The Green Hour

Rain pounded Sir Roderick Steen’s umbrella like a drum, creating a cascade of precipitation around him, which plumed into a cloud of mist as it, struck the pavement. The occasional flash of lightning illuminated the fat droplets of rain, which in spite of the umbrella, managed to dampen Roderick’s legs, as well as his spirits.

He slowly made his way up stone steps, checking the address Detective Inspector Taggert had given him for the second time. The ink began to bleed as water struck the page, but this was indeed the place. A gothic mansion, old-fashioned in style, its walls lined with creeping vines, Roderick snorted at the cliche. It was just the sort of place a vampire might live, at least in cheap gothic novels. He could see lights on in every window. It was well past visiting hours, but, like Roderick, the gentleman was supposed to keep strictly to night hours.

He shivered and wrapped his coat a bit tighter around his shoulders, Taggert’s warning running through his head. Wear a crucifix around your neck, Sir Roderick. Promise me you’ll do that. A series of rumors surrounded Parson Sinews, from the mundane to the sinister to the downright superstitious.

His background was unknown, his associates were criminals and reprobates. His chief hobby was also a morbid one; Mr Sinews collected criminals the way some men collected books of poetry or rocks. Broadsides of the most famous murderers were supposed to grace his collection, along with memorabilia from murder sites. He’d bribed hangmen in order to buy bits of rope from hangings. Mary Anne Cotton’s noose was supposed to sit in his living room. Lizzie Borden’s ax hung from his wall. His most recent purchase was one of Jack the Ripper’s original letters. From hell.

What sort of a man collected such things?

Roderick snorted. Nothing but superstition and prejudice. Sinews might be eccentric, but Roderick had no prejudices against eccentricities and he was hardly superstitious. He hurried up the steps, scolding himself for delaying so long and letting rumors fill his head, and stepped under the balustrade. He shook the rain from his umbrella. The door featured a heavy iron knocker in the design of a snake eating its own tail. Ouroboros, thought Roderick. Preferring to knock with his own hands, he rapped loudly on the door. The sound resounded through the house, and a moment later, the door swung open.

“Come in. He’s expecting you,” said the man at the door. He spoke with a Haitian accent, and though his face was lined with deep, jagged scars and his eyes were dichromatic, he was still quite handsome in Roderick’s estimation. He had a masculinity about him that was marked by the shape of his jaw, his broad, muscular shoulders, and the deep gravelly baritone of his voice. He had a brooding forehead and a lightly whiskered chin. He wore bones around his neck, painted the color of brass. “I’m Henri-Charles, Mr Sinews’ valet. He’s in his parlor, if you’ll follow me.”

Taggert had called ahead to Mr Sinews to ask for his assistance, but he’d suggested that it be Roderick who would actually meet Sinews, as Roderick was more of his world, which was to say that Sinews was a gentleman and might be more candid with a man of Sir Roderick’s class.

He gave the man a nod, stepped inside, and abandoned his umbrella on the stand. He took in the expensively decorated entryway as he shrugged off his jacket and handed it to Sinews’ valet. Tall Egyptian statues stared down at him from the ceiling. Gold-framed paintings hung from the walls depicted nautical images. Sailboats caught in massive storms, scenes of battle, and of death.

“This way,” said Henri-Charles.

Sir Roderick followed the man through the house, feeling a bit like Alice tumbling down a hole, deeper and deeper into a grotesque wonderland. Each room was bigger than the last, and decorated more lavishly. Motifs of skulls adorned every corner of every room, and gold-framed portraits hung from every wall, the subjects of the paintings depicting a morbid fascination. Naturally, Sir Roderick recognized a number of the paintings in Mr Sinews’ collection. He paused to examine one of them.

“Dante and Virgil in Hell,” he remarked. In the painting, Dante and Virgil are witness to a fight between two damned souls. As the two men wrestle, one of them bites the other’s neck, while a demon smiles down upon the scene.

“Ah, so you recognize it?”

The voice sent a shiver down Sir Roderick’s spine, a chill that was not entirely unpleasant. It was not a deep, gravelly voice like Henri-Charles’, but one that crawled under Roderick’s clothes and softly caressed every inch of his skin, like a whisper, gentle but insistent. The man, for it was certainly a man’s voice, had the slightest hint of an Irish brogue. He was somewhere in the next room, waiting patiently for Roderick. His voice alone had made Roderick flush, and had made Roderick suddenly even more anxious about meeting the gentleman.

“Yes, the artist is William Bouguereau,” Roderick answered. The words came out quietly, the name half-stuttered as if he’d suddenly lost control of his vocal cords.

“Do you like it?”

Roderick nodded, though he knew the man couldn’t see him from the next room. He lingered only a moment longer to look at the painting, and to examine some of the others that hung from the wall. Each was as morbid as Dante and Virgil. He was beginning to understand the source of the rumors surrounding Parson Sinews. No wonder his neighbors feared him.

Finally, Sir Roderick stepped into the parlor, where his host was sitting before an absinthe fountain. The parlor was an enormous room with marble columns and towering statues of greek gods. A spiral staircase twisted its way upstairs. The scent of fennel and anise filled the room. Parson Sinews stood as Sir Roderick entered, clutching a glass of milky green liquor, and offered a fleeting smile to his visitor. It was the kind of smile that could stop hearts from beating, and Roderick could feel his own heart flutter.

“Mr Sinews,” Henri-Charles’ voice boomed, “May I present Sir Roderick Steen?”

“Charmed,” said Parson, while Roderick simply stood gaping at his host like a schoolboy, unable to form words or even close his mouth.

Sinews had the posture of an aristocrat, and the body of a greek god; though Taggert had sent a card telling him to expect Roderick, the man was barefooted and his shirt was unbuttoned, leaving his chest and stomach completely exposed. His body was gorgeous. Slim, but athletic, muscles lining his stomach and chest. Thin wisps of lightly colored hair drew Roderick’s eye to the man’s pelvis; he wore a pair of suspenders over his shoulders, but they were loose enough that Roderick could catch a glimpse of the hair on Mr Sinews’ pelvis. Roderick swallowed nervously and looked up at the man’s face. He was younger than Sir Roderick had expected. He could be no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. Not a single blemish, birthmark, or even a wrinkle marred his perfect skin, which was milky white like a porcelain doll, though there was a darkness beneath his eyes. His jaw was square, his nose small but masculine, his lips curled with the hint of a smile. His hair was a dark sable, and swept back with abandon.

But it was his eyes that truly earned Roderick’s attention. They were a vivid medicinal green, a perfect match for his glass of absinthe. Wide-eyed, youthful, and bright, it was as if Parson was seeing the world for the first time, an effect his eyes somehow managed to convey. Utterly intoxicating.

“How do you do?” Roderick finally managed, deciding not to draw attention to his host being undressed for company.

Sinews swallowed the last of his absinthe and flopped back down upon the divan. He gestured for Roderick to take a seat. The furniture was arranged such that the only available seat was the one immediately next to him. With a sweeping bow, Henri-Charles exited the room, leaving Roderick with the curious sensation that he’d been thrown to the wolves. He took a seat and tried to force himself not to look at his host’s bare chest.

“I see that you’re a man with an appreciation for beauty,” said Parson.

“Beg your pardon?” Roderick coughed.

“I’m referring to Dante and Virgil. You recognized it. You obviously have an appreciation for fine art.”

“I do. I am an artist, after all.”

“I thought you were with Scotland Yard,” said Mr Sinews. “Detective Inspector Taggert said you were here on police business.”

“I’m assisting Scotland Yard with their case.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Is the case somehow related to art?”

“No, Mr Sinews. I’m simply rather good at it.”

“I see. Might I offer you a drink, Sir Roderick?” asked Parson, gesturing to the fountain with one hand and placing the other familiarly on Roderick’s leg.

Roderick flushed, suddenly feeling the warmth of the fireplace across the room, and stared straight ahead, afraid to make eye contact, terrified he might say or do something that might reveal the attraction he felt for Mr Sinews. Whatever they might say about Parson Sinews, the things they’d say about Roderick if they knew what he was were far worse.

He breathed a sigh of relief as Sinews removed his hand, and he gave a quick nod. “Yes,” he said. He was going to need a drink if he was to get through this interview. Why couldn’t Taggert have come here instead?

It wasn’t just fear of discovery that unnerved Roderick. He watched Parson pour bright green absinthe into his glass. He slid the glass beneath the fountain and set a cube of sugar upon a spoon, which he placed atop the glass. Then, turning the spigot, he let a stream of ice-cold water trickle into the glass. The sugar dissolved into the drink, which turned a milky consistency as it blended with the absinthe. What truly unnerved Roderick was that he recognized the game Sinews was playing. It was one Sir Roderick had played himself many times before, though the roles were now reversed. It was a game of cat and mouse, of predator and prey, hunter and hunted. He felt, somehow, that Parson didn’t merely wish to seduce him. He wanted to devour him. It was a thought that both terrified and excited Roderick. Sinews was dangerous. The open shirt, the coy smile, the hand he’d placed almost innocently on Roderick’s leg, it was all part of the game. A challenge. Dare you not to look. Dare you not to speak. Dare you not to touch. The longer he sat in this room, the more difficult it became to resist the dare. When the drink was full, Parson slid the glass across the table and turned so he was facing Roderick.

Roderick took the glass, hands trembling slightly, and took a sip. The drink was strong, cold, and had the strong scents of herbs and spices. Fennel, anise, wormwood. It tasted almost like licorice.

“So,” said Parson, pretending not to notice Roderick’s trembling hands, “what can I do for you, Sir Roderick?”

After the first glass of absinthe, the world took on a shimmering glow. The edges of things became ephemeral, evanescent trails of fog that blended into the haze of tobacco smoke gradually filling the room from Mr Sinews’ cigarette, which he smoked using a long smoking stick. After the second, Roderick began to see things he could not explain. As they drank, he described the unusual circumstances of the case. Mr Sinews was a surprisingly gracious host. He listened patiently and offered insight where he could.

A series of brutal murders, the details horrific in their violence. The victims seemed to have been picked at random. For the longest time, Scotland Yard had no suspects, no leads. Roderick had given them one.

“I believe I have discovered the identity of the murderer,” he told Sinews over his second glass. “He’s called Anthony Tidkins.”

“Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“You’d have heard the name before if you’ve ever read the Mysteries of London.”

Sinews tapped his finger in the air as if Roderick had just solved a great riddle. “That’s right! The penny dreadful. I’m sure I had it on the tip of my tongue. Anthony Tidkins, isn’t he the resurrectionist in Mr Reynolds’ stories? But you know what this means about your culprit, don’t you?”

Sir Roderick sighed. “Well, for one, Anthony Tidkins can’t be his real name if his identity has been stolen from a penny dreadful. And second, it means it’s very likely that our murderer belongs to that secret with which I’m told you are familiar.”

“It’s been a particular interest of mine these past few months, I must admit. An organization called The Resurrectionists, their member registry reads like a who’s who of gothic fiction and penny dreadfuls. Dr. Jekyll, Mr Hyde, Francis Varney, Sweeney Todd, Victor Frankenstein, and Fernand Wagner…” Sinews paused to replenish his drink. A thought seemed to stir on his lips but remained unspoken. At last, he sat back in his chair and turned to regard Sir Roderick with renewed interest. “You believe your murderer is a member of The Resurrectionists. That’s why you came to me?”

“I wanted to know what you knew about their organization. Perhaps you could arrange a meeting?” He set down his empty glass. How many glasses had he drunk already? Two? Three? He suddenly realized he’d lost count. Roderick wasn’t typically a drinker, preferring to indulge in laudanum. His head was swirling, but his hands were steadier, and he found he could now look at Parson without his breath catching in his throat.

“May I pour you another drink?” Sinews asked, and Roderick gave him only a moment’s hesitation before he nodded.

Yes, he could manage another.

Sinews leaned forward to grab the near-empty bottle. He poured the rest into Sir Roderick’s glass and added the sugar and water, before continuing. “I suppose it’s possible,” Sinews answered. He hesitated, looking at Roderick with his piercing green eyes and leaning forward in his seat. “There is a small, unassuming brick building in Whitechapel that acts as home to a gentleman’s club. It is unmarked, aside from a small symbol painted on the back door. A crow. Do you know what a group of crows is called, Mr Steen?”

“A murder,” Roderick answered, his voice slurred from the drink.

“The club is called the Murder Club – murder, you understand, as a murder of crows. The building’s windows are blackened, and its list of members is a secret that will follow them to their graves. Occasionally, witnesses have seen gentlemen coming and going from the club’s rear entrance, but they wear masks whenever they enter and exit the club. Plague doctor’s masks.”

“And what does this club have to do with the Resurrectionists?” asked Roderick, looking down to see that his glass was empty. He couldn’t remember drinking the rest. He steadied himself by putting his hand on the table, but when he looked down, he realized his error. It wasn’t the table he’d set his hand upon; it was Mr Sinews’ arm. He quickly withdrew his hand, sucking in a breath of air and looking down into his swirling glass of absinthe. His glass was full.

“The Resurrectionist organization remains shrouded in mystery. Their members are, as a general rule, prominent members of the scientific community. Their scientific works share a common theme; their pursuits tend to blur the lines of morality, to push the boundaries of legality, and even to question the laws of physics. Some of their studies have been published in scientific journals, using pen names to obscure their identities. They used noms de plume to hide their identities. It is my belief, Mr Steen, that the members of the Resurrectionists and those of the Murder Club are one and the same.”

“Take me,” said Roderick.

“Why Mr Steen,” Parson replied with a mischievous grin, “I thought you’d never ask!”

“Take me,” Roderick said again, “to the Murder Club.”

Sinews frowned. “You are a man of singular determination, Mr Steen. Very well. I will take you to the Murder Club… on one condition.”

He stood and began buttoning his shirt. It was Roderick’s turn to be disappointed, but while they were about to visit the gentleman’s club to which the notorious murderer, Anthony Tidkins, belonged, Roderick had the curious sensation that the danger had just passed.

“What condition?”

“Finish your drink,” Sinews replied. “That’s good absinthe. I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

The Murder Club was exactly as Parson Sinews had described, an unremarkable establishment in the middle of a disreputable part of town. Blackened windows, black walls, and a plain door marked with a black crow were the only notable features. The name of the club appeared nowhere on the brick edifice. It was just the sort of building one might walk past without even noticing, but because Roderick had some idea of the sort of people who frequented it, it was as conspicuous as if it had human skulls mounted on spikes at every corner. Perhaps it was foolish to come here, drunk out of his mind on absinthe, with a relative stranger as his backup should he run into trouble, but as Parson Sinews put a hand on Roderick’s back, he felt comforted. Raising his umbrella with one hand, he tightened his mask with the other. Parson’s mask was a match to Roderick’s, the mask of a plague doctor. This was supposed to be their tickets into the Murder Club.

“Are you ready?” asked Parson.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Roderick answered, steadying himself with a hand on the brick building. He wondered if his new friend was as drunk as he was, but Parson seemed steady on his feet.

Sinews nodded, then stepped forward to knock on the door with a gloved hand. The door opened just a crack, revealing a masked face. The mask was similar to the ones Parson and Roderick were wearing. Similar, but not identical.

“Names, please,” said the doorman.

Roderick and Parson had anticipated this moment and chosen their own penny dreadful names in advance.

“We are Baron Zindorf and Count Durlack, respectively,” said Parson. Both names were drawn from the popular penny dreadful Vileroy.

There was a moment of pause before the doorman suddenly shut the door. Roderick exchanged a look with Parson, but only a moment later, the door opened again, this time in full. “Get inside. Quickly now.”

The two men stepped into the gentleman’s club, Roderick first, followed by Parson, who closed the door behind him. Inside, the decor was somewhat grander than the exterior of the building, with wallpaper the color of lavender, gilt-trimmed walls and cream-colored wainscoting. The furniture was wood, solid and sturdy looking, but cushioned with brocade fabrics.

Aside from the masked man who’d opened the door for them, the place was deserted. He gestured for them to take a seat and turned back to replace the lock and chain, locking them inside with an air of finality.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said once he was sure the door was secure. He unclasped the leather strap of his mask and pulled the mask from his face as he joined them at the table. He was an older gentleman, his whiskers white, his face lined with wrinkles, but he had an air of confidence that made him seem younger.

“We’re new to the Murder Club,” said Parson.

“Is that right? Well, I hope you’ll find yourselves at home here. My name is Dr. Jekyll,” he said, and gesturing to his right, added, “and this is Mr Hyde.”

From out of nowhere, the largest man Roderick had ever seen appeared at their table, towering over them like a giant. Easily eight-feet tall, Hyde silently stepped out of the shadows, his face hidden beneath his own terrifying plague mask. He stood, impassive, looking down at them without moving, and looked to Dr. Jekyll as if for further instruction.

“It just so happens, gentlemen, that I am one of the very few Resurrectionists responsible for member registration. What that means, I’m sure you understand, is that if we’d received new applicants to the club, I’d be aware of it. In fact, you might have lied to any other Resurrectionist and gotten away with it. Bad luck, though, is that you’ve lied to me. Now, let’s try this again. Names, please?”

Before Roderick had a chance to speak, Sinews forestalled him with a hand on his arm.

“I think not,” said Parson. “I think, if we’re not welcome here, we’ll simply be on our way.”

Jekyll laughed. “No need to rush off so quickly. Mr Hyde, get these men something to drink. What’s your poison?”

“Absinthe,” Parson answered.

Jekyll gave a nod to Mr Hyde, and the giant left them for a minute to tend bar. “Now, tell me, gentlemen, what are you really doing here? Mind you, if I so much as sneeze, Mr Hyde will be here as quick as that, so let’s not do anything foolish.”

“We’re looking for someone,” said Parson.

“Who?”

“Anthony Tidkins,” Roderick answered.

Jekyll’s face paled. He balled his hand into a fist. “Never heard of him,” he said through clenched teeth.

Roderick snorted, but again, Sinews put his hand on Roderick’s arm and silenced him with a look.

“Then we’ll be on our way,” he said.

Roderick could hardly believe what he was hearing. Surely, Parson didn’t believe Dr. Jekyll’s obvious lie. They weren’t really going to leave empty-handed, were they? He leaned forward and whispered in Sinews’ ear, “he’s lying.”

“I know,” Sinews whispered back, “but we need to go.”

Roderick’s senses were dull, his mind sluggish from drink, but he sensed Parson’s fear and heard the warning in his voice. Parson didn’t seem the type to scare easily. If he was worried, Roderick believed the danger was real. He stood a bit too quickly, and all the blood rushed to his head. He staggered and nearly stumbled over, but Roderick was at his side, putting his arm around his shoulder and holding him upright. The room was spinning, all the lights swimming in a hazy glow of absinthe green. If it came to a fight, Roderick was trained in Canne de combat, but in this state, he was about as deadly as a blind toddler. He reached out to brace himself against the table, missed, and found his hands swimming in open air. “Shit,” he swore.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave,” said Dr. Jekyll. “We can’t let you go to the police, you understand.”

“Take a seat, Sir Roderick. This will all be over in a minute,” said Parson.

“Indeed,” said Dr. Jekyll, as Roderick flopped back down into his seat.

The dim gas lamps, which lit the room, twisted into whorls of greenish smoke, the light bending in a haze of fog, as Roderick watched the scene unfold, clutching his head as if to keep it from wobbling. He watched through his fog of intoxication, as Parson tore the mask from his face and smiled at Jekyll, his once-angelic face made ugly by a row of jagged, shark like teeth.

The Resurrectionist’s calm demeanor faltered as Sinews’ grinned at him. Roderick saw the world slip deeper into the green-hued mire of absinthe, squinting and frowning as if he could shut out the hallucinations if only his eyes weren’t open quite so wide. Vibrant, quixotic colors trailed behind Roderick’s unlikely savior as Sinews spun on his heels to repel an attack from the giant, who leered at him through his enormous, leather mask. Sinews’ attack sent the giant sprawling, and suddenly Dr. Jekyll was on his feet, making a retreat for the back door. Sinews was upon him a moment later, colors swirling behind him, as he laid his hands upon the Resurrectionist’s throat.

“We’re leaving,” he said again. He pointed at Roderick. “If any harm comes to him, I will come back for you.”

He let the man go, returned to Roderick’s side, and helped him to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said with an amused grin. “I didn’t mean to get you quite this drunk.” The smile fell away as they walked through the door, Parson supporting most of Roderick’s weight as the artist-detective stumbled outside. “If I’ve done anything to put you in danger -“

“Nonsense,” Roderick slurred. He offered Sinews a smile. “You saved me.”

Roderick awoke with an aching head. He rolled over and rubbed a layer of dust from his eyes. It took him a moment to realize where he was. Swathed in a down-filled duvet, beneath sheets of soft Egyptian cotton, Roderick lay in bed. A sliver of light crept through the curtains, casting an amber glow across the bedroom. Judging from the angle, it was late afternoon. He’d been asleep nearly all day. It was not his own bedroom. That much was immediately apparent. He turned away from the window and found, lying fast asleep beside him, Parson Sinews.

All the breath left his body. The last thing he could remember was stumbling out of the Murder Club. How quickly it had hit him, each strong drink catching up with him at once! His memory was a blur. It was infuriating to Roderick, who was accustomed to having a razor-sharp memory and the ability to pluck the moments of his life out of his brain as easily as picking a photograph out of a box. What had happened after they left the club? All the evidence pointed to one thing, he realized as he looked at where he was, and stared down at the bare-shouldered man in the bed beside him. He sat up in alarm and tried to force his mind to cooperate. Surely, they hadn’t…

Had they?

Suddenly, Parson stirred, his eyelids fluttering open to reveal his glimmering, green eyes. “Good morning,” he said with a smile. There was no trace of the absinthe-riddled vision of shark teeth that he’d seen the night before. He wondered how much of last night’s misadventures were merely imagined. Some of them might even have been dreamed.

“What happened last night?” Roderick demanded.

Sinews frowned, obviously sensing Roderick’s agitation. He turned to the window, squinting against the harsh light. He returned his attention to Roderick. “I sent a missive to Detective Inspector Taggert, informing him that we managed to track down his suspect. I imagine by now Anthony Tidkins is in handcuffs and on his way to Newgate. It will be a short trip from there to the gallows if he’s found guilty.”

Roderick nodded. That still didn’t answer his question though. “And after that?”

“I didn’t have your address, and you weren’t in a state to provide it, so I brought you back here. Henri-Charles put you in the nightgown you’re wearing. I hope you don’t mind. I suppose I could have given you one of the spare rooms, but you were quite adamant about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t want to be left alone.” Sinews smiled. It wasn’t the same unsettling smile he’d given to Dr. Jekyll the night before. It was gentler, almost sweet. He sat up a bit, propping himself up on a pillow to look at Roderick, still squinting as though his eyes refused to adjust to the light.

“We didn’t.” Roderick trailed off, leaving the words unspoken.

Sinews’ grin broadened. “You don’t remember?”

Roderick nearly jumped out of bed in alarm. “We did?”

“Oh, darling, it was wonderful,” Sinews, replied. Then, seeing the effect it was having on Roderick, he broke into an outrageous laugh, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. No, Mr Steen, I’m sorry to say that nothing untoward happened between us.”

Roderick breathed a sigh of relief.

“Not that I didn’t want it to,” Parson added, “but given the state you were in, it wouldn’t have been right.”

“Thank you, Mr Sinews,” said Roderick. He ran his hands through his hair. His head was still thrumming, and his memory was still as foggy as a spring morning in London, but at least he hadn’t done anything too regrettable.

“Of course, now that you’re sober,” Sinews continued. He rolled over, keeping his waist covered with the sheets. From what Roderick could see, he was undressed.

His eyes lingered over Parson’s exquisite body, an aching longing stirring in him. He shifted closer to him, and, daringly, put one hand on Parson’s stomach. Parson didn’t shy away at his touch. His smile broadened, his cheeks dimpling slightly.

“Now that you’re sober,” Sinews said again, “Do you want to?”

“Want to what?” said Roderick, putting his head down on the pillow so he was looking straight into Sinews’ emerald eyes.

The mood had changed from the night before. There was no danger. The feeling that Parson wanted to devour him was gone, replaced with a new sensation. With it came the notion that Parson wasn’t just seducing him, that they were seducing each other, and that the man whose bed he was sharing wanted him just as badly as he wanted him.

“I believe you know,” said Parson.

It dawned on Roderick that Parson might have taken advantage of him, last night; he was too drunk to have resisted. But he hadn’t done that. He wanted to let him decide for himself.

Roderick grinned. Even if Parson Sinews was a vampire, he was also a gentleman.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes?” Parson repeated.

“Yes,” Roderick said again. Then he leaned forward, curling his hand around Parson’s waist, and pressed his lips against the vampire’s.