“It’s Lawrence’s password,” Rake said. He showed the Post-it to DJ.
P@ssw0rd123.
DJ threw his head back and laughed. “What an idiot.”
“It means you don’t need me,” Van said, looking miffed.
“Try it before saying that,” Rake suggested.
Van’s fingers flew over the keyboard. After a few long seconds, she groaned. “I’d been looking forward to trying to crack it. Let me ensure it can’t be traced, at least.” After a minute of rapid-fire clicking and tapping, she sat back. “All done. You can find whatever you need. Seems like he uses the same password for everything.”
“You’re the best,” DJ said, swinging the laptop around to face him. He started opening up folders on the cluttered desktop until Rake put his hand over the trackpad.
“Let’s do this later,” Rake said, eyes communicating a clear message to desist. That, or he was attempting to bore a hole in DJ’s head with his mind.
Van diverted everyone’s attention by opening her rucksack and pulling out a set of silver candlestick holders. DJ’s mouth dropped open as she removed several more things from her bag: a small burnished gold clock, a couple of delicate vases—one still holding some dried lavender—and an ornate handheld mirror. There was even a set of hand-painted Matryoshka dolls that she took out one by one from her pockets.
“Uh,” DJ said. “Van?”
She looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Yes?”
Rake’s face moved between expressions of disapproval and admiration with such speed that DJ thought it might break. “You took those from Lawrence’s house,” Rake accused.
“No, no. I brought these from home,” Van insisted.
DJ burst out laughing. “You’re welcome to the creepy dolls.”
Sophie and David didn’t seem to care about the unexpected plunder, both of them making the most of the cheap wine they’d bought several bottles of. DJ enjoyed the wine too, though he only nibbled at a few bits of cheese. He made a point of having a couple of crackers under Rake’s watchful gaze, however.
Since they’d already made up an excuse about going to visit DJ’s parents that evening, their friends left well before it got dark. The second they were out the door, DJ and Rake settled onto the sofa to search through the laptop.
DJ’s quick scan of the documents earlier hadn’t appeared promising, so he began with the photos this time. There were a few maps of Brighton, which DJ skipped past, despite Rake wanting to study the odd lines that followed no clear route. DJ didn’t think they’d find any answers there. When he moved to the next photo, however, he wished he’d stayed on the maps.
He inhaled a sharp breath as he looked at the scan of an old Polaroid. For a second, he thought it was of Shaun. But, no, it was a similar-looking boy who couldn’t be much older than a teenager. It had a name and date scrawled on the bottom. Christopher Coren, 1990. Then there was another. Same boy, with a year of 1993. And then back again to 1989. The most recent date was in the late nineties.
“He looks like Shaun,” DJ whispered.
Rake didn’t answer, just made an unhappy noise in the back of his throat.
DJ clicked through photo after photo, trepidation churning in his gut. Most of the photos were of the same boy, interspersed with some innocuous ones of various landscapes atnight. According to this, even vampires were partial to taking shitty photographs of the moon.
The boy wore the same expression that DJ had recognised in Shaun’s eyes when he’d first seen him at the club—complete and utter defeat.
DJ didn’t want to pry into the unfortunate soul’s life more than was necessary, but he felt compelled to scroll through each photo. In some, the boy wore almost nothing, so DJ skipped past them. Others he lingered on, trying to determine if there was any information to glean from the sad story they told.
Christopher didn’t appear changed despite the years the photos spanned. If it hadn’t already been clear he was a vampire, DJ flicked to one that confirmed it. It was of a nude Christopher, eyes streaming with blood, fangs peeking out from his parted lips.
Rake slammed the lid of the laptop down. “I can’t,” was all he said, before getting up and striding out the living room door, leaving DJ blinking back tears.
He heard a muffled shout from the bedroom and rushed in to see Rake screaming into a pillow. DJ hovered near the door, unsure whether to approach. He couldn’t tell if this was an actual meltdown or if Rake simply needed an outlet for his feelings. It wasn’t often Rake let his anger and frustration get to him, but occasionally everything just got a bitmuchfor him. Too many stimulants, too many people brushing against him in crowds, too many things happening that were out of his control.
After a few more screams, Rake went silent. But he stayed face down on the mattress, arms limp by his sides. DJ tookit as a sign. “You okay with me touching you right now?” he asked as he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed.
Rake made a non-committal sound into the pillow. DJ chanced it, reaching one hand out and laying it on the back of Rake’s neck. Rake tensed for a moment, but relaxed once DJ started stroking down his back in soothing motions. After a few minutes, Rake turned onto his side. His face was puffy, but he looked like he’d calmed down.
“Thank you,” Rake said quietly.
DJ moved his hand to Rake’s chest, holding it against his heart. “Any time.”
