Niall sees Jamie a lot after that. A cute blond blur in his peripheral vision. The warfarin-laced sugar put down to catch the undead rats. Niall wonders if Jamie’s found the one that killed his little f**k buddy yet. Wonders if he cares.
“How many kills have you made now?” he asks one night, when he’s left the Pit a few minutes after Jamie and found him in an alleyway, standing by the corpse of a vamp as it deliquesces and turns to a thick smear of reddish slime. Must have been a young one; the old ones are dry as the dust they crumble into, that catches in your throat and turns your stomach.
Jamie whirls, knife half-raised. He’s hyped up by the kill, bouncing in those sneakers again. “You. I’ve made plenty.”
“Be getting yourself a reputation.” Niall watches the blade paint pretty patte
