Till Death
“Vampire aficionados and romantasy fans alike will swoon over” (Publishers Weekly) this insatiable romantic horror novel from Hugo and Nebula Award–nominated author Kellan McDaniel about two gay men—one young, one ageless—who reclaim their lives and identities from those who would silence them.
Howard is biding his time until he can finally leave for college, where he has been promised it gets better. The last thing he expected was to meet a boy. But George reminds Howard of the movie stars from the 1960s he’s obsessed with. Plus, George is endearingly formal and well-read, and his grandpa fashion is super authentic.
After over twenty years together, George is about to lose his life partner. He met James when they were teenagers then lost track of him until they reconnected in their early sixties. Now, James is going somewhere beyond George’s reach—because George is a vampire, forever trapped in the body of a nineteen-year-old.
As the two grow closer, George begins to see a future beyond losing his first love, and Howard stops imagining himself always being alone...even if companionship comes at the cost of his mortality. When the discrimination the men have suffered their whole lives rears its ugly head to take away their happy ending, they finally strike back at the world that’s done its best to subdue them their entire lives.
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Howard is biding his time until he can finally leave for college, where he has been promised it gets better. The last thing he expected was to meet a boy. But George reminds Howard of the movie stars from the 1960s he’s obsessed with. Plus, George is endearingly formal and well-read, and his grandpa fashion is super authentic.
After over twenty years together, George is about to lose his life partner. He met James when they were teenagers then lost track of him until they reconnected in their early sixties. Now, James is going somewhere beyond George’s reach—because George is a vampire, forever trapped in the body of a nineteen-year-old.
As the two grow closer, George begins to see a future beyond losing his first love, and Howard stops imagining himself always being alone...even if companionship comes at the cost of his mortality. When the discrimination the men have suffered their whole lives rears its ugly head to take away their happy ending, they finally strike back at the world that’s done its best to subdue them their entire lives.
Till Death
“Vampire aficionados and romantasy fans alike will swoon over” (Publishers Weekly) this insatiable romantic horror novel from Hugo and Nebula Award–nominated author Kellan McDaniel about two gay men—one young, one ageless—who reclaim their lives and identities from those who would silence them.
Howard is biding his time until he can finally leave for college, where he has been promised it gets better. The last thing he expected was to meet a boy. But George reminds Howard of the movie stars from the 1960s he’s obsessed with. Plus, George is endearingly formal and well-read, and his grandpa fashion is super authentic.
After over twenty years together, George is about to lose his life partner. He met James when they were teenagers then lost track of him until they reconnected in their early sixties. Now, James is going somewhere beyond George’s reach—because George is a vampire, forever trapped in the body of a nineteen-year-old.
As the two grow closer, George begins to see a future beyond losing his first love, and Howard stops imagining himself always being alone...even if companionship comes at the cost of his mortality. When the discrimination the men have suffered their whole lives rears its ugly head to take away their happy ending, they finally strike back at the world that’s done its best to subdue them their entire lives.
Howard is biding his time until he can finally leave for college, where he has been promised it gets better. The last thing he expected was to meet a boy. But George reminds Howard of the movie stars from the 1960s he’s obsessed with. Plus, George is endearingly formal and well-read, and his grandpa fashion is super authentic.
After over twenty years together, George is about to lose his life partner. He met James when they were teenagers then lost track of him until they reconnected in their early sixties. Now, James is going somewhere beyond George’s reach—because George is a vampire, forever trapped in the body of a nineteen-year-old.
As the two grow closer, George begins to see a future beyond losing his first love, and Howard stops imagining himself always being alone...even if companionship comes at the cost of his mortality. When the discrimination the men have suffered their whole lives rears its ugly head to take away their happy ending, they finally strike back at the world that’s done its best to subdue them their entire lives.
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Overview
“Vampire aficionados and romantasy fans alike will swoon over” (Publishers Weekly) this insatiable romantic horror novel from Hugo and Nebula Award–nominated author Kellan McDaniel about two gay men—one young, one ageless—who reclaim their lives and identities from those who would silence them.
Howard is biding his time until he can finally leave for college, where he has been promised it gets better. The last thing he expected was to meet a boy. But George reminds Howard of the movie stars from the 1960s he’s obsessed with. Plus, George is endearingly formal and well-read, and his grandpa fashion is super authentic.
After over twenty years together, George is about to lose his life partner. He met James when they were teenagers then lost track of him until they reconnected in their early sixties. Now, James is going somewhere beyond George’s reach—because George is a vampire, forever trapped in the body of a nineteen-year-old.
As the two grow closer, George begins to see a future beyond losing his first love, and Howard stops imagining himself always being alone...even if companionship comes at the cost of his mortality. When the discrimination the men have suffered their whole lives rears its ugly head to take away their happy ending, they finally strike back at the world that’s done its best to subdue them their entire lives.
Howard is biding his time until he can finally leave for college, where he has been promised it gets better. The last thing he expected was to meet a boy. But George reminds Howard of the movie stars from the 1960s he’s obsessed with. Plus, George is endearingly formal and well-read, and his grandpa fashion is super authentic.
After over twenty years together, George is about to lose his life partner. He met James when they were teenagers then lost track of him until they reconnected in their early sixties. Now, James is going somewhere beyond George’s reach—because George is a vampire, forever trapped in the body of a nineteen-year-old.
As the two grow closer, George begins to see a future beyond losing his first love, and Howard stops imagining himself always being alone...even if companionship comes at the cost of his mortality. When the discrimination the men have suffered their whole lives rears its ugly head to take away their happy ending, they finally strike back at the world that’s done its best to subdue them their entire lives.
About the Author
K.M. Szpara, writing here as Kellan McDaniel, is a queer and trans author. He is the author of Docile, Till Death, and First, Become Ashes, as well as the Hugo and Nebula Award–nominated “Small Changes Over Long Periods of Time” novelette. He lives in Baltimore, Maryland, with his tiny dog.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1: Howard
In my nightmares, my locker is a fortress guarded by a lock with an impossible combination. Once I get it open—if I ever do—the inside is stuffed with books at odd angles, crushing loose papers, stained with spilled coffee. On the door, creased photos hang alongside my class schedule and a whiteboard marked with former attempts at organization.In reality, my locker looks exactly like that. Not because I want it to, but because this hallway is an active war zone for queers, and if I spend more than five seconds trying to organize it... Oh, thank god. Here comes Sue. Two bodies are always better than one; plus maybe he’ll remember where the hell I shoved my math homework this morning. We were literally talking about problem six together when—
“Looking for this, Howie?” A hand plunges into the depths of my locker and grabs exactly what I’m looking for. Of course.
My heart sinks as I turn to see not Sue, but the familiar blonde buzz cut and square jaw of the guy I’d call my archnemesis if I thought he considered me a rival at all. “It’s—”
Christof Holley crumples my homework in his fist and shoves it against my sternum so hard, I stumble backward and bang my head on the shelf in my locker. His hand lingers, hot and meaty, against my floral shirt. Then, just as fast, it’s gone and he’s gone, and my math homework drops to the floor, soon to be trampled.
Sue stops beside me, scooping up my ruined homework, then hurls “Eat shit, Christof!” down the hall before offering me a less aggressive “Howard, I’ve told you a million times—you can’t let these assholes push you around.”
He offers me the wrinkled assignment, which I take before any worse can happen to it. Knowing my luck, Christof will loop back around and dump his red sports drink on it or whatever. Shouldn’t have lost focus. After twelve years at this school, I should know better.
“Howard.” Sue says my name loudly as he tries to get me to agree with him. In the hall. Where other people can hear.
“You’re right,” I mutter, and it’s not like I don’t agree with him, but also it wouldn’t have happened if I’d stayed on task rather than let myself grow complacent with Sue’s impending arrival. I should just keep everything in my backpack from now on and carry it to class. Except that bags were banned from classrooms during school hours for safety. Not my safety, that’s for damn sure. I rub the back of my head, trying to fix my hair. “I should be better about it.”
“You’re literally the secretary of the QSA.”
“Sorry, Mister President,” I say, managing a smile.
I almost earn one in response, but his mouth shifts into a serious line. “I know I just told you to be confident and all,” he says, “but I’m nervous about the upcoming board meeting.”
“Don’t be. We’ve built a solid list of demands, and Gray and Tiana have both emailed me, like, a dozen relevant articles and statistics to support them. I’ve got the raw information in a doc—I shared that with you, right?”
“All three of you shared it with me.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. I mean, when is Tiana not sharing something she read? And when is Gray not online?”
“And when have you not pulled together a great speech?”
“Fair...” His voice hangs on indecision, which is wild, because Sue’s nothing if not sure of himself.
Sue’s always seemed to have that quality, even back in freshman year when we first met at the Spring Fling. Christof was making this big, public show of asking me to dance, and I, like an idiot, thought he was serious—no, I wanted him to be serious, because he was taller and had muscular arms and didn’t have acne but did have a lacrosse haircut. He’s since buzzed that off, and I’ve since realized he’s a complete ass, but that doesn’t stop either of us from remembering how he humiliated me in front of the whole school. Laughing and scoffing. Throwing a “Gross, dude!” at me as he crossed the school gym, only to call me a fag a half dozen times to his friends. My favorite way to be reminded that Wyndhurst Preparatory School is really only preparing me for how queerphobic the world is.
Sue had appeared as Christof slinked off to high-five the other kids. Literally slid up beside me, dressed in a vintage suit he’d tailored himself. I was also wearing a vintage (read: thrifted) suit, but my oma had done most of the tailoring. He was totally at home under that tacky gym mirror ball, while I was ready to disappear. Without saying a word, Sue offered me his hand, twirled me beneath the glittering lights with a smile, and then led me out to the school courtyard, where we talked until Oma came to pick me up. Almost three years later, we’re doing about the same, except everyone thinks we’re a couple because he transitioned and most straight people cannot conceive of queerplatonic relationships.
“What—what’s that tone?” I ask, still staring in the direction Christof has disappeared to. In case. “Wait, did you not—”
“Tell my mom I’ll be reading our queer agenda? No. She’s going to shit herself when she sees me up there, but I don’t want to start a whole thing about it ahead of time—like, it’s already hard enough living with her. And I don’t want her having any advance notice. Not that she’ll research our issues anyway...” He sighs. “I can already hear her ranting about how ‘we can’t just alter construction plans for the new gym to make the bathrooms and lockers gender neutral,’ as if it’s more than sticking an ‘All Gender’ sign on the door. I love her, but it’s like she doesn’t see me at all sometimes. Like she doesn’t have a whole trans kid living under her roof.”
Sometimes I don’t get Sue. It wasn’t hard leaving my parents—they were awful to me, so I left. Life got way better when I started living with Oma. Sue’s situation’s a little different, though. His dad moved to West Virginia when his parents separated, and I can’t blame Sue for not wanting to move somewhere with fewer protections—but at least his dad was cool. At least he helped Sue get HRT and stuff. His mom fully sucks.
“Yeah, I remember when we asked about pronouns in school emails,” I say, “and she gave you a whole speech about how much work it would be and how we didn’t understand the cost or something.”
“‘Can’t you just type it in yourself?’ she said.” Sue growls in frustration and kicks the locker next to mine, prompting the stack of books balanced on my shelf to teeter. I slam it shut before disaster can strike. And then in a scathing falsetto Sue adds, “‘Why do you even need pronouns?’ As if she doesn’t use them daily.”
“I’m sorry cis people are terrible,” I say, scouring the hallway. Just need to drop off this math homework, and then we can go. Sue to his house. Me to volunteer at my favorite place in the world. “And I’m sorry your mom is among the most terrible.”
“Same.”
Sue walks with confidence alongside me, like he’s my escort or bodyguard, as we head toward my math classroom. He waits outside as I slip my homework into Mr. Redd’s inbox. I like to think of it as him keeping watch, but really I know he’s just enjoying himself—a prince surveying his... “kingdom” isn’t the right word, mostly because he doesn’t believe in that kind of thing, but there is a power to the way he holds himself. Shoulders back, hands in his pockets, meeting the eyes of everyone who walks by him.
“Okay, let’s get out of here,” I say, rejoining my sentry, keeping a close eye on some lacrosse players down the hall. Please don’t notice me. Don’t notice—oh dammit. I feel their eyes on me before I can avert mine. This is why I usually keep my head down. “Sue, can we—”
“Sure,” he says, reassuring me with a glance. Already his attention makes me feel safer. “You’ve got, uh...” He snaps his fingers three times, searching for the words. “Tonight,” he finally concludes, knowing I can fill in the blank on my own.
“Yup.” If I walk behind him, no one bumps into me and almost no one sees me. Ideal. “But let me know if you want help working some of those studies into your speech. I think we have some really strong examples in support of more rigorous and inclusive sex education classes.”
“God, remember that video they showed us freshman year?”
“I’ve tried to forget it.” I breathe in fresh air as we push our way into the courtyard and through a dozen small social groups neither of us belongs to. Almost there...
“There’s my guy!” I barely dodge Kenna as she launches herself at Sue. He and Kenna aren’t together like that, but they’re also not not. She’s had a crush on him for the last two years—ever since it became clear to her that he and I weren’t going to hook up, actually. But Sue gets so much attention from the other queers, I sometimes wonder if hers doesn’t go over his head. To my point, three other QSA members drift our way: Tiana, who actually looks up from her book; Phoenix, who is bouncing alongside her, still dressed in her dance tights and tank; and Gray, who seems to be typing out a novel of a text message. We all watch Gray for a minute before he hits send and looks up like a gopher poking its head out of a hole.
“What essay were you finishing?” Tiana asks, voice dry as she adjusts her round black glasses.
Gray scrunches his face before smiling at me. We had a thing for a minute during sophomore year. Or, it’s less we had a thing, and more we tried to have a thing. He was a cute transfer and also the only other queer guy I knew besides Sue. We even went out a few times, but it was... well, let’s just say we weren’t compatible. Our nights were better spent with him painting our nails while we discussed the men on that year’s Olympics gymnastics team.
Sue’s phone dings.
Gray looks over as if it’s his—he’s always looking at a screen—then says, “Oh,” when he realizes the obvious.
“I was texting Sue a few more references for his speech,” Gray says in response to Tiana’s question. “Specifically, some local orgs that train teachers on how to work with queer kids and be more inclusive, and also examples of other Maryland schools that have implemented their methods with good results.”
“Can you put them in that doc Howard’s compiling?” Sue asks with a smile as he hugs Kenna closer.
“Of course.” And Gray’s back on his phone.
Tiana glances back down at her book. Phoenix is suddenly as tall as I am as she rolls up onto the toes of her sneakers, one arm outstretched as she balances with the other on Gray’s shoulder. She’s regularly cast as the lead in performances but has never been brave enough to audition for the parts she really wants. Instead of getting to wear tutus, she’s costumed in black tights and a coat. Instead of being lifted, she lifts. Like, just because she has great arms doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve to soar. The dance department might be more liberal than the athletics department, but it’s still stupidly gendered.
Christof bangs through the doors with a few of his friends, and I tense. Sue glances between me and him. “I should go,” I say. Read: I should run to my car before I can attract any more attention.
Sue sighs before nodding me off. “Go, then.” He watches Christof whack someone on the helmet with a lacrosse stick. “But I will bother you about my speech tomorrow.”
With a “Please do,” I slink out the interior courtyard and back inside, trying not to glance over my shoulder. Sue’s superpower is commanding attention, and mine is hiding from it. Often that means he’s the only one who sees me. Even within what is ostensibly our friend group, everyone’s eyes and ears are almost always on him, unless he calls on me at a QSA meeting or something. Which is fine with me, really. I have quiet moments with them, like when it’s just me and Tiana reading silently beside each other or Gray trying some new nail art on me while I watch an old movie. Phoenix and Kenna, outside of meetings, I only really ever see on the stage or the field, but we’re all so busy with extracurriculars. And besides, what’s the point of drawing positive attention to myself when it’s only ever been joined by negative?
I hurry as the lacrosse team hoots and hollers behind me, their voices growing louder. But I’m through the school’s front doors before I can attract another ounce of attention.
“Oh, these are so beautiful, Howard. I just love pansies!” Despite her gloves and apron, Barbara has dirt all over herself. To think I’d suggested potting flowers as an indoor craft series. Last week, while painting her ceramic, she almost glazed Walter’s wheelchair.
“You keep your dirty hands away from me, Barb,” Walter says, giving her a sly look.
Those two have been flirting since I started volunteering at Spring Meadows my freshman year. I’m kind of hoping they’ll get together before I graduate this spring. Depending on how my college applications go, I might be off living my best gay life at Ithaca, Columbia, or hell, even Princeton. And then who will hang out with the local over-eighty crowd on Wednesday evenings?
Barb presses one of her dirty fingers against Walter’s cheek, and I just roll my eyes, giving them space. To be honest, the two of them finding each other after a lifetime of love and loss gives me hope. Like, maybe I’ll find a boyfriend by the time I’m eighty. Maybe by then some of them will finally share some of my current hobbies, like horticulture. Then who will be cool for having been president of his high school gardening club? Yours truly. Assuming we haven’t totally destroyed the planet by then.
“—and so late! When I moved in, I was told no movers after sunset, but I guess men don’t have to follow the rules.” I cock my head at the words. Rosalie is a retired journalist and certified gossip, and I love her. When she realized I was gay, she pulled out all her old articles about Stonewall, the removal of homosexuality as a psychiatric disorder, and the evolution of cross-dressing laws. “I even kissed a woman or two in my time!” she’d added, as if to her résumé.
“Oh, I saw him,” says Gladys, Rosalie’s partner in crime—I mean, in journalism. She presses soil around the roots of her purple pansies, of which she has managed to cram three into her small pot.
“Um, Gladys...” I reach over and rescue them before she can smash the roots. Just because pansies are hardy doesn’t mean they’re immortal.
“He’s very handsome.” Gladys pulls off her gloves to reveal a perfect set of pink nails. She reaches out to me, and I feel the press of her delicate skin against my hand, think of the day when my hands will become stiffer and bonier like hers. Hope I’ll also have a great manicure. I bet Gray will. “I wonder if the new gentleman might like to join us for evening crafts.” By which she means: Howard, would you go ask the new guy to join us? I want to flirt with him. Also hope my libido is still going this strong when I’m their age.
“I’ll go ask.” I make a show of standing so they know I’m cooperating. Rosalie fishes a small notepad out of her purse while Gladys winks at me. “Please, no one kill your pansies while I’m gone. Maybe just...” I airlift Barb’s and Walter’s pots from between them before they can knock them over. It’s a wonder those two ever pay attention to anything besides each other.
I can still hear Rosalie flipping through flimsy pieces of paper as I wash my hands and dry them on a towel that’s as soft as construction paper. I toss it toward the bin and miss, of course. I swear I’m coordinated—more in the direction of cultural dance than basketball, though. If Kenna were here, she’d have showed me the proper form. Instead, I place the crumpled towel into the bin directly, then head to the front desk.
Spring Meadows isn’t one of those fancy new retirement communities with multiple buildings and sprawling grounds. It’s “cost-efficient,” according to my parents, which is why they moved my dziadzi here when he needed more support than he could get at home. That’s why I started volunteering here. But even after Dziadzi passed, I stayed because the residents had grown on me, as had the building: a big mansion built in the sixties that was previously occupied by a hippie commune with a green thumb before being turned into a retirement home in the eighties. Their gardens are where Dziadzi and I spent much of our time and where I befriended Walter and Barb, and then a bunch more folks. It’s impossible not to bump into Rosalie and Gladys when they’re always hanging on open doors, Gladys cranking up her hearing aid. Got to scoop the hot goss.
“Hey, Ada.” I lean onto the wooden counter and make eye contact with the overworked woman. She needs a real office.
“Oh.” She straightens her glasses, tucking their beaded chain behind her ears. “Hi, Howard. You need something, hon?”
“I’ve been instructed to ask the new resident if he wants to join us for crafts.” I glance down the hall, where Rosalie pretends to enthusiastically admire a painting that’s been hanging on the wall since before she moved in.
Ada looks between her and me, then shrugs with the energy of someone who has a thousand more important things to care about. “Why not? He’s in suite 217, west tower. Name’s...” She clicks through a database that looks like it was created in the nineties. Actually, the computer also looks like it was created in the nineties. “James Bedford.”
“Thanks.” I make a point to smile, since I distracted her from the pile of papers on her desk, and head west. Don’t have to look behind me to know Rosalie and Gladys are watching—maybe even following.
The west tower used to house the main bedrooms in Spring Meadows during its commune days. Now, of course, there are bedrooms everywhere, some even with little kitchenettes and vintage appliances that make my heart sing. Barb once joked that I’d be the facility’s youngest resident if I could. She wasn’t wrong.
I run my hand along the thick wooden banister that leads to the tower. There are elevators that are somehow both new and rickety, but I prefer the stairs. The big spiraling stairway is lined with photographs of the commune members who lived here until the state kicked them out over a scary number of housing violations, which have since been mostly remedied. Rosalie swears it’s haunted, but I find it cozy.
I pause on the second-story landing. At the opposite end of the hall, a neat stack of broken-down boxes rests against the wall. That must be it. Down at the end of the wallpapered hallway, a door is ajar.
I’m good at approaching residents. Part of my volunteer work is literally recruiting them, getting them out of their suites to spend time with one another, keeping their bodies moving in healthy ways and their brains active and creative. And they like me here! Usually all it takes is a glimpse of my vintage aesthetic to spark their interest, but if it’s not my fashion, it’s my excitement for movie night—always something black-and-white and romantic—or needlepoint or gardening.
But for some reason, tonight I can’t move. My beeswax leather boots stick to the floor as if they aren’t well worn by my feet and the feet of those who owned them before me. Wood creaks behind me, and I turn quickly, hoping to catch Gladys or Rosalie sneaking up on me.
Nothing. No one. Didn’t I just remind myself how cozy this place is? How unhaunted? I’m not scared. Don’t know why I’m still standing here. Get on with it, Howard. Before the folks downstairs destroy their pansies.
I put on my best smile, check the collar of my shirt, and walk. The hardwood creaks with every step as I draw closer. I catch the eye of a photographed hippie before stepping in front of the open doorway.
Huh. The overhead lights are off; the collapsed boxes all say “Bedford 217,” so James must be in here. I rest my hands on the sides of the doorway and peek in, not daring to step a foot over the threshold. This is someone’s home, after all. I can’t just walk—
A click sounds from the darkness before a soft light shows two silhouettes. Two. I flatten my back to the wall beside James’ door, hiding myself as whispers sound from inside the suite. Snippets of a conversation I shouldn’t be listening to. A deep, breathy, “I’m sorry, I...”
And a brighter, younger, “Don’t.” Before their voices hush again. “... to be okay.” Shoes squeak over old, creaky floorboards.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Time to go. Tell Rosalie and Gladys—ping!
Oh no.
Ping! Ping, ping!
I fumble for my phone—the freaking sound is on. I glance at the screen; the ladies are blowing up my texts asking me to... “Sneak a pic?” I whisper incredulously to myself, before realizing I’ve said that out loud and that I’m holding my phone like a creep beside James’ open doorway.
I peer around the edge of the door, into the suite, freezing as a figure steps into the light. A boy who looks my age, with silver eyes like a predator’s at night. I face him fully, entranced as if I’m his prey. Can’t help but stare as a wave of black hair falls across his pale, unblemished skin.
And then he’s walking toward me slowly—slower than I think is even possible for someone to move—and we’re only twenty feet apart. Fifteen feet. Ten.
I realize then that I’m gripping the doorjamb, holding myself in place so I won’t—I don’t know, trip over my own feet? He is beautiful and more so the closer he comes, and I cannot move. Cannot speak.
The boy reaches out and closes his hand over mine—over the edge of the open door. His touch sends fractals like lightning through my arm. No one’s touched me—I mean, I haven’t been touched—like this ever. And by “like this,” I mean gently and with purpose.
Even though his purpose is prying my hand from the frame and slamming the door in my face.
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