Man Apart

She surprised herself for the second time. "Look, my house is up there. You can stay there for tonight, okay?"

He looked up, met her eyes and her breath caught in her throat, a strange shock passing through her. Even with his face screwed up in pain she was startled by how handsome he was; his face fine boned, his eyes a little angular - a touch of eurasian heritage, perhaps - and a startling violet shade. He had a prominent dimple on his chin, she noticed.

"Thank you," he said in that strange accent of his. Her heart thumped. For some reason she couldn't get her breath to answer.

The door was locked when she reached it, fumbling in her pocket for the key; for once she didn't want to wake the live in staff - their no visitors without notification rule was going to be a bummer to get around with a bleeding man on her shoulder. Eventually she succeeded in unlocking it and the two of them stumbled into the poky hallway. It was cleaner and better decorated than Curtis's flat. But, then, so was prison. With some difficulty the two of them made it to the top of the stairs, without making so much noise that anyone had to come and investigate, and into the relative sanctuary of Taylor's room.

She guided him to the bed, letting him slump down on the duvet with a groan. It was nearly five-thirty according to the bedside clock. Didn't matter - she felt filthy, the stranger's blood the least of her concerns; she had to have a bath. The man on the bed had fallen onto his back, head facing away from her, he seemed to be asleep already. Strangely, she felt shy about taking her clothes off in front of him. Instead she grabbed a towel from the chest, dumped her bloodstained jacket on the chair and wandered, fully clothed, into the bathroom.

It was only when she returned, wrapped in a towel, to find him lying absolutely still on her bed that she wondered how she would explain a strange corpse in her room to the police. She felt his neck, his skin soft, a little cool, found his slow, steady pulse easily enough, her hand lingering a little longer than strictly necessary. At least he isn't dead, she thought. Not yet, anyway. It didn't look as if there was much chance of getting into her own bed anytime soon, though. With a sigh she hunted out her most conservative pyjamas - a pair of long pants and a shirt in matching plaid - dressed hurriedly with her back turned to the bed.

When she was finished fatigue finally caught her, her energy seeming to drain away all at once so that she could barely keep her eyes open. Reluctantly she eyed the chair, but she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep perched on it. The bed was big enough, just, for two people, she knew. Funny, the thought of sharing it with the stranger didn't seem bad. Better than being alone.

With a little hesitation she climbed onto the bed, shifting him over with her body, curling up with her back to him, facing the door. After a few moments the feel of his warmth against her back was comforting, pleasant. By the time she'd wondered about her strange reaction, she was asleep, the birds singing beyond her window.

When she awoke the room was dark, the late afternoon sun weak through the drapes. He was still asleep, lying on his back almost exactly as she'd seen him last. For a while she lay still, listening to his steady heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. She felt so at ease, so...content, that it took her a few moments to realise that she was lying with her head nestled on his chest. In her sleep she'd moved to lie in the crook of his arm, resting her head beneath his chin, her arm draped possessively over him. The front of his shirt was wet where she'd dribbled a little. For as long as she dared she lay still, cheek resting on his chest, unwilling to spoil the way she felt by letting reality seep back in.

Finally her fear of his waking overcame her reverie.

Moving carefully so as not to disturb him she slid off the bed, picking her way through the bedroom to the door. He didn't stir as she exited, closing the door quietly behind her as she left.

The cut on her stomach hurt like hell, a hot throbbing pain, and she needed two things badly: coffee and a smoke. The coffee was easy to organise and, within a few minutes of padding in her pink fluffy slippers into the kitchen, she was sipping delicately at a hot cup of the bitter liquid, gulping paracetamol quickly enough to burn her tongue. The smoke was harder, the house had a strict no smoking policy, and she was forced to open the back door and lean outside to avoid an argument.

When she returned she heard the sound of voices, the front door closing and a few seconds later the house superintendent, Alison, walked in: matronly in jeans and a green sweat top, curly black hair and glasses. She glanced at Taylor as she entered, smiled in greeting, flicked the kettle on.

"That was the police at the door - doing to house to house," she said, as if she was directing an episode of NYPD Blue. "Wanted to know if we saw anything." Spooned coffee into a mug near the sink.

"Huh?"

"Haven't you heard?" she said, raising her eyebrows in question. "Someone got murdered just down the road, in the park. The police are all over the place."

Taylor froze, her blood turning to ice. Alison looked at her strangely, stirring water into her mug.

"Are you okay, Taylor?" she said. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"What? No. No, I'm okay. Really. Just tired, late night."

Oh, shit. Who the hell was in her room?

Alison smiled, her florid face trying for an understanding look. "What time did you get in?"

Taylor shook herself, tried to focus. "Uh... About five I think..."

What if he was the murderer? Oh, fuck.

"Alone?" Alison's face said that she knew the answer before she heard it.

Taylor shrugged. "No, a friend came back with me."

Alison nodded, trying for her motherly look. "Come on Taylor, you know the rule. No visitors without notification."

"I know but it was a little difficult, really short notice. Honest." She smiled lop-sidedly. Her most endearing look.

Alison pursed her lips and Taylor knew the argument was over. "Alright, Taylor. Just once, though... Don't make a habit of it."

Taylor nodded, sipping her coffee to hide her nerves. "So, who got killed?"

"Don't know, some of the girls said it was a local homeless person," she said, political correctness personified. "That's what... Three in the past month or so?"

Taylor nodded absently, following Alison as she carried her coffee through into the living room. She curled up on the sofa.

"What about your friend?"

"Um... He's still sleeping," she said, wincing ever so slightly on the 'he', staring into her coffee so she wouldn't need to look at Alison's disapproving frown. For fuck's sake, what did she think, that she was a virgin or something? She just hoped she didn't ask for a name - that would be awkward.

"Hmm. It's nearly four, perhaps you'd better get him up?"

Taylor hesitated for a second, then: "Okay. I'll go make him a coffee, now."

"That would be nice," Alison said, smiling encouragement.

******

He was still asleep on her bed. She put the coffee on her bedside table, sat next to him. For a while she just watched him sleep, he looked so peaceful, so handsome - far too good to be in her bed. Eventually she reached out, tentatively shook his shoulder.

"Hello, are you awake?" she said, feeling a little foolish. He didn't stir so she shook him a second time, a little harder.

"Hello. It's gone four in the afternoon, you have to get up."

He blinked, his violet eyes settling on her, his hand rubbing his hair.

"Hi," she said, smiling. "I got you a coffee."

"Uh, thanks," his voice hoarse, sleepy.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm good. Better," he said, closing his eyes for a moment. Wakefulness seemed to seep into him slowly, his hands rubbing his eyes, his hair. It took a while before he turned to face her. "I owe you my life, I think. I don't even know your name."

His eyes were so intense she felt herself blush slightly, looked down. "Taylor. Taylor Mackenzie. You?"

"Alex. Nice to meet you Taylor." He smiled and she felt suddenly boneless, weak. "And thank you, I'm in your debt." He sipped his coffee, raised the cup in thanks: "Twice over."

She smiled shyly. "So what happened to you?"

He rubbed his face with his hands. "I was attacked, as you saw."

"By who?"

He paused for a moment, his eyes still on her. He seemed to be thinking. "That's a... A long story. And not for now. Maybe later... Can I use your bathroom?"

"Sure. I'll show you."

When he stood his movements were sure and graceful, no trace of the difficulties he seemed to be suffering from the night before. Which meant, she realised, that the blood must have belonged to someone else. Shit.

"Are you okay?" he said, catching her suspicious look.

For a moment she stood undecided. She remembered the sound from the copse, the sight of the strange man watching her. But this was murder and all the evidence was there; he was at least a suspect. She should go and tell the police.

But she so much didn't want it to be true. She remembered how good it had felt to wake up next to him, her head resting on his chest. She'd never felt like that.

She took a breath. "Look, the police were here earlier. Someone got killed in the park last night," she said.

His eyes were suddenly alert. "And you think I might be responsible?"

"You tell me." Please convince me.

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Okay. I didn't kill anyone, I promise," he said. His eyes searched hers. He seemed to be thinking, his face undecided. Then, after a moment: "Look, I'll tell you everything, explain everything - but not here, not now." For a second he paused again, glanced at the clock. "How about over dinner... tomorrow evening? Unless you have plans..."

Plans? Yeah, like getting fucked by total strangers for money. I don't think so.

She smiled. "Dinner'd be nice."

"Good, it's a date." She got butterflies when he said that.

He peeled his jacket off, it had a large slash cut through it on the side, the gap crusted with blood. Beneath it his white shirt was slashed in the same place, soaked so thickly with blood that the fabric was stiff. He peeled the shirt off. There was no wound. His skin beneath the slash mark was covered with blood, dried in the right place - but his skin was whole and unmarked.

He looked at her watching him with her eyes wide. "Taylor, I'll tell you everything over dinner, okay? Trust me. Please." The last had a pleading tone.

She stared at him for a long while before answering. "Okay, I think I trust you," she said at last. Then: "Come on, the shower's down here."

While he showered she washed the worst of the blood from his jacket in the sink. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. Besides, he could hardly walk past the police, even in the dark, with blood all over his clothes.

He emerged with a towel tied about his waist. Again Taylor found herself staring. He was perfect, his body chiselled, athletic. He didn't seem to notice.

"I need to get a change of clothes," he said, pulling his pants on, drying himself. "Shall I pick you up at seven tomorrow?"

"Yeah, okay. What shall I wear?" She tried to sound cool, tried not to let her excitement show.

He looked her up and down, in her pyjamas and slippers. "Come as you are," he said, smiling warmly. She blushed furiously.

******

"So, is Alex really your name?" she said, sipping her coffee.

They sat at a window table in a small Italian bistro opposite the cathedral, its bulking stonework lit in the orange glow of spotlights. For Taylor the meal had passed in a blur, she couldn't remember a time when she'd felt happier, more alive. Sat opposite, looking, she thought, really sexy in a dark suit and light blue shirt, Alex had been perfect: charming, attentive, everything she'd hoped. Just being with him had made her feel excited.

Conversation during dinner had been light; mostly he'd talked and she'd listened. He'd chatted easily about her, the little she'd been willing to share, not pushing her, accepting. Later about food, wine, places he'd been - somehow he'd made her feel as if she was the centre of his conversation despite the little she could contribute, caught her up in his company. The one subject they hadn't touched had been him, it had been like a ghost at the table - a thing waiting to be acknowledged.

All day before he picked her up she'd been like a woman possessed. For a second time that day she'd bathed, soaking as long as she dared. Worryingly, the wound on her belly looked worse - inflamed, raw - and hurt really badly. She'd tried to ignore it.

She had bought a pair of hold-ups, black and lace topped, but had to borrow a bra and panties from Karen, another resident, which were white lace. Her tits were slightly larger than Karen's so they were pushed up ever so slightly - something she didn't really mind.

Alice, whose room was opposite, lent her the dress. It was tight and black and short to show off her slim figure, her long legs, but it was sleeveless - leaving the celtic knot tattoo on her left shoulder exposed - which made her a little nervous. Alice also helped her with her make-up and Alison surprised her by donating an expensive perfume. It was so long since she'd been on an actual date that she'd forgotten what was involved. No, scratch that, she'd never been on a proper date. It probably explained why she was so nervous.

Eventually she was ready. Smiling back from the hall mirror, the pretty girl with the blond pixie cut and bright blue eyes looked a million miles away from the frightened face in Curtis's bathroom. Even Alison had told her that she looked fabulous just before she'd run out to Alex's waiting car, seeming to approve of the change in her, if not the reason.

As he'd ordered coffee she'd slipped out to the bathroom. When she'd returned the coffee was waiting and a new intensity seemed to hover over the table. For a while he'd sat quietly and she'd asked about his name. It seemed harmless. It broke the tension.

He smiled. "Sort of. I suppose it's a translation," he said, playing idly with his spoon. After a while he looked up, his face serious. "Well, I promised you the truth, though it's difficult to know where to start." He paused, looking at her from the corner of his eye. "Before I do I want to say two things. First you should know that I've never told anyone what I'm going to tell you; so I have no idea how you'll react."

She remained silent, watching him, cradling her coffee cup gently.

"Second, I've had a really good time this evening. No matter what you think of me from now on," he said, smiling a crooked smile on his so perfect face.

Taylor felt herself flush, had to look away. For some reason she felt really warm, couldn't stop smiling. "Thank you. Me too," she said.

She wanted to say more. Wanted him to reach across then and kiss her, or hold her hand, or something. Wanted it so badly it was like a physical ache, her skin tingling, but his eyes were distant and she knew it wasn't going to happen. Not then.

"Okay, as you guessed my name is not Alex. It's Aleksey. Aleksey Iosifovich Makarov, in fact. Although my friends call me Lyosha," he said, smiling at her, "or Alex, now. I was born in nineteen sixty-three in Leningrad, which is now Saint Petersburg in the Soviet Union, which is now Russia, and -"

"Whoa, hang on..." Taylor held up her hand to stop him. Stared at him. He wasn't kidding. "Wait, that makes you... What? Fourty-six, fourty-seven?" He didn't look older than twenty-five, six at a real push, she thought.

"Fourty-six. Although to be honest, I've stopped counting."

"No way. You look... I mean, I thought you were younger..." She felt deceived, a little disappointed - as if the chance of there being something between them was receding. Did it matter that she was only eighteen? She didn't think she minded him being older.

"Physically I am," he said, sensitive to the disappointment on her face. He paused. Sipped his coffee, visibly struggled to find his next words. "Taylor, this isn't easy to explain... Okay, I'm a vampire..." He watched the incredulity in her face, held up his hand to stop her speaking. "At least that's the name that's stuck."

He sipped his coffee, staring out of the window pensively.

She stared. This was weird. She tried to work out if he was teasing her. Did he think she was stupid, was that it? Just some stupid kid from care. Because she wasn't. That was one thing everyone could agree on - she wasn't stupid. She may have cut a lot of school - who didn't? - and her qualifications were a little light, but she wasn't stupid.

"I was sixteen when I was infected with the virus... The scientists believe that our bodies age about one year for every five that pass - so physically I'm twenty-three, twenty-four."

He looked at her, saw the disbelief on her face, looked down. "I'm not doing this very well," he said. "It'll probably make more sense if I start again, right at the beginning, okay?"

She nodded, took another sip of coffee. For a while he was quiet, organising his thoughts.

"Okay," he said at last, "there's an island in what used to be the Soviet Union called Ostrov Vozrozhdeniya - Rebirth Island. It was apptly named. After the end of World War Two, at the beginning of the Cold War, it became the location of a Soviet bioweapons facility."

He paused, his eyes down.

"You have to understand - it was the Cold War; the Soviet Union, everyone, was looking for new weapons. At Vozrozhdeniya they were experimenting with recombinant DNA, ways to weaponise diseases - things like anthrax. Anyway, during this research they created or stumbled upon the virus. Moebius they called it.

"It isn't a true virus, I'm told. It doesn't behave like other viruses, anyway. But, of course, it was mostly, if not entirely, engineered; not natural.

"When it infects a human host - in large concentrations - it alters the host's DNA. Makes them stronger, faster, enhances senses - extends lifespan. As you saw with my wound, it also speeds healing," he said, looking up at her. "The potential was obvious."

She nodded, unsure what other reaction was expected. She wasn't sure how much sense it all made, it was so far from her life that she had no frame of reference.

"They brought in people from the Gulags, from state orphanages. Infected them. Many died." His face was distant. "The first of us - the first of the 'Oprichniki', the 'Men Apart' - was created in nineteen fifty two, the year before Stalin died. At that time they thought he was the vanguard of a new army of enhanced soldiers. It wasn't to be.

"You see, the virus enhances its host but it also brings with it its own suite of weaknesses, too. We react badly to UV light, to sunlight - it makes us torpid, weak. Hardly an advantage in an army." He smiled. "But worse than this, the virus also attacks the central nervous system - creates an insatiable thirst for blood, which is where the moniker came from. Vampires."

He spoke as if to himself, his face deep in thought.

"Without blood the virus alters the personality of the host - breaks down brain function, makes them paranoid, anxious, hyper-aggressive - eventually driving them insane. It also accelerates their enhancements - makes them stronger even as it destroys their mind," he said, looking at her. "The virus is transmitted in saliva, you see, needs to enter the bloodstream to infect a host - through wounds or by biting - like rabies."

Taylor felt the first stirrings of unease, sipped her coffee to cover it.

"Of course the first Oprichniki didn't know this. Almost invariably they went insane - like animals, feral, wild." He was talking quietly now, more to himself than her. "The changes were irreversible. But that wasn't the worst. People bitten," he said, wincing, "people bitten, infected by them underwent the changes, too. Everywhere the Oprichniki went, a plague followed."