With a soft thud the used condom lands in the bathroom bin. I wash my sticky hands and splash some cold water on my face. I risk a quick look into the mirror. What am I even doing here?

Meaningless sex with a stranger is… well… exactly what it says on the tin. It is meaningless, and it is just sex. It’s basically masturbating with another person present. Meant to scratch an itch until you realise you’re only making the itch worse.

I step into the shower and crank the hot water all the way up. Let it scald my skin before I start to wash. When I leave the bathroom, towel wrapped around my middle, Richbert is standing butt-naked near the mini bar, pouring himself another Scotch.

“Want one?” He asks me, offering me a glass.

“No, thank you.” I start picking up my clothes that are strewn across the room, mingled with his. “I’ve got to go.”

Richbert watches me as I drop the towel to put on my underwear.

“You could stay the night…” He trails off, and I shake my head, pulling up my jeans.

“We could go for another round in the morning…” He looks me over. “Hell, we could go for another round right now if you’re up for it. You’re so hot…” He touches himself to show me how much he’s up for another round. I have a feeling in the future Richbert is going to wank to the memory of me being inside of him.

“Maybe we could switch positions this time?” he suggests. Trying to add more mental images to his collection? It’s a no to both of his suggestions from me.

“Sorry, I don’t do that.” I tell him. I’m not averse to being on the receiving end of things; I’ve done it before. With the right person, it can be fun. Richbert isn’t the right person. For me, it takes a certain amount of trust – and one-night stands just don’t ooze trust. Richbert looks slightly disappointed. Maybe he’s questioning if he’s done something wrong. He hasn’t. He was everything I expected to get when I swiped right on the app. A quick fuck with no strings attached. Maybe I should tell him that it’s me, not him.

While I’m still deciding how to phrase it, I hear a buzzing coming from the pile of clothes that involves my jacket.

“Oh, your phone’s been ringing while you were in the shower,” Richbert informs me helpfully. “Who’s calling you in the middle of the night?”

I shrug. There’s really only a very small circle of people I can think of. I pick up my phone, and the caller ID confirms my suspicion.

“I’ve got to take this,” I say and go back into the bathroom. I answer the call after I close the door.

“Yes, sir?”

“Good evening, Agent Chaudhury.” I recognise David Talbot’s voice at once. So this is really important. The caller ID just came up as ‘London Motherhouse’. “My apologies for disturbing you so late at night. I hope this isn’t inconvenient.”

He’s only being polite. If the Superior General of the Talamasca calls you in the middle of the night, he doesn’t care if it’s ‘inconvenient’. There’s a tingling down my spine that tells me this is bad news – and yet, some part of me is already leaning in.

“No, sir, I was still awake.”

“Very good, Chaudhury.” David sighs deeply. “I’m really sorry” – he’s not – “but we need you on the next flight to New Orleans. There’s been an incident. We could do with your expertise down there.”

I close my eyes for a moment. The tingling didn’t lie.

“Sir?”

“A vampire attack – four, possibly five, casualties, though the police have yet to confirm the exact number. I assume you’re familiar with the murder of Alderman Fenwick and the Mardi Gras massacre of 1940? By all accounts, this one was even more brutal.”

“Are you saying it involved Louis?” Louis is pretty much my ‘expertise’.

“Yes, I’m afraid it appears it did.” I barely suppress a colourful curse.

I hesitate before asking my next question – it might sound impertinent, but it’s the logical follow-up.

“What does Lestat say about it?”

A moot question, really. David wouldn’t be calling me if he had a way of reaching Lestat. His next words confirm it.

“I haven’t been able to talk to him. He’s not responding to my calls.” He pauses before he adds with a quiet exhale, “Preliminary reports suggest there were two vampires involved.”

This time the curse slips out before I can stop it.

“Why would they do it? They’ve been managing their condition so well for years now.”

“That is precisely what we hope to determine. I would go myself, but there’s a developing situation here – a potential lead on Thaddeus Milk…” He stops short, and my heart skips a beat. “Remind me of your clearance level, Chaudhury?”

“I’m authorised at Level 6, sir.” Six is one of the highest levels a regular agent like me can reach. I still have never heard the name Thaddeus Milk, and from David Talbot’s reaction, I deduce I shouldn’t have. If the rumours are true, then David and Lestat are close – very close – so a cold-blooded homicide by his friend, maker, lover – former lover? – obviously has David worked up or he wouldn’t have made such a slip.

“You’ll forget my last sentence.” It’s a clear order.

“Already forgotten, sir.” I decide it’s probably best to get back to the subject at hand before David Talbot decides ordering me to forget that name I just did not hear might not be enough. Agents have disappeared for less. Luckily, they need me and my ‘expertise’.

“What’s my mission in New Orleans, sir? Make contact with Louis?” After Dubai, I’m not exactly sure how this would go down.

“No. Not presently. We need your assessment of the situation and a report back.”

I nod and belatedly remember that David can’t see my reaction. My mind is already whirling into action.

“Certainly, sir.”

“There’s a plane ticket waiting for you at the airport. My assistant will text you the details. Thank you, Agent Chaudhury.”

“Of course, sir,” I reply, but David has already ended the call. I check my phone, and sure enough, there’s a text from Céleste Voclain: “Delta Flight 1571 departs LGA 6AM, arrives MSY 8:30AM. Safe travels.”

I text her a “thank you” back and risk another look in the mirror. Well, fuck… I knew a phone call from the motherhouse on a Sunday night wouldn’t be just a fun little chat. But this is bad. Really bad. And they want me on the ground. I’m sure it won’t be ‘just to observe’, or they could have sent anyone. I know Louis. I worked undercover in Dubai to spy on him and his lover Armand for almost a year. I never believed for one second that they didn’t realise I’m with the Talamasca – Armand’s command of the Mind Gift is truly extraordinary. They just didn’t care. Until shit hit the proverbial fan and things got ugly.

I’m sure I’m not exactly in Armand’s good books since then. With Louis, it is hard to tell. He’s a bit of a wild card. Still, I can’t believe that he and Lestat would commit an act of unprovoked violence, kill in such a way – worse than 1940? – and leave the evidence behind for local authorities to find. There must be a reason. Louis’ last kill was in 2000, for fuck’s sake.

Colour me intrigued and my professional curiosity piqued. Of course, there’s a risk. There always is, especially with two powerful vampires like Louis and Lestat in a rage, but I know what I’m doing.

When I leave the bathroom, I’m startled to find Richbert sitting on the sofa. I completely forgot he was there. He put on his boxers, apparently accepting defeat and watches me wordlessly as I slip into my shirt and jacket before turning to leave.

“If you’re ever in New York again… my card’s on the table. Call me.”

I cast one last look at him – arms stretched along the back of the sofa, nodding toward the small coffee table in front of him. There’s a business card on it, dark green with gold lettering.

“Goodbye…” I can’t believe I’ve forgotten his name again.

“Roger,” he replies with a sigh.

“Right. Of course.” I turn around and leave the room.

Before I reach the elevator, I’ve booked a car to take me back to Gramercy Park. The app says my driver’s name is Iqbal, and he’s only five minutes away. There’s another text from Céleste informing me that she has a room for me at the Maidstone Hotel, 3522 Tulane Avenue in New Orleans. She also attached some files with initial reports. I’ll read them later.

I check the time on my phone and do some mental calculating. I definitely have a bit of time to pack my things at the Talamasca safehouse, get another car to LaGuardia and catch my flight. There won’t be time for sleep. Maybe a power nap on the plane.

I don’t have to wait long in front of the hotel for a scratched-up sedan to pull up to the kerb. The driver rolls the window down.

“Are you Ray?” he yells at me.

“If you’re Iqbal, then yes.” I reply, and he laughs. I can hear a click as he unlocks the door, and I slide into the backseat of the car. It feels like travelling through a dimensional portal. It’s amazing how smells can transport you through time and space in an instant. I’m suddenly seven years old again, sitting in my nanu‘s kitchen while she’s cooking, humming along to Lata Mangeshkar singing on the radio. The music in the car is something else – more modern, but definitely Bollywood. I sniff the air to identify the different aromas: cardamom, turmeric, cumin and coriander… It’s warm and so familiar. My stomach clenches with the memory.

Iqbal is still on the phone with someone: “Theek hai, Farah. Khuda hafiz.”

He ends the call and smiles at me apologetically in the rearview mirror. “Wife. Always worries.”

I nod as if I know what he’s talking about.

“She always packs dinner. Then whole car smells like kitchen.” He laughs.

“It’s nice. Reminds me of Sundays at my nanu‘s house.” I hesitate, trying to remember the words that I haven’t spoken in so long, buried deep down in my mind.

“Thodi Urdu aati hai… lekin bahut saal ho gaye.” I can only hope I’m not making a complete fool out of myself, and I don’t even know what makes me speak Urdu with Iqbal. I usually don’t speak to the driver at all.

“Achha? Toh phir aap Pakistani hain?” Iqbal replies, and his face lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Nahin, Bangladeshi… uh… mere nana, meri nanu Uttar Pradesh se thay… aur abbu Bangladesh se.”

I feel a pang of regret that this small exchange basically exhausts my knowledge of the language my grandparents spoke. My parents wanted to raise me as a proper English boy – despite my skin colour clearly giving me away – and I remember some heated arguments between my dad and my nanu when he caught her teaching me poetry by the great Rumi – as she called him – in Urdu.

“Sorry, my Urdu is a bit rusty. I’ve not used it in so long.” I explain.

“Still, nice to hear. Your accent is not bad.” Iqbal smiles at me encouragingly. “Better than my English when I first came. My parents were from Lucknow, but I was born in Karachi. You know it?”

I nod. “My nana and nanu were from Lucknow, too. My dad was born in Dhaka, though. And I was raised in Yorkshire…”

Iqbal chuckles. “A proper mix.”

“That’s one way to put it.” The professional in me is abhorred that I’m freely sharing so much personal information with a literal stranger, but the car, the smell, and the words just take me back.

Iqbal is chatting happily away, half in English, half in Urdu now, but I’m not listening, caught in the memory of my nanu and her house that always felt warm and safe. I realise that Iqbal asked me a question that I missed.

“Pardon me?”

Iqbal grins. “I said your abbu and your ammi must be really proud of you. They raise a handsome young man, and now he travel the world.”

“They never got to see that, sadly, they passed away years ago.” Oversharing much, Chaudhury?

Iqbal gives me a sad look in the mirror. “My condolences, Ray.”

“It’s Rashid, actually,” I give up. By the time we reach Gramercy Park, Iqbal will know my blood type, A-level results and National Insurance number. “Ray is just a nickname. It’s shorter.”

“Nice to meet you, Rashid,” Iqbal grins. I nod and stare out of the window, seeing the streets of New York flying past us. There’s almost no traffic around us at this time of night.

“So, you have wife and children waiting for you at home, bhai?” Iqbal enquires. Well, I basically told him everything else. Why stop now?

“No wife, no. Married to the job.” I shake my head. There’s probably no point in explaining to Iqbal that I’m batting for the other team. I don’t want to assume, but Iqbal is clearly Muslim, and I’ve no idea how open-minded he is. I probably don’t give him enough credit, but I’m not keen to test the boundaries of his worldview in a moving vehicle.

My parents were Muslim and conservative, so I never came out to them. I knew it would cause friction between us, and I was raised to respect my elders. When Dad died, I was in my second year at university and only started discovering myself. Of course, I had known – suspected – before. I’d be an idiot to say I never realised I was different from the other boys my age. But there wasn’t much of a gay scene in Hull, so I just couldn’t quite figure out what I was myself. The internet and online quizzes like “Find out if you’re gay by answering these fifteen easy multiple-choice questions” will only get you so far.

So, Oxford was where it started. Experimenting. Drunk kissing at a party. Fooling around. Waking up hungover in my bed one morning with Jasper from across the hall. Both of us naked, my arse sore. This happened a few times. Not only with Jasper; there were plenty of others. It’s almost funny that my parents always thought that my lack of girlfriends was because I was so focused on studying.

It was actually after my dad’s funeral when I went to a pub in Oxford to get hammered. This is where I met Luke. He worked behind the bar, when I tried to drown my sorrow, and I ended up spilling my guts to him. That night he made sure that I got to my room safely and slept on the floor to make sure I wouldn’t choke on my own vomit during the night. I was so embarrassed I avoided ‘The Woolsack’ for weeks. I also started cutting back on the booze and the weed. Then I ran into Luke in a coffee shop. He was with a girl, who turned out to be his younger sister, Amy.

Amy was the one who brought us together. She invited me to sit with them, asked me for my phone number, then slipped it to Luke. A week later, we were back at the same coffee shop. Only Luke and I this time. We dated until I graduated and left for my basic training as a Talamasca agent. Then my life got weird, and he found someone else. Working for the Order doesn’t leave room for love. The deeper you get in, the harder it is to hold onto anything – or anyone.

So, how could I have told any of this to my mother? That I sought every calloused hand on campus I could find for a while? Of course, I stopped sleeping around once Luke and I got together, but Mom had only lost her husband. The timing just wasn’t right. Or so I told myself. And introducing Mom to Sam Barclay – playwright, DJ, fellow Talamasca agent, vampire – was completely out of the equation.

I only realise that we arrived at the townhouse near Gramercy Park when Iqbal turns around to me with a big smile. I shake off the memories of my youth and slip him a generous tip. I’m already out of the car when a thought occurs to me. I knock on the car window, and Iqbal rolls it down for me.

“I only need to pack a few essentials inside before heading to LaGuardia to catch my flight. Could you come back in an hour and drive me?”

He agrees happily and says he’ll take his break now. “Just come downstairs when you ready, bhai, and I take you to airport.”

So it’s about an hour later that I find myself back in Iqbal’s car, surrounded by the familiar scents and sounds of my childhood. Iqbal is chatting away again, and the city slips past us in streaks of light and shadow. Maybe I can rest my eyes for a moment. I tip my head back against the seat and let the car’s vibration lull me under. It’s been a long night, in more ways than one, and it’s far from over.

---

Translations for the Urdu dialogue:

“Theek hai, Farah. Khuda hafiz.” – “Okay, Farah. Goodbye (May God protect you).”
“Thodi Urdu aati hai… lekin bahut saal ho gaye.” – “I know a little Urdu… but it’s been many years.”
“Achha? Toh phir aap Pakistani hain?” – “Oh really? So then, are you Pakistani?”
“Nahin, Bangladeshi… uh… mere nana, meri nanu Uttar Pradesh se thay… aur abbu Bangladesh se thay.” – “No, Bangladeshi… uh… my granfather, my grandmother were from Uttar Pradesh… my dad was from Bangladesh.”
nanu/nana = maternal grandmother/grandfather
ammi/abbu = mom/dad
bhai = brother (bro, dude)