way.

I can't do this. This. Them. He was afraid to think about the word but he could feel it. This, loving him.

James walked past the door of Isabella's room. And it felt even emptier than before. The untied sheets. James got dizzy.

He missed him already. The lingering remembrance of his scent on his skin and clothes. Tears rolled down his face.

In a panic, James stripped and washed before putting on new clothes, trying to erase everything that had happened. He needed a blank slate. Start again. Survive.

He could do it. He had done it so many times before.

He was thirsty for blood now. That was something he could concentrate on. A rush he could satisfy. So he left the house to find a prey. The night was young and a fresh breeze pricked his skin.

There were many lost souls in the dirty streets of London, and he could definitely find one to accompany him for the night.