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"Detective.”

Mike felt the exhale of the word gust against the back of his neck, and for some reason the heat of that breath as it stirred the fine hairs of his nape always comes as a surprise. He’d always figured that anything having to do with the undead would be cold. Not hot and damp and so alive.

“Fitzroy.” Mike turned his head, glancing over his shoulder to see Henry standing behind him.

Looming, despite his smaller stature; standing too close, like he always did. Like there was something in the ‘otherness’ about him that made the social niceties people used around one another to get what they wanted and survive in an overpopulated world seem so passé and beneath his consideration or accommodation.

“What can I do for you?” Mike continued, keeping his tone utterly neutral.

In that eerie, preternatural way he had, Henry wasn’t behind him anymore and had moved to stand in front of Mike all in the time it took to blink. Still crowding into Mike’s personal space, not giving an inch.

He met Henry’s eyes, dangerous and reckless he knew, but Mike had never been one to back down either; not even from a vampire.

“Oh, it’s something I think I can do for you, Detective.” Henry told him, eyes dragging slowly down Mike’s face. Toying with him. Showing him quite clearly that he was perfectly aware of what Mike was trying to prove by staring him down, and having none of it.

Mike’s eyes narrowed around a scowl. “I don’t think I understand.”

Hands came up to clasp each shoulder and in a swift move, managed to push Mike’s blazer down, trapping his arms at his sides.

“Oh,” Henry said, light – almost playful despite the predatory look in his eye. “I think you do.”

“Fitzroy,” Mike warned with a growl.

“Detective,” Henry shot back with a much deeper, much throatier growl of his own. He inched closer. The hands moved to Mike’s chest: one resting on his abdomen just below his ribs, beneath his furiously pounding heart while the other migrated up toward Mike’s neck. Swift fingers deftly slipped the top button of his stiff, white, work shirt loose and pulled the collar wide. He didn’t know what happened to his tie.

Had he been wearing a tie?

“Fitzroy,” he stuttered out, feeling his breath catch in his throat and making the words hard to form, “you don’t want to do this.”

Henry inched closer, popping another button and peeling the fabric away to further expose the long line of Mike’s throat and the dip of a clavicle. “Oh, I think I do, Detective. And I think you want me to.”

“Y-y-ou don’t—“ But Mike couldn’t find the voice to protest. Not when Henry’s eyes were locked on him with such intensity, and when Henry’s mouth began to descend towards Mike’s bare neck. Their bodies were pressed together and he could feel Henry hard against his thigh, while his own cock throbbed heavy between his legs.

And there was that incongruous breath again, hot and moist and puffing against the tender skin behind his ear. “I think you do.” Henry repeated, voice skirling out in a whispered purr that seemed to feed directly into the pleasure center’s of Mike’s brain. The hand resting on his chest began its own slow descent; sliding down over Mike’s belly and finding and deftly working at his belt buckle.

Mike tensed all-over, waiting for which would come first: the hand on his cock or the teeth into his throat.

Fingers slipped past his waistband just as he felt lips graze his jawline… In a moment, in a breath… in a heartbeat…

…RING…

The jarring sound of the telephone’s strident ring startles Mike awake and he surges up in his bed, tangling himself in the covers as he fights to sit up. “Dammitalltofuckingshit!”

He scrabbles at the pillow toppling off the mattress even as he struggles an arm free of the blanket wrapped around him. His breath is coming in a hoarse, throat-scraping pant (from both the fright and the… whatever that was happening just before he woke) and he needs to take a moment to try to catch it.

The phone still rings, but he ignores it for the time being. That’s the reasons he’s got the damn answering machine – despite the fact the everyone mocks him for being such a luddite – he can at least wait and see who the hell is calling before he decides to answer at ass-o’clock in the damn morning.  

He needs a minute to get it together. Especially after waking up from that kind of shit. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that his dick is still softening from a fierce hard-on because he’d been dreaming about… well, that. Being jarred awake like that had started the process of tamping down his arousal but just giving his dream that briefest thought – remembering by trying not to remember what had been moments away from happening– has his dick in some kind of war with itself.

He does his best to ignore it (hoping that in itself will decide the issue) as the phone clarions out the last of its five rings before the machine kicks on. There’s a long silence, and he snorts, annoyed with whatever jackass dialed a wrong number at this time of the day. He’s just about to fall back into his pillows when he hears a soft voice cross the room, tinny through the microphone of the ancient machine, “Uncle Mike?”

His heart thunders back to life after stopping for a long moment as he scrambles desperately for the phone receiver on the night stand. Sleep-thick fingers fumble at the buttons, and it seems like forever until his thumb finally hits the right one. He can hear his niece’s voice still talking to the recording, but he’s too concerned with actually speaking to her directly to pay attention.

“Marie?” he blurts out when he’s got the phone on and pressed to his ear. “Marie, it’s Uncle Mike. What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“Oh, Uncle Mike.” Her little relieved sigh as she says his name catches him in the gut. “I’m sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Naw,” he lies, trying to force that sleepy gravel out of his voice. “No, I’m fine, Kiddo. Don’t worry. What’s the matter?”

“Uncle Mike, I need your help.” She sounds so upset. Not like crying, or anything, just really sad. His mind is frantic with so many thoughts. Where the hell are her parents?

“Is everything okay with your folks, Kiddo?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. They’re sleepin’.” The way her voice goes suddenly quiet – as if she’s remembering the need to be silent – tells Mike that Paul and Vanessa have no idea their daughter is on the phone and she’d like to keep it that way.

“So what’s going on?” he says, in that tone he uses to encourage the types of witnesses that need a gentle hand, like kids or abuse victims.

“Uncle Mike, I think there’s something here.”

“At the house?” He’s about five seconds away from grabbing his cell phone to call in a 9-1-1.

“No. We’re here, at the cabin.”

That’s right. He’d forgotten until just now that Paul had invited him to spend the weekend with them up at the family’s cabin.   “You need to get away from that job of yours now and then, Michael.” Paul had said in a tone that wouldn’t have sounded out-of-place coming out of their Mother’s mouth, or even their Grandmother’s. “Come up to the cabin with Vanessa and me. You know Marie loves it when you can make it to the campground.”

Although calling the place they’re staying a ‘cabin’ and the location a ‘campground’ would be like calling the Mona Lisa a ‘doodle’. It’s more like a faux-rustic resort with three and four-bedroom bungalows, on a private facility that sports ridiculous amenities like a swimming pool and tennis courts. But Paul’s had the lot there for almost two decades, and Mike can’t fault him for spending his money how he wants. It just tickles Mike to death that he still refers to it as ‘the cabin’.

“So, what’s going on up there?” he prompts his niece, who’s gone quiet. “What do you mean there’s something there? You mean someone?”

“No, it’s not a someone. Um, I don’t think.” She takes a deep breath and then blurts out, “Uncle Mike, I think there’s a monster here.”

Mike almost sighs in relief, because he’s chased away Marie’s monsters a time or two.

The last time he babysat when he was staying with them and he let Paul and Vanessa have an ‘adult evening’, he’d made a show of investigating all the places in Marie’s room where the monsters could hide and then threatening the room in general. And then he told her how to beat-up and get away from the monsters if they did show up. It involved groin kicks. Paul wasn’t very happy with him about that (though Vanessa had looked past the levity and realized what Mike was really getting at with that lesson and been quietly grateful). As far as Mike knew, she hasn’t been bothered by monsters since.

“Well, honey, I’m kind of far away. Unless you want me to talk on the phone to the monsters.” He laughs.

“Uncle Mike!” She’s clearly annoyed by not being taken seriously, but at least it’s better than her sounding so defeated and sad. “No, not those kinds of monsters. Real ones.”

And maybe two years ago, Mike would’ve laughed at that too. But two years ago he hadn’t met Henry Fitzroy, and he hadn’t known about the literal ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and all the crazy fucking things that went bump in the night. “Good Lord, deliver us,” he mutters.

“What?” Marie asks.

“Nothin’, Kiddo. Just tell me about this monster. What’s goin’ on?”

“Nobody believes me, Uncle Mike, but I saw it. They say it’s a bear.”

Considering where the cabin is located the fact that they’re saying it’s a bear sounds pretty likely, but he doesn’t say that. There’s something in the tone of Marie’s little voice that clearly says she’s tried to get other adults to listen and no one believes her.   He never wants to be that guy that blows her off because she’s a kid. “Well what did you see, honey?”

“It was dark, but it wasn’t a bear, Uncle Mike. It was tall and kinda skinny and it had pointed ears with hair on them. Like Sir Didiymus, from my movie. You remember?”

Yeah, he remembers. She’s only made him watch The Labyrinth about a million times. It’s one of her favorites. “Yep, I remember, kiddo. Anything else about this monster you remember?”

“Yeah,” she goes on, tone getting more and more wrought with each word. “It smelled bad, and had scary eyes.” She’s getting freaked out again. “And… and it killed bear.”

What? “It killed a bear?” he repeats.

He doesn’t realize that he said that out loud until she protests with a cry, “No, Bear. The McKenzie’s dog. It killed one of the goats in the petting zoo, and two of the geese.”

Jesus, what kind of campground has a goddamn petting zoo.

“And it’s scaring all the horses, Uncle Mike. I can hear them being scared. It’s gonna eat one of them!”

Okay, this has gone way beyond just his eight-year-old niece having bad dreams or being freaked out by a bear rampaging the campground. “Listen, Kiddo. I think I should talk to your dad. You guys shouldn’t be up there if there’s something or someone hurting animals.” And he doesn’t say ‘bear’ because maybe, just maybe, it’s not.

Marie has an answer for that. “Oh, we’re going home today.” He’s pretty sure she hurried to share that piece of news so he doesn’t push her to talk to her dad again. “Daddy says that everyone is leaving so the camp people can bring in someone to catch the bear.

“Well that’s good, Kiddo. That’s what they should do.”

She huffs out an aggravated sigh. “But all the grown-ups think that it’s really a bear. But it’s a monster, and I’m scared for the animals. They’re gonna get hurt!”

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m just not sure what you want me to do about it.”

There’s that sigh again. It’s not the kind of sigh that an eight-year-old girl should make; it sounds world-weary. “You’re a policeman. I want you to come up here and help the animals. I don’t want any more of them to be hurt, or …die.” Her voice breaks with a wet, wobbly cry.

Shit. His niece doesn’t need think about the horsies that she adores so much being torn apart at the hands, or claws or whatever… of some kind of monster. Even if it is a goddamn bear. It’s ridiculous. He has absolutely no jurisdiction… and he’s probably not going to find anything. He doesn’t even know where to start with this kind of thing. But hell if he doesn’t hear himself saying, “Alright, Kiddo. I’ll come up there and see what I can do, okay?”

“Thank you, oh thank you, Uncle Mike, I knew you’d help!”

“I can’t promise anything, okay. You understand that right.” And she makes noises of assent so he grumbles out one last instruction. “Just do me a favor and don’t let your dad know you called me. I don’t want him worrying about this, okay?”

“I won’t,” she agrees easily.

He’s about to say goodbye, and tell her to get back to sleep – because it really is too early for either of them to be awake – when he hears noises in background over the phone and a startled sound from Marie. For a moment, his heart’s in his teeth.

Until it’s followed up by Marie saying, “Sorry, Daddy. I had to call Uncle Mike.” Which means Paul’s awake and caught her on the phone.

And sure as shit, the next thing Mike hears is, “Mike?” His brother is making no efforts to hide how sleepy and befuddled he is.

“Hey, Paul.” Mike replies. “What’s up?”

“Why is my daughter calling you at,” there’s a pause, and Mike can tell he’s looking for a clock or some other means of determining the time.

“It’s fucking early,” Mike says, filling in the blank for him.

Paul sighs. “Why is my daughter calling you so… darn early? Is this about the bear?”

“I dunno, Paul.” Mike says, hoping he can play this off without alerting his brother. “I think so. She’s scared. And if it would make her feel better for me to go up there and check things out, what am I supposed to say?”

“Seriously?” Paul asks. “You’re going to come all the way up here to the cabin. You’re actually considering doing this?”

Mike hesitates before letting out a tentative, “Well…”

But Paul knows him, and knows what that ‘well’ means. “Jesus, Mike. This kid’s got you so wrapped.” There’s no small modicum of pride in his voice as he says that. “I’ve been bugging you for the last five years to get your ass up here for a vacation.   And this is what it takes?”

“I’ve been busy.” Is all Mike says. It’s an old argument and one that Mike really doesn’t feel like rehashing right now.

Wisely, Paul doesn’t say anything further on that subject. “Alright, look. If you’re actually going to do this… hell, you could probably use a couple of days away from the office anyway.   Anyway, they’re advising the residents to head home while they look into getting some kind of animal rescue team or environmental group in to take care of the bear. But they’re probably not going to enforce it. They may just make you sign a waiver or something, stating they don’t have responsibility for any damage to you or your property.” His certainty tells Mike that the topic has already been brought up. “I’ll leave the keys in the little stone frog on the front steps.”

Mike remembers the frog.

Paul sighs. “Next time, though, make sure you come up and visit when we’re all here. You know Marie would love it.”

Mike rolls his eyes, but just grumbles out an, “Alright. Tell Marie I said goodnight, would ya? Or, good morning, or whatever the hell it is.”

“Yeah, will do. And keep me posted on this bear thing, would you?”

“Will do,” Mike echoes. “Later, Paul.”

“Later.”

Mike hangs up.

So, he’s going up to the cabin. It’s about a three and a half hour drive north of the city. That’s bad enough, but what he’s really got to stop and think about is what if this really is something besides a bear? Some kind of actual monster.

“Shit.”

He can’t call Vicki. She’s out of town for the next two weeks. She left with Coreen two days ago on a missing-persons case that required her to travel to some bumblefuck town outside of Vancouver. She’d been pretty adamant that she didn’t want to hear from Mike at all while she was gone.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Mike swears again, louder this time.

He’s gonna have to call Fitzroy.

Because he believes that his niece saw something that wasn’t a bear. And he gave her his promise that he’d deal with it. And he can’t disappoint her. If he can save the horses and the little fuzzy animals, then by God he’s gonna try.

The problem is that this kind of weird shit is totally outside his wheelhouse. Well, sometimes it’s adjacent to his wheelhouse, or much more on the same street of his wheelhouse than he’s comfortable admitting. Still, he needs someone to back him on this who knows about the supernatural and would be equipped – mentally and physically – to deal with whatever-the-fuck this situation throws at him.

He glances at his clock. It’s just after four-fifty and it’s still dark so he figures Henry will be awake. He knows the number, but that doesn’t make it easier to dial.   It takes him a few minutes of pacing the length of his bedroom, and swearing a blue streak, and trying – and failing – to come up with any other possibility before he finally swallows down all his own bullshit and makes the call.

It connects on the second ring.

“Detective, to what do I owe the pleasure at this time of the morning?” Henry sounds like he always does: like he’s royally amused by Mike for some unknown reason.

“Fitzroy,” Mike grumbles out. Immediately he realizes this was a fucking bad idea. “Look,” he blows out an exasperated breath through tightly pursed lips, “never mind. It’s stupid. Just, never mind. Sorry I bothered you.”

“Wait!” he hears Henry call out before he can get his thumb up to disconnect the call. It stays his hand. “Wait, Detective.” This time it’s Henry who sighs. “If you’re calling me at ten-to-five in the morning, especially when Vicki is out of town so you’re not working a case for her, we both know there’s something going on and you called me for a reason.”

He can’t argue with that. “Yeah, okay, look. Here’s the thing. I need to call in a favor. A pretty big one.”

“Of course, Detective. What is it that I can do for you?”

It’s not lost on Mike that those are almost the same words from his damn dream. And God damn Henry and that taunting, not quite derisive tone.

For the sake of his niece, Mike doesn’t tell Fitzroy to shove it up his ass. Instead he explains. “Look, my brother’s got this property a few hours north of here. It’s a, well it’s a freakin’ resort practically although they call it a campground. Anyway, he’s up there this weekend with my niece. She’s eight. And she called me earlier because she’s scared and upset. She says she saw a monster. The thing is, everyone’s saying it’s a bear. But it killed a goat, and some geese and someone’s dog, and it went after the horses and she swears up and down that what she saw wasn’t a bear.”

Henry doesn’t sound like he disbelieves, so Mike doesn’t bite his head off when he suggests, “It does sound like it could be a bear, Detective.”

“Look, I know what you’re thinking, but I believe my niece. She’s a smart kid and she saw something that just doesn’t make sense. She said it was tall and skinny and had pointed ears and crazy eyes. That doesn’t sound like a bear to me.”

“No,” Henry says quietly. “No it certainly doesn’t. So what is it that you want me to do for you? Would you like me to do some research into the kind of creature that might fit that description and would attack domesticated animals?”

“No.” And God, Mike hates himself so much for even thinking to ask for this. “Look, what are you doing for the next couple of days?”

Henry makes an amused sort of humming noise. “Why, Detective, inviting me away for a weekend getaway?”

Shit, this was why Mike knew this was a bad idea. Fitzroy’s gonna lord this over him. “Well first of all, Jackass,” he says, because he can’t help it, “it ain’t the weekend anymore. And second, I don’t wanna do this, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last couple years of dealing with all the weird shit you and Vicki throw my way it’s that I don’t wanna go into this alone. And she’s not around right now, and you’re my only option. If you ain’t gonna go or you got better shit to do, that’s fine. Whatever. But, I’m still going.”

There must be something in the tone of his voice that drives home the underlying plea in what he’s saying because Henry suddenly doesn’t sound so playful and mocking. “Detective, if you genuinely believe there’s something going on here that needs my help, I’ll gladly do what I can.”

Mike huffs out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Henry goes on before Mike can say anything else. “I should caution you, Detective. If we’re going to be in an unpopulated area for a period of time and if we’re dealing with something that may require me to expend a significant amount of strength…” he lets the thought go unfinished.

But Mike doesn’t need him to say anymore. “I’m well aware of that, Fitzroy.”

“You’d be willing?”

Neither of them bring up what happened after Mendoza, but Mike knows they’re both thinking about it. He’d been pretty pissed at Henry afterward for a very long time. But a lot’s happened since then, and they’re both pretty different people.

“I wouldn’t be asking you to come if I wasn’t,” he says it with finality, letting it be the last word on the subject. He knows full well what he’s doing here and what it could mean. “Look, I’m gonna be getting going shortly. I’ve gotta head into the precinct to arrange the time off and probably close out a few things before I can get outta there, but there’s no way they’re not gonna let me take off.” He hates himself for asking. “Do you wanna drive up together?”

Henry hums in consideration. “It would probably be better if I took my own car, Detective.”

And yeah, Mike agrees. That’s probably a better idea. Bad enough he’ll be up at the cabin with Henry for a couple of days, he doesn’t need to trap himself in a car with the guy on top of it. “Okay, sounds good.” He gives Henry the address and details about the campground and how to find his brother’s cabin once he’s there.

They end the call with Henry promising to get on the road right after the sun sets. Which, considering the time of year, will probably put him up there around nine-ish.

He thinks – very hard, fighting back a yawn - about going back to bed, catching a few more hours sleep, but figures that he might as well get ready now, pack up his things and head into the office early to close up as much as he can before requesting time off on such short notice. If he can clear the stack of reports from his inbox, that’ll do wonders to grease the wheels with his Chief. If all goes well, Mike figures he can probably get out of work no later than lunchtime and be on his way up to the cabin. He can always catch a nap once he’s there, before Henry arrives.

The thing about working with Henry is that he’s only available once the sun’s down and Mike doesn’t necessarily relish the idea of staying up all night. But he figures he might as well be rested up for the early evening so that at least he and Henry can talk more about what’s going on and make their plans for trying to find the not-a-bear monster.

Remembering that detail – that he and Henry will probably only be interacting during the evening hours – actually makes Mike feel a little bit better about this whole scenario.

For once in Mike’s life, things work out exactly as he plans. He rolls into the campground just after six.   The place is even more ostentatious and ridiculous than he remembers. For all that it touts itself as some kind of wilderness getaway, it’s clearly just a few looming pines and the surprisingly not man-made lake away from being a luxury resort. It looks like they’ve added amenities in the last five or so years since he’s last been up to stay with Paul and his family. He certainly doesn’t remember the go-cart track and is pretty sure they’ve expanded their 9-Hole golf course into a full eighteen.

Money pays for a pretty good spot up there, and Paul’s owned his for over a decade. It’s situated on a plot that’s about an acre and a half (bigger than most yards in the city) off a little road the splits off the main drag and winds into some picturesque woods. It gives the illusion of privacy, which is exactly what Paul pays for.

Still, he’s glad he wrote down the directions to Paul’s cabin because things have changed so much it probably would’ve taken him an hour to hunt the place down. Each of the little bungalows looks nearly identical – because yeah, hewn log framing and all the rustic touches in the world do not a cabin make when they’re three floors (furnished basement included) with a loft overlooking the a sunken living room and its stone-mantel fireplace, three-bedrooms, and a damn Jacuzzi in the master bathroom.

The keys are just where Paul said they would be (too obvious a spot, really, and Mike hopes like hell that Paul doesn’t routinely leave his keys tucked inside such an obvious hiding spot) and Mike lets himself in. He absolutely doesn’t roll his eyes at the interior. Just the main floor is bigger than Mike’s whole apartment. At least Paul and Vanessa have tried to stay true to the North Woods feel in the décor. He’s been inside a few of these places where the need to show off wealth overrode good taste.

Anything that tries to call itself a cabin should not contain chintz.

He throws his duffle in the Master Bedroom and then unloads the groceries he brought. He’s not sure how long he’ll need to stay, but he’s got enough to last him through two days, thought it could stretch to three. It’s mostly just breakfast food and beer and stuff to make pizza if he feels particularly ambitious. And – since Mike not going to deny what he’s getting into – a gallon of orange juice, because he’s fully aware that he might have to act as take-out for Henry and nothing replenishes from blood loss like OJ.

After that’s done, he heads downstairs and gets a room ready for Henry to sleep in. He knows that Henry needs a space where there’s no risk the light can get in, so he clears out the small store room that separates the smallest bedroom from the laundry area. He stopped at a hardware store and bought a new door knob and lock combo and he thanks the Lord that his brother keeps enough tools on hand that Mike can change it out.  

He finishes off his preparation by hauling the outdoor futon in from the attached one-car garage. From the fact that it’s clean and not at all dusty, Mike figures that Paul probably just packed away the outdoor stuff a few days ago. He piles a few pillows and blankets from the spare room on top of it and then leaves things be. There’s really nothing more he’s got to do, so he heads back upstairs.

With a couple of hours to go until Fitzroy’s likely to arrive – based on sunset, and the drive time – he decides against doing any investigating right now. He’d made a few calls while still at the precinct and while he hadn’t been able to track down the owners, he did get ahold of the property management company that handles things on their behalf. He’d learned that they’re still working on hiring someone to take care of the bear situation, but don’t seem in much of a hurry to do so. They’re probably shopping around for the cheapest option (and the one that will avoid any tangles with Environment Canada’s wildlife enforcement arm).

He knows there’s a caretaker who lives on the property full-time, and manages the workers who take care of the animals and maintain the grounds.   From what the property management company associate he spoke to intimated, it sounds like most of the workers have also been sent home – for liability reasons – and the only person currently onsite (besides Mike) is this caretaker. He’ll have to look for the guy, but tomorrow is soon enough.

Early as he’d been woken, and after the long drive, Mike decides there’s really nothing else to do until Henry gets there except take a nap.

He heads over to the – Jesus - sunken living space, where there’s a living room set covered in hunter green, butter-soft microsuede. It’s big and plush and roomy enough for a guy his size. There are a couple of plaid knit blankets folded neatly on a recliner so he grabs one and piles a couple of the decorative – but at least somewhat squishy– throw pillows against the arm and settles on the sofa.

It’s surprisingly comfortable.

He turns the TV on, but more for the background noise than anything. He’s not used to sleeping when it’s so damn quiet. He’s used to sleeping with the soundtrack of the city playing through his windows.

Mike must doze off at some point because the next thing he knows, he’s waking up to darkness.

Which is weird, because he’d left the kitchen and front room lights on.

He becomes instantly aware of a presence in the space with him. There’s someone, or something there in the darkness. Cursing himself for leaving his service weapon in his duffel and not anywhere within reach, Mike sits up slowly and reaches out to grope at a lamp at on the end table, seeking out a switch or cord to turn it on.

“Fitzroy,” he grumbles, “that damn well better be you.”

From somewhere in the darkness, behind him and to his left, Mike hears, “Nice to see you too, Detective.”

Before he can get the light on, Henry stops him. “Hold on a minute, Detective.”

“What’s the matter,” Mike mutters, mouth still thick with sleep and hating the way that sitting in the blackness makes him feel so vulnerable. “Afraid you’re gonna hurt your little eyes?”

Even from across the room he hears Henry’s low scoff. “No, Detective. If you must know, I’m looking out the window because I saw something moving in the woods just at the edge of the property when I pulled up, and I didn’t want the lights to scare whatever it is away.”

“Oh,” Mike replies, not at all sheepishly. “Well, fine. What’d’ya see?” He ignores the fact that he’s probably being kind of an asshole. Henry’s used to him being an asshole.

Henry’s silent a long moment.

“Fitzroy?”

“Unfortunately, very little,” Henry admits. “I think the noise of my car startled it away and it hasn’t made a reappearance. At least not in this area. Perhaps it moved on to some other part of the campground.”

“So can I turn the damn light on now?”

Henry laughs. “By all means, Detective. I don’t think our prey will make itself known any more this evening anyway. I suspect the scent of another predator in its territory might throw it off for a time.”

And that sounds so Goddamn overwrought and melodramatic that Mike almost wants to roll his eyes, but really, he can’t because it’s the damn truth. That’s what Henry is. A predator. Mike switches on the lamp and looks over his shoulder to see Henry standing by the big bay window just off the dining area, staring outside.

There’s still that sense of ‘other’ in the silence between them.

He doesn’t quite know what to say to break it. He settles for something innocuous. “Uh. So how was the drive up?”

Henry keeps his gaze fixed out the window, but he gives a little shrug. “Pleasant enough. Better once I got out of the city.”

“How long ya been here?” Mike asks, because the more he thinks about it he doesn’t know how long he’d been napping with Fitzroy in the room with him. And that’s kinda creepy.

“Oh, not long, Detective,” Henry replies and Mike can see the grin on his moonlight limned profile.

“Great. That’s just great,” Mike mutters, not caring that Henry can probably hear him. “So, you think there’s something out there? Think that whatever you saw was just a bear?”

Henry shrugs again, that little half lift of one shoulder. “I couldn’t say for sure, Detective. I only caught a glimpse of it as the beam from my headlights passed over it, and it moved too swiftly for me to track it into the woods. It may have been a bear,” he concedes, “but it didn’t quite move like one. And there’s a scent on the air that definitely isn’t ursine. Something about it is familiar, though I can’t quite place it.”

“Shit.” Mike says vehemently. Henry’s all but admitting that they’re probably dealing with an actual monster here. “What are you thinking here? Werewolf?”

Henry’s expression goes a bit odd, at least what Mike can see of it. “Uh, no. I’m fairly certain it’s not werewolves.”

Blatantly ignoring his own memory of watching a black panther transform into a young woman, Mike quips, “You know, just the fact that you didn’t stop me and say ‘Don’t be silly, Detective, werewolves don’t exist’ makes me question my whole life right now.”

That actually gets a full-blown and obviously startled gust of laughter from Henry. “More things in heaven and earth, Detective.”

That’s gonna get old fast, Mike realizes. “Jesus, Henry. If we’re gonna be working together on this, can you at least ease off the whole Prince of Man thing and call me Mike?”

“If you wish. I merely thought you preferred to be referred to by your title. Especially from me.”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees. “Normally, I usually do. But there’s something about the way you say it, Henry. Makes it sound like,” he struggles for an explanation. “Like, you’re really saying ‘Hey Asshole’. Like the way teenage hoodlums say ‘cop’ to rhyme with prick.”

Henry turns to look and him and one of those sharp, demon-wing brows arches up. “Well, Mike,” and it looks like the name tastes strange on Henry’s tongue, “I definitely think there’s something here that merits investigation. That strange scent on the air isn’t quite something I’ve ever smelled before, but there’s a sort of animal musk to it that’s vaguely familiar. That’s why I’m a bit puzzled by why I saw.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Mike says. “So, maybe something similar to some crazy freakin’ supernatural beastie you’ve seen before, but not quite the same?”

It’s a bit lame as far as explanations go, but Henry merely gives a little conciliatory nod. “Something like that, De… Mike.”

He catches the near mis-step. It makes him grin for a moment before a thought shuffles the smile away.

There’s another question Mike needs to ask, and he has to steel himself to do so. It’s easier to ask it once Henry’s turned his head towards the window again, and isn’t staring at him with those piercing eyes. “So, um, judging by the fact that you got up here so fast, I’m guessing you pretty much just jumped in the car as soon as the sun set and…” He trails off, not quite sure how to get to the question he’s trying so clumsily to ask.

“Are you asking if I ate before I left, Detective?” And this time Henry doesn’t catch the slip. Which Mike thinks is pretty telling, considering how casual he’s obviously trying to appear.

It annoys Mike for some reason. Fitzroy still trying to be so unruffled by all this. He lets out an aggravated sigh. “Yes, I’m asking if you need to feed, Henry.”

Henry shoots him a look that is somewhat considering, and a little bit impressed. Like he didn’t think Mike could bring himself come right out and ask it. What a condescending jerk.

“I don’t need to, Mike,” Henry replies, the corners of his mouth curling up in a tight little grin – obviously laughing at himself for making the switch back to Mike’s given name. “I don’t need to feed right now…”

“But,” Mike fills in, because he can hear the word hanging heavy in the air.

“But,” Henry adds with a little dip of his chin in acknowledgement, “it has been a couple of days and if I’m to be out all night hunting this thing, it might not be a bad idea. If you’d like,” he offers, “on my way up I passed through a small town about twenty miles south of here that would likely offer me plenty of opportunity to find suitable arrangements.”

Mike has to give it to the guy, offering him an out like that. “No,” Mike shakes his head, despite the fact that the majority of his brain wants him to accept and fervently shout out, ‘Yeah, go for it.’ “No,” he repeats. “I’m the one that dragged you away from everything for this…whatever this is. The least I can do is feed you.” If the last few words are forced out through gritted teeth, well that’s nobody’s business.

But Henry seems to sense that the offer is genuine and he smiles again. “Thank you, Mike.”

“Now?” Mike asks.

Henry shakes his head. “It doesn’t need to be right now. Though before I go out for the night would be preferable.”

Mike sighs, heavily. “You might as well get this over with, then. If you’re gonna be out hunting that thing I’d rather know you were on top of your game in case it turns out to be the kind of weird shit that usually screws with us.”

Henry inclines his head. “As you say.”

He settles back on the couch and waves Henry over. “This is good, right?” he asks. “I mean, you don’t need to go anywhere special or anything?” He can hear soft footfalls as Henry crosses the room to join him.

“Where you are is fine, Det… Mike.” Henry approaches slowly and takes a seat next to him. Close, but with a little space left between them. Each move made with clear care and deliberation.

Mike holds up an arm. “Wrist okay?” He’s glad Henry isn’t pulling any of his fast-moving, preternatural bullshit right now, because Mike really doesn’t need reminding of all that.

“That will be fine.”

“Yeah, okay.” He says. He’d taken off his dress-shirt before taking his nap, so he’s in his undershirt and his arms are bare. He extends the arm, not quite sure what to do with it.

“You don’t have to watch, Mike. If that’s easier.” Henry offers as he takes a surprisingly gentle hold of Mike’s hand. He guides it over to him, positioning himself so it won’t put any strain on Mike’s arm or shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Mike utters gruffly. “Just get on with it.” But he turns his head away and stares at the blank screen of the TV, which Henry must’ve turned off at some point after he arrived.

The screen flicks on and Mike looks back over at Henry. He’s holding the remote and he passes it over so that Mike can take it in his free hand. “Thanks.” He starts to flip through channels aimlessly, and can’t focus on anything but the way Henry is cradling his arm against his chest.

“You know,” Henry begins in a voice tinged with amusement, and Mike can feel the air of the words warm against his palm. He has to fight against giving in to a whole-body shudder. “Normally I’d endeavor to make this is a much more, ah, intimate experience. So, I apologize for the rather perfunctory nature of what I’m about to do.” There’s another low chuckle. “If it helps, think of it like donating blood.”

Mike snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“This won’t hurt,” Henry says softly, the words going silent at the end as his lips touch Mike’s skin.

And it doesn’t; not exactly.

There’s a slight pinch right at the thin skin below the ball of his thumb, but after that it’s just…weird. There’s a bit of an ache inside. Kind of like getting blood drawn, so Henry’s statement was pretty spot-on. Except it’s miles different from the first, and only, time that he ever let Henry feed from him. And ‘let’ was stretching things considering the circumstances. Henry’d been battered and weak from torture and starving and almost feral and Mike had only jumped in front of him to prevent him going after Vicki. All he really remembers from that encounter is pain and the spiraling fear that Henry wouldn’t be able to stop himself draining Mike dry.

This? Is nothing like that.

He’s trying really hard to not think about what it is like, because there’s a definite softness and intimacy to it that’s causing some disconcerting reactions elsewhere in his body. He tries to keep as still as he can and to ignore everything but whatever’s on the TV. To his credit, Henry’s not doing anything except gently cradling his arm and drinking, but he’s making these soft sucking noises and it’s so much like the sound of kissing someone, of sucking on an earlobe or a nipple…

No matter how much Mike tries to distract himself with unpleasant thoughts – the latest in procedural changes at the precinct, his hockey team’s miserable season, or even picturing the spread of evidence photos from the last homicide he worked – it isn’t enough to block out all the sensation.

It seems like it goes on forever. Until it’s done, and then it feels like it all happened too fast.

Mike feels a little foolish because he startles when Henry lets go of his arm.

“Thank you, Mike,” Henry says softly, and there’s something in his roughened, low tone that Mike recognizes but sure as hell isn’t going to put a name to.

“You uh, got enough?” Mike asks, because it seems like the polite thing to follow-up with in this kind of situation. He almost laughs then, desperately, because it’s not like he’s asking if Henry got enough wine or enough pasta… Jesus, this is surreal.

“I’m fine, Detective. It was more than enough.” Henry answers. This time Mike doesn’t call him on switching back to the use of his title rather than his name, because at least that puts a little bit of distance between them verbally and maybe mentally too.

Henry stands up swiftly and is across the room and back at the bay window faster than Mike’s eyes can follow. He’s probably never been more grateful for Henry’s ability to move so damn fast because he needs that physical space as well, to recover his equilibrium. He totally gets it now, though. What Henry was saying before he started, about how he normally made things more… intimate.

It’s the allure, the mystery, the romance of Vampires. He knows that when Henry’s hunting, that’s when he uses those eyes and that voice and he makes his… Mike starts to think ‘victim’ but has to mentally amend. Because that’s not right, that’s not what they are. At least not all of them. He doesn’t know what to call the people that Henry feeds from more than once. He knows there are some regulars; people who don’t know Henry’s true nature but recognize that there’s something addictive about him.

He also knows that sometimes Henry just stalks the city and truly hunts; that he finds lesser mortals, criminals and the cruel and the violent and that those people are just a meal to him, that it’s not always sweetness and passion. It’s sometimes violent and predatory, but Mike can’t connect those two different beings in his head right now.

He needs to stop fucking thinking about this.

“So uh,” he starts, clambering for anything to say. “You gonna go out and track this thing, or what?” He risks a glance over the back of the couch at Henry.

“I think so, yes.” Henry replies. “As I said earlier, it may have gone to ground when I arrived, having caught the scent of another predator on the air. But there’s something in what I smell that tells me that whatever this is, it may be sick or injured. There’s something off about it.” He wrinkles his nose. “And I don’t think it’s up for a fight. At least, I don’t think it’ll try for one tonight.” Mike gets that there’s something about the nature of creatures like himself that Henry’s having trouble getting across, so he doesn’t press for more.

“But, perhaps I can get some other information. Where it’s been, where it goes. Any particular locations that it spends a lot of time. And then you could follow up on those leads tomorrow?” It’s a question and he finally looks away from his contemplation of the dark outdoors to look at Mike, brow lifted in inquiry.

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, turning further on the sofa so he’s not craning his neck to look behind him at Henry, “that sounds like a good plan. I haven’t had a chance to talk to the caretaker yet. To see if he knows any more than what I got this morning during my call with the property management group that represent the owners. Which was pretty much jack and squat. They're claiming it’s probably a bear and they don’t want to hear anything else. And they’re not trying too damn hard to get anyone up here to deal with the problem. Because it sounds like that’s gonna cost them more money than they want to spend.”

A frown pulls at Henry’s mouth. “Isn’t the campground being closed costing them money?”

“Probably not much,” Mike explains. “This isn’t like a campground or resort that everyone can come and visit. These cabins,” and he rolls his eyes on the word, “are private property and they’re either owned or leased by individuals or families. It’s the lots they’re renting, and they pay dues every year to keep their spot. Hell, the cabins stand empty most of the year.”

He shifts again, bringing his knees up on the couch and resting his head on his arms across the back of it. “A lot of these people only come out for the weekends during the summer. A few people, like my brother, will come out during the spring and fall occasionally. But this place is only for the regulars and they’re paid up well in advance.” He snorts derisively. “Shit, the only thing they probably make money on here aside from the yearly dues, is the ridiculous bullshit they’ve got. There are fucking concession stands on the beach.”

Henry just shakes his head. “The things rich people do with their money.” And he laughs at that but it’s self-deprecating.

That’s when Mike remembers just who Henry is, or was before he was turned into a vampire.

“Right,” Mike responds with an amused snort. “I’m sure you’d know all about that.”

Fortunately, Henry doesn’t take offense; he just gives an agreeable little nod. “In this day and age, not so much,” he says. “I’ve endeavored to live a simpler lifestyle. Although, admittedly, I’ve always tried to take care of myself.”

Mike snorts again. He’s seen Henry’s place. It’s not the kind of property that someone who only made a living as a Graphic Novelist could likely afford. Henry’s apparently been wise with his investments over the years.

“But, I have been witness to the excess and indulgences of the bourgeoisie.” He gestures loose, with the flip of one hand, to their surroundings. “This seems tame in comparison to some of the things I’ve seen, to be honest. And you’re talking to someone whose father inherited two dozen houses, both greater and lesser, and no fewer than fourteen medieval castles when he took the throne. And don’t even get me started on his love of tapestries.”

Mike shakes his head. “Yeah, I didn’t think about that,” he admits. Because if he did start to think about how old Henry really was, who he'd been in his mortal life, his brain would probably explode. Hell, just accepting that Henry isn’t younger than him is hard for him to fathom.

“Still,’ Henry allows, “even I must admit that the concessions and the go-kart track are just a bit excessive.”

They share a laugh.

Mike’s kind of relieved that things are as easy between them as they are.

It seems Henry might feel the same, because he keeps the conversation going. “So, it’s your brother who stays here, correct?”

Mike nods.

“Does he own this place?”

“Yeah,” Mike bobs his head again. “He bought it a long time ago. Back when he first started making his money, he wanted a place to get away that reminded him of the kind of low key vacations we’d go on as kids. Back then this place was still being developed and it was a lot simpler in those days. I mean, yeah, the cabin was nice but you know, the activities were simpler. We’d go out on the boat, go fishing, hiking or maybe spend the afternoon at the lake swimming or lying out on the beach. The stables were there, but back then they were owned by a farmer who had the neighboring property. Occasionally, we’d go over and rent a couple and go horseback riding.”

Henry lifts that brow again. Speculative. “I’m not sure why, but I just can’t picture you on horseback, Detective.”

Mike rolls his eyes, but the statement makes him grin. “Yeah, well. I haven’t since I was about twelve. If you asked me to do the same today I’d barely know which end was the front.” It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it makes Henry return his grin warmly. “I suppose you used to ride?” For a minute he tries to picture Henry in period garb, sitting astride a prancing horse, like he’s seen in portraits. It’s a surprisingly easy to conjure and appealing image.

“Often,” Henry agrees. “It’s one of the things I miss about the day, to be honest. Horseback riding at night isn’t the safest thing to do.” The slight deprecation in his tone tells Mike there’s a story behind that.

When Henry isn’t forthcoming – though he looks a bit lost in his own memories – Mike lumbers on, loathe to lose the easy banter they’ve got going. It’s a lot nicer than their usual back and forth (not that that isn’t fun, in its own way). “I actually haven’t been up here in years. Kinda forgot what it was like.” He lets his gaze roam over the interior of the cabin in a wide, arching motion.

“You don’t get out of the city much,” Henry says, and it’s not a question. His own expansive gaze parrots Mikes’. “I don’t see you existing for long in a place like this.”

Mike has to agree. “Yeah, Toronto it’s… well, it’s where I belong. You know, getting away once in a while, sure it’s fine; but I don’t feel right without all the noise and the pollution and the junkies.” He laughs. “I’d be bored as hell up here as a cop. Can you imagine?” He shakes his head. “Naw, this place isn’t for me. I mean it’s nice to visit with my family, once in a while.” He emphasizes the latter quite strongly.

“But you enjoy seeing your niece, Marie, was it?”

Mike nods. “Yeah, Marie. She’s eight. She’s a good kid.”

“It sounds like she’s got a good head on her shoulders,” Henry says and Mike makes an agreeable sound. “For her to take something like this so in stride. It’s impressive. I know children are more open-minded and flexible in their imaginations and awareness of what’s real in the world, but she’s doing rather well with seeing what it is that she did.”

Mike can’t help the pride that slips into his voice. “Yeah, she’s pretty damn smart. And she’s always had an imagination on her. She loves those fantasy kinds of movies. The ones with the puppets and the real people.”

“Ahh, The Dark Crystal?” Henry suggests.

“Yeah, that’s exactly the kind. That’s one of her favorites. And Labyrinth and Legend, which has got unicorns. Which are another of her other favorite things in the entire world.”

“Hence her concern over protecting the horses,” Henry says, with just a little bit of cheek.

But it’s not laden with his normal smarm or haughtiness. It’s playful and lighthearted. Mike finds himself warming to it, wanting to tease back. “Yeah,” he sighs out, mock-melodramatically. “We have to save the horsies.”

He catches Henry’s eye then and they share a smile and then stare at each other for a long time. A very long time. Long enough that the silence that hangs in the room starts to change in its’ quality. It’s not heavy or pervasive but it’s considering. And that starts leading Mike’s thoughts somewhere he really doesn’t need them to go.

He clears his throat, probably a bit too pointedly. “So uhm… you gonna get out there any time soon?” he says, really quite dumbly.

The smile that had been softening Henry’s face narrows back into something thin-lipped and contemplative, but he doesn’t look upset. Just acknowledging. Like he probably gets why Mike had to break up the tension that seemed to be building. At least Mike hopes he gets it.

“You’re right, Mike.” He inclines his head. “It’s time I get out there to see what I can discover.” He stands and starts to make his way over to the door. “I’ll be back before dawn.”

“There’s a room,” Mike blurts out, because he forgot to mention it before and he doesn’t want things to end so abruptly between them just because he’s a paranoid jerkoff. “I mean, I probably should’ve explained sooner, but downstairs there’s a room with no windows. It’s kind of just a store room, but I cleared most of it out and set up the outdoor futon in there.” He frowns, tugs at his inner lip with his teeth. “Is that gonna be okay?”

Henry nods. “I suspect that should be fine. I brought along a blackout curtain that I can hang over the door as well. Ideally, I’d prefer to be able to lock the door from the inside, to ensure no one can access the room during the day, but beggars can’t be choosers and I’ve slept in less secure places in my days. Not that I don’t trust you to keep an eye on things,” he adds with a slightly conciliatory tone, as if he genuinely doesn’t want to offend Mike by implying that Mike couldn’t protect him.

“Yeah, I figured. I changed the door handles so there’s a lock on the inside. There’s also a chair in there if you wanna prop it under the handle. Just to be on the safe side.”

It’s just a brief flicker, but Henry smiles again. “It sounds like that will work out well then. Thank you for thinking of it, and for getting everything ready.”

Mike shrugs. “Well, you came all the way up here. You know, to help me hunt a monster. The least I can do is make sure you’ve got a safe place to say during the daylight hours.”

Henry gives a little nod and that barest grin that shows just a bit of fang. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come back in.”

Mike waves that away, “Eh, don’t worry about it.”

Henry’s reaching an arm out, just a few seconds from leaving when Mike’s mouth seems to overtake his brain.

“Hey, real quick before you go, Fitzroy, there’s something I gotta know.” Even as he says it, he’s mentally kicking himself. He’s only asking this now, because it’s the safest time, right before Henry’s gonna leave and they won’t have to face each other for a while.

His tone must catch Henry’s ear, because he stops with his hand on the doorknob and spins around to face Mike. “What’s that, Detective?”

Detective again. Probably to counter the fact that Mike just called him Fitzroy instead of Henry, because it feels less personal.

“Look that’s the second time you’ve fed on me. Can that cause… I mean, does it ever happen that feeding on someone can make them…” Jesus he’s stuttering and blushing like a damn teenage boy asking a girl out for the first time.

Henry, for once, is no help in reading Mike’s mind. “Make them what, Detective?”

“I mean, it happened right after that first time, with Mendoza. I… there were some dreams…” he trails off again, mouth moving helplessly but no sound finding its way out.

“Dreams?” Henry asks.

“Yeah, you know, dreams.” He puts a throaty emphasis on the word. “I mean, I didn’t have those kind of dreams before all that. And like tonight, when you were,” he can’t bring himself to say ‘sucking on my wrist’, so he settles for, “uh, feeding. I mean, I know it’s supposed to feel pretty good when you’re trying to make it that way, but can it… Is there a reason…?”

Henry cants his head to the side and studies Mike like he’s some kind of intriguing lesser creature and Henry’s a wicked predator who can’t decide if he wants to devour him or let him go free. It’s fucking unnerving as hell and way too on point.

“Detective, are you asking whether or not my feeding on you could inadvertently create some kind of bond between us?”

Mike starts to nod, because yeah, that’s what he was so clumsily trying to get at, but Henry keeps right on talking.

“And that perhaps that might explain away why you’ve experienced moments of subconscious arousal that center around me? And perhaps might even provide an answer to why your pulse rises and your breathing speeds up when I get close to you?”

Mike tries to swallow against a Sahara-dry mouth.

“Uh,” he croaks out, “yeah.”

Henry blinks, slowly. Still studying him with that same hawk like intensity. “If that’s what you’re asking, Detective, then the answer is no.”

Mike frowns and feels his mouth start to form another question. But Henry’s not done.

“One-way blood transference doesn’t work like that. There is no bond, no link. No metaphysical or supernatural explanation for what’s going on with you. Whatever you’re feeling… the things you’re dreaming, the desires you’re experiencing,” he pauses, a precisely choreographed moment, “that’s all you.” And then he winks… fucking winks! And then exits in a dramatic whirl of whipping dark hair and swirling dark coat.

The door closes behind him with a resounding slam.

“Well, shit.” That is just about more than Mike’s capable of dealing with right now.

So. He won’t.

He pretty much shuts down any train of thought that Henry’s response might provoke. He just won’t let himself think about it at all.

Because that’ll be easy.

And then he stares at the empty space where Henry had been standing and breathes out a huge sigh of relief.

That was just about one of the most surreal evenings he’s spent in a really long time.   He looks at a clock and shakes his head. Christ, it’s only a little after ten. He’s not exactly tired yet, because he just woke up from a nap. He absolutely needs a distraction so he doesn’t start giving into the thoughts that are scrabbling so mercilessly at the back of his mind. So he gets up and grabs himself a beer and then settles back on the couch and gets the remote and flips through the channels. Paul’s got satellite TV up here so it’s not long before he finds some good ol’ black and white Stooges.

Like earlier, he slips into sleep and wakes with no memory of even starting to nod off. It’s a hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly, that pulls him out of some really bizarre dreams. Luckily none of them were the erotic kind, though they did all feature Henry.

“Detective.”

Mike blinks muzzily up into the sleep-filmy blur that is Henry, trying to clear his vision. The light from the television is playing over his face, casting odd shadows and highlights, and maybe it’s because an old black and white Hammer film came on after the Stooges, but all Mike can think about is that Henry reminds him of one of those dramatically lit, cinematic, vampires of old. On top of that, the flickering light catches his eyes almost like it would a cat’s: they flash and almost seem backlit by some inner glow. It’s kind of mesmerizing.

Or Mike is just really out of it. “Uhhh.” Plus he can’t seem to remember how his tongue works.

For some reason Henry looks ridiculously amused by him. “Sorry to disturb you, but I didn’t think you’d want to sleep the whole night away on the sofa.”

“Wha’ time ‘zit?” Mike manages, and it’s almost a sentence.

“Not too late,” Henry explains. “Just after three-thirty.”

“Back early,” Mike tries to sit up. He sort of manages. Henry steps back a pace while he throws his feet off the couch and pushes himself up into an ungainly sprawl. He scrubs a hand through his hair and then rubs it over his face a couple of times. “You find anything?” he asks when he lets the hand drop to his lap.

“Unfortunately, I’m not exactly a bloodhound, Detective. The scent out there is just so pervasive that it’s difficult to pinpoint a trail. But, it’s all over the camp. Whatever this thing is, it’s been everywhere.”

He sits down opposite Mike on a coffee table, elegantly crossing his leg over a knee. “It’s likely a good thing that the camp emptied and the guests went home when they did. Just from what I’ve observed, I have a feeling that this creature is growing more desperate, and that’s making it bolder. I can’t say with certainty, but I believe that’s what pushed it into attacking animals even in their pens may soon drive it to attack humans. I think I have an idea of where it’s hiding out though and I should be able to confirm tomorrow night.”

Mike frowns. Well, he’s been frowning all through Henry’s report, but it morphs from concerned to confused. “What do you mean? Why do you have to wait until tomorrow? Sunrise isn’t for a couple of hours yet.”

Henry twists in his seat and gestures to the window behind him. That’s when Mike realizes that the soft susurrus of sound he hears isn’t coming from the TV, but from the pattering of a soft rainfall on the roof. He also, really belatedly for how much he’s been staring, notices that the glistening he noticed on Henry’s jacket are raindrops, and that Henry’s dark hair is flattened into damp ringlets that are starting to curl.

“As I said, there are layers of scent out there. I think the rain my help to wash some of it clean. Which should mean that tomorrow there will be freshly laid trails to follow.”

“Gotcha,” Mike says around a yawn that he can’t stop escaping. His jaw pops with the stretch of it.

“You should get to bed, Detective,” Henry tells him, and there’s a note of command in his voice.

He starts to protest but gets distracted when a lock of hair tumbles down past Henry’s forehead and Mike suddenly gets the strangest urge to brush it away. He actually feels his fingers lifting and that’s when Mike realizes that, hell yes, he does need to go to bed. Because he’s exhausted, and that conversation he had with Henry right before he’d gone out earlier is still whirling around his mind, and he is in no shape to be spending time with Henry right now.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

Henry hasn’t lost that amused expression and it grows sharper as he stands and holds a hand out to Mike.  

There’s about half a second where Mike thinks about ignoring the offer, but he’s too tired for his own bullshit, so he takes a tight grip of Henry’s cool fingers and let’s Henry practically haul him up to his feet.

He forgets, sometimes, how strong Henry is.

Especially looking at him. Physically, he’s smaller than Mike. He’s lean where Mike is broad and Mike’s got a few inches on him in height. Although there’s a certain contained power in the way he moves. Mike’s always found it kind of feline…

And Christ, this is getting ridiculous. He’s got to get his fucking head under control. He absolutely needs to go to sleep before he makes a bigger ass of himself than he probably already has.

“Okay,” he says, more to the air or the room in general. “Alright. I’m going. G’night, Henry.” He shoulders past Henry and makes his way down the short hallway to the master bedroom.

Just before he closes the door behind him he hears a softly spoken, “Sleep well, Detective Celluci.”

Grumbling, Mike clumsily toes off his socks and kicks out of his trousers and then falls into the bed in just his boxers and T-shirt. He’s still half-asleep from snoozing on the couch, so he barely manages to drag the comforter over himself before he’s out again.

Mike wakes up the next morning to the honest-to-God sound of a rooster crowing.  “Jesus hell,” he mutters viciously as the shrill cock-a-doodle-doo echoes through the window again and again. If Marie had told him that the goddamn petting zoo had a goddamn rooster he probably never would have agreed to come.

He rolls over to cast a bleary gaze at the clock which shows that it’s just after seven. It isn’t all that much different from when he usually gets up for work, especially on days that he wants to swing by Tanner’s to pick up a coffee and a bagel before heading into the precinct (which has really shitty coffee), so he forces himself to get up.

The sun’s up, so that means Henry’s asleep. Which is a huge relief. He’s kind of glad that Henry’s tied to the night, because he doesn’t think there’s any way he could stand to face Henry during the day as well. There’s just too much of Henry already in this space - and in Mike’s head - and he needs a break.

He takes an indulgently long shower and gets dressed in comfortable clothes – no suit today - which finally gets him to feel a bit more put together. He also takes the time to make himself a quick breakfast which includes a big glass of orange juice. Normalcy, he’s decided, is the key to getting things back on an even keel. When he carries his plate over to the island that divides the kitchen from the dining area he finds a note waiting for him.

Henry’s script is neat and elegant and has an old-timey, artistic flourish that suits him in a weird way.

The note explains that Henry got on Paul’s computer in the den and did some research on the internet before the dawn interrupted. Unfortunately, his efforts were fruitless and he doesn’t have any answers yet. He also advises Mike to be careful, as the creature has only been hunting at night, but Henry’s quite sure it’s getting desperate.

“Yeah, yeah.” Mike mutters to the empty room. He crumples the note and sinks the shot as he over-hand tosses it in the trash. Just what he needs; more mother-hens in his life.

Mike spends the morning exploring the campground, trying to track down the caretaker. He finally finds him at the petting zoo, doing his first round of feeding.

He’s a surprisingly young guy – at least he’s probably younger than Mike – with long dreads tied back into an orderly knot at the back of his neck and almost the darkest eyes Mike’s ever seen (the nearly black irises remind him of Henry’s eyes when he vamps-out). His accent is heavy Quebecois with an undertone that Mike can’t quite pin down, and he introduces himself as Gabriel. “But call me Gabe,” he insists after he and Mike shake hands.

“I’ve normally got a crew for this,” he explains as he divvies up some kind of seed grain into three shallow, black rubber feed pans. “Two who look after the petting zoo and the stables, and another two that manage the landscaping and general maintenance.” He shakes his head.

“Kinda shitty that they’ve got you working alone.” Mike commiserates. “They send everyone home because of the bear?”

Gabe nods. “Yeah. Liability and all that.” He eyes Mike strangely for a moment. “Surprised they let you stay.”

“I signed a waiver.” Mike admits.

“Ahh,” Gabe laughs wryly, nodding again. “That explains it.”

“Look, do you mind if I ask you a few questions about this supposed bear and what’s happened here?”

“Go for it,” Gabe says, even as he’s moving away to a large rabbit hutch that contains about a half dozen bunnies of all different colors and sizes. “But, I’ve gotta keep movin’ if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Mike follows after and reaches out to offer an extra hand while Gabe tries to juggle several containers. “In fact, why don’t you let me help you out?”

“I’m sure you didn’t come up here to spend your day doin’ chores.” Gabe protests, though he looks torn on accepting the offer. “Don’t you have a guest staying with you too?”

Mike frowns. How does he know that?

“I saw the second car when I drove over,” Gabe explains, reading the question in Mike’s frown. “They not gonna miss you?”

“Naw,” Mike shakes his head. “He’s more of a night owl.”

Gabe cocks an eyebrow and he looks Mike up and down speculatively. “Huh. I think I had you pegged all wrong.”

It takes Mike a moment to glean his meaning.

And shit… yeah, he can see how someone might read that explanation. But it’s not like he can retract it to explain that his guest is actually a member of the bloodsucking undead. Whatever, Mike tells himself, it’s nothing he can worry about now and he’s got more pressing concerns.

Mike decides that a little bit of the truth might go a long way towards setting Gabe at ease. “Look, I’m a Toronto cop. I’m up here because my niece is worried about the bear.” Heat suffuses his cheeks, but he soldiers on. “She doesn’t want any more animals to get hurt, and asked me to check it out. I figured I could use a couple of days away from the city… I know, I know,” He says as Gabe’s amused grin just grows wider and wider until it’s a gleaming arch of white teeth against ebony skin. “But, I made her a promise.” He shrugs.

“So, while my friend is sleeping, I figured I’d check things out. And hell, helping you out will probably get me access to places I couldn’t normally get into.”

“Who’s your niece?” Gabe asks.

“Marie Celluci.”

The smile grows even larger, if that’s possible. “Ahh, sweet little, Marie. If that girl doesn’t grow up to be a veterinarian, I’ll eat my dreads.”

Mike returns the smile genuinely. “That’s a bet I wouldn’t take. She’s crazy about animals.”

“She must’ve taken the attacks here pretty hard. I know she gets attached.”

“Yeah,” Mike nods and then gestures at himself. “She’s also got an Uncle who’s a cop and a giant softie where she’s concerned. So, here I am.”

Gabe bobs his head up and down a few times. “Alright, alright, Mike. For Marie’s uncle, I can be flexible with the rules. As long as you don’t mind that you might get a little dirty?” When Mike shakes his head, Gabe points over to a cabinet. “There are extra gloves in there, and you may wanna swap those shoes for some wellies.” He points to several pairs of rubber boots set neatly to the side of the cabinet.

Mike dons gloves and boots, both because he doesn’t want to track any kind of animal shit into Paul’s cabin and he doesn’t want to mess with Henry’s senses later on.

As they work on feeding the rest of the small, supposedly pettable animals (although when that includes two ball pythons, Mike’s not sure their criteria is selective enough). Mike learns that the geese and the goat that were killed were both penned up, but not under cover. And that the four-foot walls of the goat pen are constructed with an extra three feet height of fencing that’s angled inward to prevent the goats escaping. Mike had no idea that goats were such four-legged little Houdini’s. When he comments on that Gabe explains that they’re really good at climbing things and getting on top of seemingly impossible places.

He asks about the goat that was killed.

Gabe sighs. “You know, it happens now and then that we lose an animal to something. Especially the ones that don’t get locked up in the barn at night. Foxes, coyotes, even more rarely it’ll be a bear. Though, they’re scavengers and would much rather ransack the garbage cans. But this was pretty bad. Worst attack we’ve ever seen.”

“How so?

“Well, with the MaKenzie’s dog, it just vanished. So we’re not even sure it’s the bear that got him. They just knew they let him out one night and he never came back. And with the geese, we knew something happened to them because there were feathers and some blood left behind. But for the most part they just went missing too. We never did see anything else of them. But Billy,” he shakes his head, looking troubled.

And because he looks so upset, Mike bites his tongue on the scathing comment he wants to make about calling a damn goat ‘Billy’. “What happened to Billy?” He manages to ask in an even, non-judgmental tone that’s he’s perfected in his years as a cop.

“Billy, well, we found about half of him. He was tore up and half-eaten and there were parts of him scattered all over. It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen a bear do.”

“So you do think it’s a bear?” Mike asks, trying to keep it casual.

Gabe still frowns at him slightly. “Not sure what else it could be.”

Mike kind of cringes before he comes up with something semi-plausible. “Well, I think I’d just like to make sure it’s an animal and not some sicko person doing this. You know, to terrorize the campground. Someone who might have a grudge with the owners or a tenant?

Gabe looks stunned at that possibility for a moment and then he shakes his head decisively. “No, no way. This is definitely an animal and from the descriptions and the size, the only thing it could be is a bear.”

“So a lot of people saw an animal of some kind?”

“Yeah,” Gabe confirms. “Bears coming into the grounds is kind of a novelty, so when the campers hear something getting into the rubbish bins or knocking around outside at night, they tend to run to the windows to take a look. But we keep things secure around here, and discourage the campers from trying to lure them in. All that makes it more difficult for them to find an easy meal, so they don’t come ‘round too often. They mostly scavenge the garbage dump that’s a few miles further down the 534.”

He lifts a pointer finger at Mike. “And, see, that makes me worry that we’ve got a rogue on our hands. Or maybe a bear that’s injured or is sick. A few people described what they saw as having patchy, light-colored fur which could mean its’ got mange or something. So I think that might be driving it to be more reckless or aggressive.”

“That makes sense.” Mike agrees, because it jives with what Henry was saying last night: that this creature is likely acting against its normal nature and might be wounded or sick.

He’s also pretty sure damn Gabe isn’t one-hundred percent convinced that this is a bear. There’s a certain evasiveness to his reassurances that Mike’s positive he’s not just seeing because he wants to. He’s interviewed enough suspects and witnesses and it’s that slight note of caginess and the too-strong surety that suggests maybe Gabe has some of his own doubts that he’s reluctant to share.

Mike’ll keep working on getting him to open up.

He follows Gabe to the stable which is across the grounds from where the small animal barn is located. They’ve got just over a dozen horses on site, all penned in their large individual box stalls. They’re being kept indoors for the time being.

Gabe starts him putting chunks of hay – ‘flakes’ he corrects when Mike uses the incorrect term - pulled from fresh bales into hanging nets in each stall while he portions out and distributes something he calls ‘sweet feed’, and then has him empty and refill water buckets. It’s different kind of work than Mike’s used to, but it feels good to be helpful.

Whatever secret Gabe is keeping, he’s holding it tight to the vest and Mike doubts he’ll be able to pry it from him. He’s probably not going to learn anything beyond what he’s already gotten from him, but assisting with his rounds is at least getting him inside places. Not that he’s finding anything there either. Fitzroy may be able to sniff out scents and know how to look for signs of the supernatural, but Mike’s kind of at a loss.

Still, he continues on with working with Gabe, and keeps them chatting on and off the whole time. It’s mostly about the camp and the owners and the guests. He learns that Gabe has a BBA in Hospitality and Tourism Management and is working as the camp’s General Manager and caretaker while he finishes an MBA.

“I’d like to get into the real estate side of things someday,” he explains. “Maybe start my own Property Management firm.”

“Yeah?” Mike says as he lifts a water bucket onto its hanger in the stall of the final horse, a big goldish-cream colored beast with a white stripe between its eyes and a pink spot on its nose. The horse has more interest in him than the water or the hay Mike put in the mesh bag earlier. It noses at his jacket and its prehensile upper lip works enthusiastically at Mike’s collar. “Hey,” Mike snaps at it. “Knock it off.”

Gabe comes over with the last of those pans of grain and sets it at the animals’ feet. His head drops long enough to sniff and then is back up and lipping at Mike again. “That’s George.”

George? Jesus, who’s responsible for naming the animals around here?

“He’s just a big, friendly fellow, aren’t ya, George.” Gabe reaches out to slap a firm hand against George’s neck while Mike extricates himself from the stall.

Suddenly the big horse spooks, knocking into Mike and nearly shoving him over. He scrabbles back in his stall until his haunches are pressed against the back wall, and his ears are pinned back against his skull. His eyes are showing white around the edges and rolling wildly. George starts to rear, his head high and neck arched back while his fore hooves lift and start to slash at the empty air and he lets out an alarmed sort of cry.

“What the hell?” Gabe says as he helps Mike get his feet under him and hurries to get the stall door closed behind them, out of reach of George’s flailing front hooves. Even while he’s doing that, the rest of the horses in barn are starting to act up with nervous snorts and pawing and whinnies.

“Do you think the bear is out there?” he asks, already backing to reach for a pitchfork that’s leaning against a support beam down the center aisle.

Mike thanks his foresight – or maybe it’s paranoia – as he reaches under the back of his jacket for his service weapon.

Gabe looks at the gun and then at Mike and his eyes go wide with alarm.

“Off duty cop, remember?” Mike says, probably failing at being reassuring.

“Right,” Gabe nods, though his expression doesn’t change.

He tries again, “It’s just with all this talk of a rampaging bear, I figured better safe than sorry, yanno?”

“Right, yeah.” Gabe repeats, but he looks a fraction calmer.

There’s nothing inside the barn, but the horses are still milling about anxiously and whickering. Mike makes a quick sweep down the aisle checking every stall and the tack room at the far end.

“I’m gonna go outside and check it out,” he tells Gabe. “You wait here and keep a hold of that thing.” He nods at the pitchfork gripped tight in Gabe’s hands.

“Yeah, okay.” Gabe agrees with a shaky nod. “But be careful. This thing… could be rabid.” Now Mike’s sure Gabe’s hiding something, because there’s a knowledge in his eyes that says he thinking of something beyond just a diseased or injured bear. “It may attack unprovoked.”

Mike lifts the gun. “Don’t worry, I’m covered.” But that does little to reassure Gabe if the fear in his eyes is any indication. They’re rolling around almost as nervously as George’s.

Still, Mike’s faced down worse; well, as far as he knows, but he’s stepped in front of Henry in a blood-starved rage – and it’s hard to imagine much scarier than that - so this isn’t something that he’s going to back down from. He makes his way to the other end of the barn, slides the door open and slips out. He secures it carefully behind him.

They’d kept it closed in deference to the cooler weather, and Mike didn’t realize how warm it was inside the barn until a brisk wind catches him in the face and snakes under his sweat-damp collar, chilling him. The sun isn’t making much of a headway through the grey, misting drizzle and it feels like the perfect sort of gloomy weather to go hunting for monsters.

He hugs the wall of the stable, heading towards the backside of the barn that faces the woods, sliding his back against it until he reaches the corner. He slowly peeks around the wall, gun held ready, but there’s nothing back there along the long length of the building. There are small windows set high in the walls – one for each stall he knows from his work inside – that are covered with a metal screening.

Something with enough strength behind it and the will to get in could peel away that mesh and the framework, break the glass and get inside. He walks the length of the long wall, inspecting each one, but they’re all – thankfully – intact. He repeats his maneuver with staying close to the building and using it for cover as he moves around each side of the barn. A check of the windows on the opposite side shows the same results. He completes his circuit of the building.

There’s nothing out here.

But something had scared the horses.  Mike goes around to the back, woods-facing side again, because that’s the direction George had been aimed when he’d backed nervously into his stall; like he sensed something out there. He searches the ground this time and spots a few tracks in the still-damp soil.

Mike’s no woodsman and he doesn’t know how to tell bear tracks from wolf… Okay, maybe he could tell the difference between those two. He’s seen enough native artwork to vaguely know what a bear’s print would look like. Now, differentiating between a wolf and a coyote would leave him stumped, but he’d at least know they were some kind of canine.

What he’s staring at now is not like anything he’s ever seen.

It’s large – about a woman’s size six if he had to guess – weirdly elongated, and there’s a deep heel mark, almost like a man’s, with five toes – or four toes and a thumb, it’s hard to tell – all clearly tipped by claws. He’s going to have to do some searching online of what various large predator tracks look like, but he’s pretty damn sure this isn’t any kind of bear.

He gets a good look at it so he can describe it to Henry, although he plans on bringing Henry out to see it for himself once Henry’s awake. If Henry was right about the rain washing away some of the older, layered scents, this one should be relatively fresh and hopefully easy to follow.

Gabe had said that it had only been spotted at night, and that’s the only time that animals had gone missing and been attacked. Which means he and Henry definitely need to step-up their game because this thing is clearly growing bolder, coming out in daylight for the first time. It’s escalating in its behavior, and - whether you’re talking about a freaky fucking supernatural killing machine or a monster of the human variety – it’s never a good thing for anyone when that happens.

Mike does one last, wider sweep around the building, but the area is clear so he heads back into the stable. Gabe is just where he left him, still wielding his pitchfork like a weapon, but the horses have mostly calmed, although a few still look a little nervous and twitchy as he walks the aisle way.

“Did you see it?”

“The bear?” Mike asks, archly.

Gabe swallows and then nods, a half-second too late. “Yeah, of course.”

Mike pauses an overlong moment and then shakes his head. “No. Whatever it is, it’s gone now.” He cocks his head – kind of in the way that Henry did to him last night – and pointedly asks, “So, what do you really think it is?”

“What?” Gabe asks, and he’s feigning confusion well-enough, but it’s not hard to notice the way his dark skin goes a shade darker.

Mike gives his best ‘don’t try and bullshit a bullshitter’ look. “You know that’s no bear. So I wanna know what you think it really is.”

“Look, Mike—“

“Detective Celluci,” Mike reminds him, pointedly. “Cop, remember?   There are at least a dozen tells you’re showing right now that tell me you’re lying to me.”

“I…” Gabe starts, obviously prepared to keep lying.

Mike stops him again with an upraised palm. “Look, here’s what you need to understand. I’m not here looking for a bear. I’m here because my niece saw something that isn’t a fucking bear. And she’s scared and I,” he leans closer, locking his eyes with Gabe’s, “completely believe her.”

When that doesn’t start Gabe talking, Mike tries a different tact. “You’re from Quebec, right? Or thereabouts?”

Gabe looks puzzled by the question, but he nods slowly. He’d mentioned as much during their earlier conversation.

“But not originally. I mean, you weren’t born there.”

It’s not a question but Gabe nods again.

“So I’m not great with accents, but I’m thinking you at least spent a few years in England or elsewhere in the UK, but that you were probably born somewhere else. The Caribbean maybe?”

“West Africa. Benin, actually,” Gabe finally admits with a sigh. “I was born in Benin and lived there until I was five years old. Then we lived in Manchester for six years. I’ve been in Quebec since I was eleven.” His brows ‘v’ in over his nose. “How did you know?”

“Well, I guessed on the England thing because of a few of the words you’ve used. And I was thinking maybe Caribbean because of the—“

“Skin color?” Gabe interrupts with a kind of vicious smirk.

“Partially,” Mike admits, even if it makes him look like a jerk, “but mostly it’s the accent. My partner,” he starts but then realizes – based on Gabe’s earlier assumption – he should clarify, “The detective I work with, he’s got family from Antigua and Barbuda.”

“So what does all that have to do with this bear?” Gabe asks, and it seems his curiosity is overriding his reluctance.

“I started to wonder if maybe you’ve heard of something like this before. Maybe some old folk tales you’re familiar with from childhood? I mean, you seem damn certain to convince me that this is a bear, but you certainly don’t seem sure of it yourself.”

Gabe swallows hard and looks away. “I… Look, man. I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of crazy person—“

Mike stops him with a really sarcastic snort of laughter. “Trust me, I’m not gonna think you’re crazy. I already told you that I believe my niece when she’s telling me this thing isn’t a bear.

“Yeah, but I figured you were thinking it was just a person or something. Like you said earlier, someone who might have a vendetta against the owners or something.”

“No,” Mike shakes his head. “I don’t really think it’s a person. I don’t know what the hell it is… something we’ve never heard of or seen before, maybe. But I know that whatever the hell it is, it’s dangerous and it’s gonna start hurting people next, if we don’t do something about it. And that’s why my friend,” he grimaces slightly, “and I are here to stop it.” He waits until Gabe’s looking at him again, willing to look him in the eye, before he asks, “So what is it?”

Gabe shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know, man.” He spreads his hands, palms up when Mike opens his mouth to argue. “No, man. I mean, I know it’s not a bear, but I don’t really know what it could be. There are some stories I heard when I was a kid about different spirits and things like that. Like the Aziza which were good spirits in the forests, and the Biloko, which were man-like and had teeth and claws…” he trails off a moment. “But they were just the kind of thing you heard about from the elders or that my mam used to get me to come inside when it got dark. It was nothing I believed in.”

“Until now.” Mike states.

“Until now,” Gabe agrees wearily. “So you really think this is some kind of…” He flails his hands helplessly. “Monster?”

Mike shrugs. “Maybe? I dunno. Honestly, all I really care about is stopping it before it hurts someone.”

Mike lets the silence fall while Gabe considers what he’s been told. It’s cozy inside the stable and the horses are back to their feed, and Mike can hear hay being munched and lazy snuffles and the occasional soft whuff or whicker. He kinda gets why Henry might miss this.

Maybe the next time he comes to the campground to visit Paul and Vanessa and Marie, he’ll take her out horseback riding.

George stretches his neck over the waist-high stall door and extends an upper lip towards Mike greedily.

Or maybe not…

“Okay.” Gabe says, finally breaking the not-so-silent silence, like Mike had asked him some kind of question.

“Okay?” Mike parrots.

“Yeah, I mean. I believe you. That you believe me, I mean.” He takes a deep, steeling breath. “So what can I do?”

Mike doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. Earnest civilians; gotta love ‘em. “You,” Mike says pointedly, “can finish up your work for the day, while I tag along. And then you’re going to lock yourself in your cabin and stay there.”

There’s a protest coming, Mike knows this script all too well, so he holds up a forestalling hand. “Honestly, that is the best, most helpful thing you can do. That friend of mine who’s sleeping at my cabin right now is sort of an expert in this kind of stuff. Well, as much as you can be.” He grabs the first lie that comes to the tip of his tongue, “He’s a cryptozoologist and a big-game hunter.” Henry’s going to laugh himself silly when Mike recounts this to him later. “So, trust me when I say that we can handle this. It’ll help us more to know that you’re not in the line of fire.”

For another long moment, Gabe still looks like he wants to argue. Then he blows out a relieved breath and deflates visibly. “Okay. Okay, I can do that.”

“Good.” Mike says, equally relieved. “So, we done in here?”

“Yeah,” Gabe nods. “For now. Though there’s an evening feeding as well.”

“Which I’ll help you with.” Mike insists.  

Mike finishes up the day helping Gabe out as much as he can. They do some basic maintenance work on a few of the golf carts, repair a leaking water heater and clean the gutters on two units to start prepping them for winter. In the late afternoon they make the second round of feedings in both the small-animal barn and the stables. Though Mike keeps an eye out for movement or any hints that the not-bear is out and about, he doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

By the time they’re done it’s about a half an hour to sundown.   He extracts a promise from Gabe that he won’t leave his house after dark (and that he’ll call Mike at the cabin if anything comes up), and Gabe has no qualms about agreeing to that.

“Thanks for the help today, Mike.” Gabe tells him and holds out a hand.

Mike shakes it firmly. “Glad to do it. Forgot what good outdoor labor felt like,” he admits with a laugh. “You stay safe tonight.”

Gabe nods. “You too, man. You and your friend.”

Mike chooses to ignore the way he puts emphasis on that last word. “We will.” He sticks around until Gabe’s safely behind a locked door and then makes his way back to Paul’s cabin.

When he gets back inside, there’s still sunlight peeking over the horizon, so Mike grabs a quick shower (he came in smelling like horse, despite his best efforts) and decides to make himself dinner. He’s definitely hoping they get this closed out soon – tonight if all goes well – because he’s barely been away from the city a day and already he’s missing take-out. He’s survived on his own cooking before, but a day like today really calls for something easy.

It’s cliché, but he’s Italian and he knows his way around a pizza. Delivery – in this literal neck of the woods – isn’t an option, and he can’t stand the frozen shit, so he crafts a pie mostly by hand. Well, his grandmother would probably box his ears for using a pre-made crust, but tossing dough is more effort than he really wants to expend right now.

He’s just sliding it into the preheated oven when he hears noises from downstairs: doors opening, the shower going on for a few minutes, more doors. By the time Henry comes upstairs Mike has the perfectly cooked pizza resting on a couple of hot pads on the counter, letting it cool enough to cut and eat. Henry looks just as fastidious and put-together as always, even in jeans and a cream-colored heavy cable-knit sweater. Mike’s own jeans and navy blue Henley feel downright dowdy next to him for some reason.

Henry’s barefoot. Mike doesn’t know why he focuses on that little detail, but his eyes are drawn to the pale lines of Henry’s feet as he walks across the dusky-sage carpeting, until they’re blocked from sight by the oaken bulk of the kitchen island.

“Um,” there’s a peculiar expression on Henry’s face when he sits down on a stool at the island. “Trying to send a message, Detective?” he asks, amused - one of those demon-wing brows lifting archly.

Mike frowns and glances down at himself. He can’t see anything off about what he’s wearing or that might say anything other than ‘I got out of the shower and threw on some comfortable clothes’.

His confusion must be apparent because Henry nods towards the pizza. “You know, garlic doesn’t work on vampires; that’s just a myth.”

Mike gets it then – because there are golden chunks of garlic nestled into the bubbling mozzarella and curls of Parmesan – and he snorts out a genuine laugh. “Well, shit,” he says, the laughter growing stronger, because of course this happened… of course. “I mean, I know what you think of me, Henry, but honest to God, that was not my intention. I just wanted a fucking pizza.” He waves a hand helplessly in the air. “And there are no places that deliver anywhere within probably fifty miles.”

Henry shakes his head ruefully, but one side of his mouth is quirked in an unmistakable grin. “I was kidding, Detective.”

“Back to that, are we?” Mike asks.

Henry understands him perfectly because he gives a conciliatory little nod. “Right. Mike.” He pronounces the name very deliberately.

“So, I had an interesting day,” Mike starts talking before that weird not quite uncomfortable silence can fall between them again.

“Oh,” Henry asks, “tell me about it.”

Mike gestures to his pizza and says, “D’ya mind?”

And Henry nods obligingly, “Oh, go right ahead, Mike. After all, you’ve watched me eat. It’s only fair that the tables are turned.” And it’s obvious that Henry means it as a joke, to lighten the mood, but all it does remind Mike of yesterday and his hand goes unconsciously to the barely-there, but still healing puncture marks on his wrist. His thumb presses into the pale bruising and it aches just slightly.

“Ah, yeah, so…” Mike shakes his hands out and hurries to slide a couple of slices of pizza on to his plate and then he takes a spot on a barstool on the opposite side of the little island from Henry. He takes a long pull from his beer before he starts talking. He tells Henry about what he learned during the day, and what Gabe told him about how the animals were found – or not found as the case may be – and then about what happened in the barn with the horses.   He concludes with a description of the print he saw in the mud and the discovery that Gabe’s not towing the party line about the bear either.

Henry nods along and asks a few pointed questions here and there, which prompts Mike to clarify or offer more details.

“It’s definitely quite concerning,” he agrees when Mike’s finished, “that it was active in the day like that, and that it focused on the building when there were people inside. If it was looking for easy hunting, why not just avoid the humans and go after more of the smaller prey? I think that tonight I’m going to have to hunt this thing to its lair. Otherwise I fear it may not only have equine flesh on its’ menu, but human as well.

Mike rolls his eyes at the slight pageantry of Henry’s words, though he can’t help but agree with them. “Yeah, no kidding. Do you want me to take you out where I saw the print?” he asks.

“No.” Henry shakes his head. “I think I can find it on my own. Besides, you’d need a flashlight, which might startle or alert the creature, not to mention that I can move a lot faster in the dark than you. No offense.” He adds the latter sincerely.

“None taken.” Mike replies. It’s probably better anyway, that Henry go out after this alone. Like he said, he’s faster and can see in the dark. If all goes well for him tonight, the thing will be dead by morning. No more worrying about the poor animals for his niece.

For some reason, thinking about that; about Henry going out and hunting this creature – tracking it and possibly killing it – and about Marie being here at some unknown time in the future suddenly drives this whole situation home for Mike in a way it hasn’t set in before now. He feels his skin go clammy while his heart lurches in his chest and his breath starts to come short. Shit, he’s panicking. He props his elbows on the counter and sets his head in his hands but he can’t stop it. A resounding thought keeps playing over and over in his head.

“Jesus, Marie was here when this thing was running around. God, all it would have taken was her being worried for those damn horses and wanting to make sure they were okay…”

Henry’s voice is soothing. “She’s fine, Mike. Your family is safe.”

“I know,” Mike retorts, but it’s hard to shake that ‘what if’ from his head.

“They’re safe, Mike. And we’ll stop this thing before it can hurt anyone, don’t worry. It’s going to be alright.”

Oddly, that helps. Mike takes a few deep, cleansing breaths. When he feels like he’s got his fingernails grip back on reality, he peers between slotted fingers and sees Henry looking across the granite counter top at him in concern. “Thanks,” is all he can say, because being grateful to Henry for providing reassurance and talking him down is just too weird for him to deal with.

While Mike gets a hold of himself Henry finishes getting ready to go out into the night, putting his socks and shoes on. Mike forces himself to finish his pizza and polishes off a second beer (that Henry grabbed from the fridge for him). When he looks up again Henry’s shrugging into his black pea coat. He watches as Henry checks pockets and then dons a pair of gloves, and it’s not until he’s at the door that Mike stops him.

“Hey, Henry.”

“Yes, Mike?”

Mike gets up and heads over to the living room where he set his shoulder holster and Glock after he came back inside. He carries the gun back to Henry and holds it out. “Do you want to take this?”

Henry shakes his head. “I appreciate the offer, Mike, but I think I’m better off with the weapons I’m familiar with.” He bares fangs and his eyes go steely black and he’s suddenly one-hundred percent predator. Mike feels it the very marrow of his bones and his hind-brain knows that he’s staring into the eyes of Death.

And yet… at the same time, a strange little thrill speeds his pulse and a very confused hot-cold shudder runs all the way down his spine.

Henry shakes off the transformation.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, looking quite chagrined.

“No,” Mike says in a slightly babbling rush, “no, it’s fine. That’s good. That’s uh… that’s what we need. So you get out there and, uh. Take care of yourself. Be careful.”

Henry nods along at each inane instruction.

“If you need me for anything, come and get me. I’ll go out into the woods with you, you know that right?” He doesn’t want Henry to think he only brought him out here to be his attack dog. “This is my fight, my family. I feel wrong letting you be the one to take the risks.”

That gets waved way immediately. “Mike, were the situation reversed, and were there something that needed hunting during the day, I wouldn’t question your methods or your ability to do what needed to be done. I’d just appreciate your help. I understand it must frustrate you to wait and let someone else fight what feels like your battle, but trust me, the night is mine and I will be fine.”

There’s not much more Mike can say to that that won’t get awkward so he just nods and says a gruff, “Okay. Be careful out there.” It’s such a cliché cop line that they both grin and Henry’s still smiling when he heads outside. A soft chortle of laughter fades into the room as he closes the door firmly behind him.

Mike cleans up the kitchen and then grabs another beer and heads into the den. Paul’s got a computer in there, and for a campground resort in the middle of the damn woods the place has decent wifi reception. He spends some time looking up animal prints, to see if he can find anything that matches what he saw outside the stable. Bear and wolf and wolverine are all out, but weirdly the closest thing he can find is a raccoon’s hind foot print. Although that’s not quite right either, and the size is way off. Which just tells him that whatever thing is that they’re dealing with: it’s not any beast known to man.  

Which definitely makes it something that calls for Henry’s specific expertise.

Mike doesn’t even know where to begin researching what sort of otherworldly piece of shit this thing is. Gabe had given him a few names, but he should’ve had him write them down because Mike’s not getting any results.

Supernatural research is more Coreen’s (and sometimes Vicki’s) department, although probably he’s more than capable of doing it himself (he didn’t make Detective on his looks).   He spends some more time researching legends and folk tales from West Africa, just based on Gabe’s impression, and it’s probably not a good thing that he finds too many possibilities, rather than narrowing things down.

After another hour of that, Mike’s head is aching, so he does the only thing he can to combat that low-level anxiety he always feels when someone else – a partner, Vicki, now Henry – is out on their own, and he’s stuck waiting for news: he grabs the last of his (first) six-pack and sits his ass on the couch. He flicks on the TV and aimlessly channel-surfs, waiting for Henry to come back.

For the third time he falls asleep and then wakes sometime later to Henry in the room with him.

But this time it’s because Henry is gasping out his name in a pained voice.

Mike surges up off of the couch and spins around to see Henry leaning heavily against the wall by the door. He’s dirty and bloody and there are jagged tears and rents through his clothes, and even across the room – more than twenty feet away – Mike can smell an absolute rankness that’s making his gorge rise up.

“Jesus, Henry,” Mike blurts out, “what the fuck happened?”

Despite how he looks, Henry manages a smile. “I tracked the beast to its’ lair. We fought. ”

Mike shakes off his shock-induced inaction and hurries over to Henry’s side.  He stops a body length away and then moves that last little bit of distance slowly, carefully, telegraphing his every move. There’s something about the light in Henry’s eyes that’s still wild and uncivilized and Mike doesn’t want to startle a vampire that’s still caught in a blood-haze. He’s been there, done that and still has the scar on his neck to prove it.

“Uh, did you win?” he asks when he gets to Henry’s side, because he really can’t tell from how Henry looks.

Henry’s eyes flash through angry lines that score his skin and his fangs gleam behind split and bleeding lips, but it’s with pride, not rage. “Oh yes,” he confirms. “It’s dead. Though the creature was certainly mad. From sickness or disease or injury, I honestly couldn’t tell. And it fought fiercely. A bit unexpectedly so.” He admits that with a slightly pained cough.

“Jesus, Henry.” Mike says again. “I don’t know what to…” He makes helpless motions towards Henry’s slumped form. “What do I do here?”

“Could you, perhaps, help me to the shower?” Henry asks, somewhat sheepishly, which is weird considering there’s blood dripping down the long fingers of one hand and every bit of visible skin is covered in deep, reddened scratches and his neat woolen, charcoal pea coat is ruined.

“The shower? We’ve gotta get you to a hospital!” He realizes the futility of that statement a moment after he makes it and Henry just lifts another one of those wickedly arched brows. “Okay, yeah, that was dumb, but…”

“I heal faster than mortals, Mike. I just need to clean up and then…” and the way he trails off significantly tells Mike exactly what he needs.

“You need to feed.”

Henry gives a little apologetic shrug and then groans after he does so. There’s a lot more to his injuries than Mike can see on the surface, that’s for sure.

“It’s too soon…” Henry starts to say. “Perhaps you can get the caretaker?”

Mike shakes his head firmly. “No, we’re not bringing him here. I don’t care if it’s too soon. You didn’t take that much yesterday; I’m fine. Just c’mon. Let’s get you to the shower.”

He gets a shoulder under Henry’s arm and looped around his back and braces his other arm over Henry’s chest, so Henry can hold on to it, and together they manage to stagger to the master bathroom - which has the double-sized shower - without either of them toppling. Henry actually manages to stay upright while Mike helps him peel out of most of his clothes.

Those are definitely shot. The stench alone is enough to call them beyond saving. “Wait here,” he tells Henry, leaving him sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in just his boxers and socks and shoes. He turns the water on, to start it warming and then runs back into the kitchen for some garbage bags.

He also takes a brief minute to call Gabe, to let him know that he’s safe to go out tomorrow and that he’ll explain it all later. Gabe doesn’t answer – it’s pretty late for a guy who has to be up to work by five am – so Mike leaves him a message. That done, he hurries back to the bathroom and Henry.

Mike’s lost enough clothes to disgusting crime scenes that he knows the best way to dispose of them. He finds and sets aside Henry’s wallet and a few other small items in his pockets (why does a vampire need sunglasses?) but everything else gets thrown in one bag, which gets tied off and put in the second, which gets tied off and put in the third. Ideally each of those other bags would’ve contained scented dryer sheets (they sometimes help to mask the really bad odors like garbage dumpster in high summer, or decomposing body) but this’ll have to do for now.

He helps Henry up, gets him into the shower and seated on the wide edge of a tiled sort of bench that runs the length of the shower’s back wall. Ignoring the warm spray that’s soaking him through, Mike kneels to work off Henry’s shoes and socks and then makes a move for Henry’s boxer-briefs. Henry pushes at Mike’s hands weakly, knocking them away. “I can get these, Detective.” It’s petulant, and stupid, but Mike simply spreads his hands and rocks back on his heel so he’s not in Henry’s way, or the direct spray of the shower.

“Thank you,” Henry says gruffly.

“It’s no problem,” Mike says. “I’ll just bag the rest of this and then get some towels ready.” He stands, makes a quick adjustment to the temperature to warm it just a bit more and then leaves the shower stall.

He doesn’t watch as Henry struggles out of his underwear, but it’s only a few minutes later that they’re tossed out onto the floor so Mike adds them to the stuff he’s bagging up, which includes his own shirt and jeans. Whatever that stink is, it’s awful and Mike’s clothes are pretty-well shot from contact with Henry. He could probably salvage the jeans, but decides against it. He’s down to his boxers and socks, both of which are sopping and he hates the feel of wet socks on his feet so he kicks those off.

Once he has a pile of towels stacked up on the vanity he checks on Henry.

He’s standing – barely – under the spray and looks like the force of it could knock him over.

“Shit, Henry, this is bad.”

“I’ll be fine, Detective.”

“You can barely damn stand up.” He really doesn’t have time for stubborn vampires. “Here, just let me…” Before Henry can protest Mike steps into the shower behind him. He moves close enough that he can pull Henry back against him, so he can brace Henry’s body with his.

Henry fights for all of ten seconds before he finally gives in to the inevitable and lets himself slump heavily against Mike’s chest.

“Well thank you for coming to my rescue, Detective.” Henry mutters wearily, and Mike can hear that he’s trying to be cutting but it’s lost under the pain and fatigue. “If I’d known this is what it would take to get you into the shower, I’d have—“

Mike cuts him off. “Don’t be an asshole, Henry.”

Henry turns his face enough that Mike can see he’s slightly chagrinned at being chastised. “Sorry,” he mutters. He flips a hand in the spray, barely managing to lift it away from his side. “It’s just a very fucked up situation.”

“Everything’s a fucked up situation where you’re concerned, Henry.” Mike says with a sort of bitter laugh.

Then they’re both silent as he helps get Henry scrubbed clean. He even helps him with the shampoo in his goddamn hair. He’s never washed anyone’s hair before.

When Henry’s as clean as Mike can manage without doing him further injury – and the smell is washed away under the only slightly-cloying scent of brown-sugar and pomegranate body wash – Mike eases him back down on to the bench. He sees to his own quick scrub-down. More perfunctory than anything, but he doesn’t want that stink following them elsewhere in the house.

Once he’s done, Mike turns off the water and then gets out of the shower to retrieve towels. He wraps one around his waist –shimmying out of his wet boxers in the process - and scrubs a second over his head. He gets a third and fourth wrapped around Henry; one over his shoulders and the other he tries to tuck in the same way he’s got his, but it’s awkward to do from the reverse.

“I’ll just hold it,” Henry offers wearily.

“Sure,” Mike agrees. He gets another towel and uses it to dry Henry’s hair as best as he can. It’s longer than he’s used to managing (his own damp after only a quick toweling) so he squeezes the longer ends in the plush fabric and then pats over the rest somewhat ineffectually.

“You can do the same as you did to yours,” Henry says, pulling at the towel weakly to try to direct Mike to what to do.

“Okay, just let me know if this hurts at all.” He scrubs the towel over Henry’s head vigorously for a few seconds and when he draws it away the dark strands are all tousled and wild. It’s not a bad look for Henry…

“Uh, that’ll probably have to do.” He tosses the damp towel over his shoulder. “We’re good.”

Henry huffs out a soft laugh. “Yeah, we’re good, Detective.”

So now they’re both semi-dry and clean and there’s no question as to what’s going to happen next.

“Alright, c’mon,” Mike says, “let’s get you to…” He fights the thought for all of five seconds before he just gives in and concludes, “Let’s get you to the bedroom. It’ll be more comfortable for you. And…” He hangs his head a moment and shakes it from side to side. “And I dunno. Let’s just go there.”

“Whatever you say, Mike.” Henry replies, oddly tractable.

Mike helps him stand gain and gets him out of the shower, and they do their awkward shuffle down the short hallway to the master bedroom. He’ll have to move Henry before dawn, because this room has wide windows along two walls, but for now Mike thinks resting in an actual bed probably wouldn’t be a bad thing for either of them.

Mike gets Henry settled in the bed first, and then he lays down on the other side of the king-sized mattress. “So,” he says, looking up at the ceiling and not at the man lying next to him, “how do we want to do this?”

Henry sounds reluctant when he speaks. “I am, not at my best, Detective. I may not…” he trails off for a second. That tone is even worse when he goes on, guilty and aggravated all at once. “I may not be as in control when I feed, this time,” he explains.

Mike remembers all too well what it was like that first time – the savagery of it. The mess he’d made of Mike’s neck.

“Oh man,” Mike sighs. “I dunno if I can field questions about what the hell got at my neck for another couple of weeks at the precinct again.” He says it kind of light-hearted, but he means it as well.

“Perhaps somewhere less visible?” Henry suggests.

Shit, Mike thinks, but somehow manages not to utter it aloud. Shit, shit, shit. “Uh, you’re gonna have to help me out here, Henry,” he says. “I don’t know what the… I don’t know the best places for you to get a vein or whatever.”

“Well,” Henry says slowly, and there’s a strained vibrato to his voice that tells Mike just how much he’s fighting to stay calm and in control to have this conversation and not just grab at Mike and start feeding. “Pulse points are always ideal; where the arteries run close to the skin. I would not have to cut as deep to get to them. The throat, the wrists, the inner elbow, the back of the knee…” he sighs, “the upper thigh.”

Aw shit. Mike thinks again. Because he’s got to think about being functional for his job. His knees are out; he’s got enough trouble with the damn things.

And while he supposes he could try to get away with wearing a bandage or a wrist brace and saying he sprained it or sliced it on something, if someone questions or calls him on it, then he’ll have to clear that with the Chief. Who will want him to get it checked out to ensure he’s duty-ready. Christ that would mean more questions than he wants to deal with. The inner elbow might work, but Mike loathes the idea of risking the full use of either arm.

“Tell me truthfully, Henry, which of those places is likely to take the least amount of damage and get you the blood you need the fastest?”

Henry’s stubborn silence answers the question for him. It makes sense. The thigh is a larger surface area.

“Look, Henry, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. I’ve got my job to think about. I really can’t have anyone questioning why I’ve got bandages on my wrist or why my neck is all taped up. I’d like to go with what’s easier for the both of us.” He inhales deeply and the lets out the exhale in a tight stream through pursed lips. “Just, be careful, okay. Kinda one of my favorite areas down there.” He tries to make light of it, in spite of the way his stomach is tying itself in knots.

He rolls his head to the side on his pillow and looks over at Henry.

Henry is staring at him with wide, beguiling grey eyes that have already started to silver. “I will take care, Detective,” he says huskily.

“Alright.” Mike gives a little nod. He sits up and takes a minute to stack a bunch of the regular pillows and decorative throw pillows (of which there are an overabundance) against the headboard and then settles his back against it and gets comfortable. He spreads his legs and shifts the right one to nearly a right angle from his body, and then he lets the towel fall away to either side.

It helps that Henry doesn’t look like he’s got anything on his mind other than feeding. And not in that sensual, kinky way he sometimes talks about it. He looks desperate and hungry and exhausted and pained, and there’s barely the thin veneer of humanity left over everything that’s inhuman about him.

He struggles to crawl across the duvet and it feels so strange when he settles into the ‘v’ of Mike’s legs. He puts one hand on Mike’s knee and bends his leg up even further, stretching it to expose the highest point of his inner thigh. The other he rests lightly on Mike’s belly.

The dichotomy of how overtly sexual (Mike’s only ever been in this position with someone – a woman – about to go down on him) yet weirdly platonic this is, strikes Mike as almost funny. His body can’t decide how it wants to react either. The anticipation of pain is mostly keeping his libido at bay, but the feel of Henry’s hands on his bare skin, and the drag of Henry’s hair over his flaccid cock as he positions his mouth to bite is causing it to stir regardless.

There’s a gust of that hot breath on Mike’s skin. Hotter now than he’s ever felt.   Mike waits, and waits, and waits for Henry to sink his teeth in. And this time he knows he’s not gonna wake up. This isn’t a dream. There’s no being saved by ringing phones or anything like that. Gods, the tension of waiting alone is gonna kill him.

Then he realizes that Henry’s waiting for that final approbation. The final word of consent.

“It’s okay, Henry.” Mike says softly. “Please. It’s okay.” He pats awkwardly at the hand that’s resting on his stomach. “Just go for it.”

Henry sounds like a man just barely holding on to his last shred of control as he manages to utter, “I will be as…careful as I can. But if you feel you need me to stop, do what you must, Detective.”

“Jesus, Henry,” Mike barks out hoarsely, “how many fucking times do I gotta tell you to call me Mike?”

The puff of laughter against his skin is the last clear thing he feels before Henry’s teeth clamp down into that sensitive skin just as the juncture of his thigh and groin.

And it’s fucking agony.

It hurts in a way that Mike hadn’t expected. The pain radiates outward and he can feel it all through his balls to the base of his spine.

Henry is desperately grabbing at him; his fingers are pressed so hard into the flesh over Mike’s ribs and clamped like a vice above Mike’s knee, like he wants to claw into him. He’s growling, and pushing Mike’s leg further, almost painfully taut so he can spread him wider, and get his fangs sunk in deeper. And it hurts. It aches. It throbs so deep inside of him.

But there’s something else about it too. He can feel the tendrils of Henry’s still-damp hair tickling over his balls, and the weight of Henry’s body pressing him down into the mattress, and Henry’s forearm is straining almost against the length of his cock, and he’s getting hard. He has no idea how that’s possible… there can’t be enough blood left in his body. And he doesn’t want to, he’s fighting it, because this is about as fucked up as it gets, but his cock is stirring and lengthening regardless.

It’s just too much. Too much pain. Too much pleasure. He wants to stop Henry, because he knows that if Henry’s starting to feel anything like he does, he might not be able to tear himself away.

Just when Mike is about a half a heartbeat from panicking and it seems Henry’s too deep in the blood lust and will just keep clawing and tearing and draining Mike until there’s nothing left of him, the pressure eases and that mouth goes tender and soft. Henry’s hands unclench, going loose around his knee, and a palm flatting over his abdomen. Fingers start to swirl gentle little patterns into his skin. And now he can hear those damn soft sucking noises, and he knows Henry’s hardly taking anything right now. Barely a few drops. Soft sips. Suckling…

Holy Jesus fuck.

Then it’s like his dream. Henry’s hand slowly glides down Mike’s belly, ghosts over Mike’s hip and caresses a smooth slide down the outer length of Mike’s other thigh to his knee, and then back up the inside. It comes to rest just a fingers width away from Mike’s achingly hard cock, thumb a taunting tickle against Mike’s balls. His fingertips nestle into the coarse hair, scratching lightly.

“Jesus, Henry,” he whispers and his voice is wrecked, ragged and desperate. “Please.”

And that must be what Henry’s waiting for, because his fingers finally curve gently and expertly around Mike’s cock. He drags a thumb up the underside, nail not quite scraping along the vein, and then rubs the pad of it over the tip across the slit, spreading the welling moisture and Mike flinches and lets out a gasp. Henry’s fingers clench briefly then, his fist tightening around Mike’s cock. It’s almost too tight for those few moments, too much pressure, but Mike thrusts up into it desperately.

Mike knows he should stop this. He knows he should. Neither he nor Henry are really in their right minds for this – there’s so much baggage between them. Hell, they can’t stand each other half the time. This is so wrong, so fucking wrong… But god it feels so good. He knows he should stop it, but he doesn’t. Because, he’s a selfish asshole and he fucking wants this so damn bad.

Henry fingers loosen again, just a fraction and he starts to slowly stroke Mike’s cock, gliding up and down the length of him, tugging Mike’s foreskin taut over the head on each upstroke and pressing the base of his palm hard against Mike’s balls on every downward drag. He jerks Mike slow and easy, his hand working in time with the leisurely, rhythmic sucking noises he’s making. It’s the speed of his heartbeat, Mike realizes with a low, reedy groan.

Mike feels lightheaded… And it’s probably a little bit (or a lot) from blood loss, but there’s no question that it’s also from how insanely good this feels. Because it’s unlike any other handjob he’s ever had before. He’s had full on fucking sex that hasn’t been as good as this handjob.

He feels Henry’s other hand come loose from his knee. Mike peers down the length of his own body and watches as Henry works it down between his own legs. He can’t see Henry’s cock, but he watches the muscle’s play in Henry’s shoulder and the steady jerking motions of his arm as he strokes himself to the same rhythm he’s stroking Mike.

Jesus… that’s all it’s gonna fucking take: watching Henry get off on feeding on him and getting him off.

“Yeah,” he exhales breathily. “Yeah, Henry, fucking do it.” And he doesn’t care how desperate he sounds. He wants this and he wants them both to feel it.

Henry’s hand starts to speed up on Mike’s cock, each stroke faster than the last. The pressure of his grip goes almost painfully tight and his thumb catches that spot right under the head on every upstroke while he does something with his wrist that’s just fucking ridiculous. Although, he’s got preternatural reflexes and has had a few hundred years to perfect his technique so Mike isn’t all that surprised that this beyond amazing.

Henry gives one last hard suck at Mike’s groin, and ups the tempo of his hand even faster, rolling the side of his first knuckle into that bundle of nerves and dragging his thumb over the tip. He’s so damn close. Through his half-lidded gaze Mike can see Henry’s hand on his own self working desperately, stripping himself roughly as he fights to make Mike come.

And that’s it. Mike’s gone.

His whole body goes rigid and he comes with a shout that scrapes his throat raw. And he keeps coming and coming and Henry works him through it like a fucking maestro and there’s a sharp pang in his balls when his body just wants to keep orgasming, but there’s nothing left. He finally collapses into the mattress then, going boneless, and nearly brains himself on the headboard, but he doesn’t give a shit. He’s never felt so fucking wrung out.

Mike sort of drifts for a while.

He’s conscious of the fact that Henry’s moved off of him, and he idly wonders if Henry got to come. He hopes so, and is vaguely disappointed that he didn’t get to see it happen, or see the look on his face when he did. He’d bet that Henry has an unfairly gorgeous orgasm face.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, blissed out of his mind, but when he finally starts to come back to himself, he realizes that not only did Henry get off of him, but that the cooling spunk has been wiped off his belly and chest (his towel is missing) and he’s also been up and into the kitchen because there’s a glass of juice being pressed into Mike’s hand.

“Drink this, Detective.”

Mike obliges, because he’s really fucking thirsty. He chugs down half the tall glass without taking a breath. When he comes up for air, Henry is holding out a pair of pills. “And you’ll need these. Iron supplements,” he explains as he drops them into Mike’s extended palm. Mike doesn’t question it. He just pops them both in his mouth and dutifully swallows them down with the rest of the orange juice.

“So,” Mike states, once he pulls the empty glass away from his lips and let’s Henry take it from him and place it on the nightstand. “Back to ‘Detective’ again?”

The laugh that punches out of Henry's mouth sounds so… shocked. “I suppose I revert to what’s familiar during uncomfortable situations,” he admits.

Mike gets that. He really does. And he knows he’s about ready to have a major freak out about this, because who the fuck saw this coming? He certainly didn’t. Not in a million fucking years, crazy erotic dreams be damned. But hell, he just came his brains out and he’s just too wrung out to even hold onto any of the worry he should probably be feeling. He feels too good. And yeah, maybe some of it is that Henry probably drank a little bit more from him over the past two days than was wise. So maybe it’s the blood loss. But still, he’s never come like that. Never felt like that. It’s really no wonder that people get addicted to what Henry has to offer.

Henry’s still hovering over him, tensed, expression tight with anticipation, like he’s waiting for the explosion.

So Mike scrambles together what few functioning brain cells he has and weakly pats the side of the bed next to him. “Look Henry, I’m fucked right now if I can even think.” He sighs. “Yeah, I’m probably gonna lose my shit about this later, I’ll be honest. But right now, I don’t give a shit about nothin’. So look, don’t make me get pissed off cuz you’re freaking out and wasting all that blood I just gave you by not getting the rest you need. So fucking take it easy. Lay down.” He pats the bed again. “C’mon. We’ll deal with this shit later.”

To his surprise – because his speech was far from eloquent or very convincing – Henry acquiesces.

Mike feels the mattress next to him dip, and then Henry’s warmth settle against his side. Somehow Henry managed to get the covers out from beneath Mike and he pulls the down-filled comforter over them both. And it’s nice. Cozy. Mike settles back into his post-coital lassitude.

“Make sure, you know, dawn and all that…” Mike mumbles.

“Don’t worry, Mike, I’ll be alert before the dawn comes.”

“Okay. Good. Wake me before then,” Mike instructs with his last few conscious attempts at thought.

“I will do that, Detective.”

Mike slaps a feeble hand at whatever part of Henry is in reach. “Mike, Jesus…”

“Mike.” Henry agrees in a whisper.

He’s not sure how much time has gone by since he basically passed out with Henry, but Mike wakes some time later to a throb in his groin. And not entirely the good kind. There’s an unpleasant ache all down the length of his inner thigh and he knows it’s going to be tender for quite some time.

That leads his mind to thinking about what caused it, starts Mike thinking about everything that happened after and he goes allover tense. He doesn’t feel Henry next to him, but he’s afraid to open his eyes and check. Even without looking at the clock, he knows it’s not morning yet. But is it close to dawn?

He grits his teeth and clenches his fists in the blankets and steels himself to open his eyes.

“I’m still here, Detective.” Henry’s voice comes from somewhere off to his right side.

Mike blinks over at him. He can read nothing on Henry’s expression. It’s flat and closed off. He looks better at least, for having fed and had a few hours’ sleep. The scratches and scrapes are mostly healed and though his skin is always pale, it’s not that dangerous, sickly, ghost white it was earlier. Mike can’t tell what’s going on in Henry’s head from looking at him, but his ears still work. And in that short statement, that brief acknowledgement, Mike heard volumes.

Maybe if Henry sounded anything like his normal self – smarmy or condescending or even just cold – Mike would lose his shit right now, but he doesn’t. There’s none of his usual hauteur or that whole vampire ‘Prince of Men’ thing going on. He just sounds like a man. One who’s nervous; maybe anxious about lying next to someone who he screwed around with while they were both a little fucked up, and is just waiting for him to wake up and learn what the consequences are.

That hits home to Mike in a way that probably nothing else would. He’s so not ready to deal with this, but Henry probably isn’t either. Maybe he would be by the cold light of day, but here in the intimate dark he’s just not ready to face the consequences of the things that went on. Things that, he’s forced to admit, he wants to happen again.

The throbbing in his groin isn’t only pain. It’s as much that as it is renewed arousal.

He knows that Henry can probably smell it on him, or sense it in the speed of his pulse or whatever it is that he does that tells him when someone’s all worked up and turned on. But Henry's still lying, statue-still, on the other side of the bed. He’s just silently waiting for whatever Mike’s going to say or do…

“So,” Mike says slowly, “that was what it was like when you were starving and desperate. I mean, the feeding and the uh… sex.” Because he’s quite familiar with the act when it’s only about drinking down enough to survive.

Henry swallows so audibly Mike can hear the click of his throat. “Yes. That was… desperation.”

“So uh,” Mike asks even more slowly, “what’s it like when you put your prey-whammy on somebody?”

“Prey-whammy?” Henry snorts out an involuntary little laugh.

“Well you know; whatever you call it when you seduce them. When you’re not out hunting as a predator. When you want to make it good for the both of you.”

Henry moves swiftly over him, hands bracing on either side of Mike’s neck and hovering carefully above him so their bodies don’t have a single point of contact, and his eyes meet Mike’s. Even in the dim moonlight that’s filtering in through spaces in the slats of the blinds Mike can see that Henry’s eyes are wide and guileless. There’s no sense of that otherness about them at all when he asks, “Are you genuinely asking me that? Is that something you…want?” He looks confused.

Mike reaches up and curves a hand around Henry’s naked hip. “Yeah, I’m asking,” Mike says. He gets his other hand cupped around the base of Henry's skull and tangles his fingers in Henry’s hair. “Yes, it’s something I want,” he says firmly, so there’s no question at all between them.   He uses his hold to draw Henry down to him. He knows that if Henry doesn’t want this he can easily resist; Mike wouldn’t be able to force him. Still, he goes slowly, but Henry comes willingly and in the barest moment their faces are close enough to touch, lips close enough to kiss.

Fuck it, Mike thinks. If he’s gonna go for this, he’s going for all of it. He lifts his head from the pillow and meets Henry’s mouth as it’s descending towards him. Kissing him is tentative at first. Soft. Sweet. Way too damn gentle. Like Henry’s still not sure of his welcome, or perhaps that this is even happening. So Mike twists his fingers in Henry’s hair and tugs him closer and he nips at Henry’s bottom lip.

That’s all it takes. Henry goes wild. There’s no other word for what Mike has in his arms but wild. He kisses back, open-mouth and messy. All tongue and teeth and the smash of lips together. Mike feels ravaged. But even in that ferocity, he’s careful and Mike never feels the sharp prick of his fangs. Even when he tries to seek them out with his tongue, Henry cleverly teases it away with his own.

He lets his hands roam all over Henry’s body, mapping and learning it. It’s different than what he’s used to, with sharper planes and juts and angles in place of soft curves. But the skin is still silky and responsive and judders under his exploratory touch, his thumbs dragging over Henry’s nipples still elicit a moan and his hands cupped around Henry’s ass still pull a body close to him that he can grind his cock against. That there’s another cock there, sliding against his, creating more friction and sensation is a lot better than he’d ever thought it could be.

Henry’s hands are just as curious and bold as his. They skate over Mike’s chest and he pushes fingers into Mike’s hair, tugging just this side of rough. He gets a hand between them and circles it loosely around both of their cocks. He strokes them in the same lazy rhythm that he’s thrusting his tongue into Mike’s mouth. Mike is envious of that awareness, that control, that even now when they’re both panting and desperate Henry has enough awareness left to manage something so coordinated. He wants to make Henry lose control completely.

Mike gets a little of his own back as he trails his lips along the sweep of Henry’s elegant cheek, and down the line of his jaw and further to his neck until he gets to that spot just below his ear, where a tendon is hard and taut. He pinches the thin skin there between his teeth, biting down softly.

Henry hisses and gasps out, “You have no idea what you’re doing right now, Detective.”

Mike just opens his mouth wider, bites down harder and worries at Henry’s neck; he knows he can’t do any lasting damage, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t going to try to leave his mark.   It makes Henry cry out and clutch his fingers into Mike’s arms; holding fast like Mike’s a lifeline. When he finally releases the tight clench of his jaws from around that tender flesh, Mike pulls back to see a reddened ring and teeth marks clear enough that they could be used to make dental impressions. Into Henry’s ear he grates out, “Call me Detective in bed one more time, Fitzroy…”

Henry lifts up from Mike, pushing down at his shoulders and pinning him there. He smiles wickedly. “What are you going to do to me?” he asks and both demon-wing brows are in full flight over wide, silvered eyes. It’s inviting and alluring and Mike growls again. He gets his hands tight around Henry’s body and rolls them over in a swift move.

And yeah, he knows that Henry could counter every move he makes if he really wanted to, but still, he lets himself be manhandled and he doesn’t object when Mike hooks an arm under his knee and draws it up, bending it nearly to Henry’s ribs to better slot their bodies together.

When he looks down into Henry’s eyes as he settles atop of him, Henry looks vaguely impressed. “Nice move,” Henry remarks, licking at his own bottom lip with the tip of his tongue.

“I am a highly trained police detective, you know.” Mike quips back somewhat distractedly because Henry has started writhing beneath him. Undulating his body in a ridiculously sensual way that drags Mike’s cock in the cradle of his hips and ruts his own shamelessly against Mike’s belly. It’s almost impossible to do anything but grind down against that heat and sweat-slick skin.

Mike has to drop his forehead to Henry’s chest and try to get control of his ragged breathing. He’s going to lose it way too soon if Henry keeps this up.      

“You can fuck me, Mike.” Henry says, voice low and purring right in his ear.

“Jesus, Henry.” Mike nearly sobs, control slipping even further. Because that’s something he hadn’t thought about, didn’t know he wanted and now he wants it more than anything.

Shit. He’s trying to let his sanity come to the fore. Mike lifts his head to look up at Henry. “I don’t have… I don’t have rubbers or anything.”

Henry just quirks his lips and that teasing, cocky glint is back in his eyes. “One of the advantages of being a vampire, Mike. I can’t catch or transmit any kind of disease. And I heal fast.”

Oh hell, there’s no missing the implication there. He’s never gone for anything like this with nothing more than spit and sweat. And there’s a part of him that wants to do it like that, to fuck Henry dry and make him hurt a little, the way he hurts all down his inner thigh. That kind of pain that has sex tied into it and will stick around a while as a reminder. But that’s coming from the part of him that hates himself a little bit for even doing this. He knows he’s only thinking that way to punish Henry, instead of punishing himself. So he shakes his head. “No. No, hold on.”

He crawls his torso across the bed, arm over arm – as Henry’s got a vice-like lock of his thighs around Mike’s hips – and it’s a little difficult to reach all the way across the bed. Mike knows there’s got to be something in that nightstand they can use. His sister-in-law is one of those moisturizing, scented lotion kind of women. Sure as shit, shuffling through the random junk collected in the top drawer Mike finds some hand lotion. Maybe not the best thing to use in this situation, but whatever…

He snags the bottle and then crawls back atop Henry and holds the bottle out.

Henry’s dark eyes take a moment to focus on the bottle. They narrow. “Cucumber melon?” he asks, baring fangs in a shit-eating grin.

Mike snorts. “Beggars can’t be choosers and cooler heads trying to prevail a little bit here, Henry.   If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do this right.”

And shit. Henry actually looks a little bit… surprised, and maybe touched by that. Like he was expecting Mike to want to hurt him, to hate-fuck him, and not… well, not do whatever it is they’re doing. Which is still aggressive and taunting and fueled by a lot of different things but it’s not the result of all the animosity and jealousy and rage that’s been between them for so long. At least not for Mike. Hopefully not for Henry either.

And maybe all that was a cover for something else?

Mike really doesn’t need to think about that right now, because he’s popped the top of the lotion and is squeezing a generous dollop of sort of aquatic-floral scented cream into the cup of his palm. He dribbles a little more down on Henry’s belly, ignoring his little indignant hiss and lets the bottle fall into the sheets.

He rubs his hands together, spreading the lotion generously between both palms and then slicks one down the length of his own cock, giving a few perfunctory strokes. He’s way too on edge to do more than that and he doesn’t want to go off now, before he can get inside Henry.

The other hand he wraps around Henry, touching his cock for the first time. It’s so hot, blood-hot and Mike marvels again at the idea of a vampire running so warm. He explores it with his fingers, feels how it’s different from his own - longer and just bit more slender - and how it’s the same – he’s uncut and doesn’t curve - and the head is plummy and fat and Mike swipes his thumb over it because he knows how much he likes that himself.

Henry throws his head back and groans low in his throat. Mike feels the vibrations all through the body beneath him. He squeezes his fist tighter and pumps a few quick times, palming the head and trying that little knuckle roll that Henry used earlier and Henry starts writhing again, undulating his whole body against the sheets.        

“Never knew you’d be such a fucking tease, Celluci.” Henry hisses.

And Mike would reply, but he’s too caught up in watching Henry beneath him. He looks absolutely lost in his own pleasure and it’s the fucking sexiest thing Mike’s ever seen.

He keeps his grip on Henry’s cock but swipes two fingers of his other hand in the little puddle of lotion on Henry's belly and then works them down below his balls. He teases there for a moment – ignoring the way that Henry is cursing him, because he’s still whimpering and shuddering – and then eases between Henry’s cheeks until he finds that little puckered ring and probes at it gently with a finger.

This is something he’s done before – well, with women, and only a few times. The first time he ever did it, she was a hell of a lot more experienced than he was and she taught him how to make it feel good and make it easy for both of them. So he slides that one finger in, and works it in slow circles before adding a second and stretching them out. He knows he’s got long, think fingers but Henry’s pushing back against him almost immediately, encouraging him to press in deeper and scissor them wider. When there’s enough give and the tension has been eased out of the ring of muscles, Mike feels carefully for that bump against the inner wall, and skates both finger tips over it.

“Mike,” Henry groans out, slowly, each letter of Mike’s name practically its own syllable.

The same girl who’d let him fuck her in ass had tried to talk him into letting her put a finger up his. He’d protested and gotten all uncomfortable and she’d just lamented that he’d never know what it felt like to have his prostate massaged. When he got older and a little bit more comfortable with his body, he tried it on his own… and it was pretty good. So he has an idea of what he’s doing to Henry right now, and how it’s gotta be driving him fucking crazy. But damn does he like hearing Henry moan out his name so helpless and desperate.

And maybe he’s possessed by a little imp of the perverse, but he can’t break Henry the way that Henry’s broken Mike. Not with his preternatural power and simply the command of his voice or the mesmerizing depth of his eyes; but Mike can do this. He can urge Henry to surrender in an entirely different way.

He rubs his fingertips in slow circles, and watches, enraptured as Henry just falls to pieces. He stops writhing and goes still and all-over taut, muscles corded and straining. His chest heaves and the noises that are coming out of his throat are nothing more than a continual whining ululation.   Still, Mike keeps stroking, until finally Henry gasps out in a sobbing, broken voice, “Mike, please. Fuck me now, please.”

That’s what he needed to hear.

Mike withdraws the fingers carefully and moves his cock into place. He slides in slow, and it’s tight and hot and it’s really not that different from fucking a woman. Well, except that whole prostate thing. He pushes in past the remaining resistance until he’s balls-deep, and then he hooks his arms behind both of Henry’s knees and urges them forward.

Henry just rolls up with motion of it, bending nearly in half, knees practically touching his own shoulders, and Mike hadn’t realized just how flexible he is. Mike feels no qualms at all about resting all his weight on the backs of Henry’s thighs – there’s a benefit to fucking someone with supernatural strength – and he braces against him so he can drive into Henry fast and hard.

He can hear Henry voice a low, hoarse whisper that’s crooning out a non-stop litany of, “Yes. Mike. Yes, fuck me. Harder.”

Mike pounds into him over and over, pistoning his hips, and he watches Henry’s fingers scrabbling at the sheets, clenching and fisting in them, tearing at the fabric as he fucks him. A flush comes over Henry's chest, and a little pool of sweat, dripping down from Mike’s forehead, gathers in the hollow of Henry’s breastbone. And he fucks into him and fucks and he’s never been able to fuck like this. He feels like he could go for hours, forever. And whether that’s because it’s Henry, or because he’s a little low on blood, or the vampire thing, he doesn’t know and he doesn’t care.

But then Henry’s tugging at Mike’s left hand, pulling it away from where it’s braced on his thigh, and Mike’s lets it be drawn away and shifts his hips to accommodate while Henry pull the hand up towards his face.

Mike feels lips press against his wrist.  

He knows what’s coming, so he slams his hips as hard and as fast as he can because as much as he doesn’t want this to end, he knows it’s just about to, and he wants Henry to feel this as much as he does, he wants to make it so fucking good for Henry.

His wrist is laid softly against Henry’s closed lips, no force behind the hold. He can he feel it when the lips part and his mouth opens, feels Henry’s hot breath, and then there are teeth. The points of them just graze the skin, not yet piercing, and a tongue laves softly and Mike’s balls draw up and that knot of pleasure winds up in his gut.

Finally, those teeth press together through a fold of tender skin and Mike fucking loses it.

He doesn’t know what he’s shouting, what words or noises are pouring out his mouth as he’s coming, slamming into Henry and coming and slamming back into Henry and coming , each stroke drawing his orgasm out longer and stronger and more intense than he’s ever come in his life. Henry’s body goes tight, convulsing beneath him, and even as Henry sucks at him almost desperately, there’s a hot splash on Mike’s chest. The clenching vise-like grip as Henry succumbs wrings the last… impossible pulses of Mike’s orgasm out of him.

If Mike thought his earlier orgasm was the most intense thing he’s ever experienced… it’s got nothing on this. This is the most intense feeling Mike has ever known. And he’s been shot, twice.

Henry let’s Mike’s hand fall away from his mouth, and he gasps in air desperately.   Mike knows he didn’t take much more than a mouthful, and that it was for the experience of that closed-circuit sensation created through feeding and sex that ratcheted things up to nearly impossible to comprehend intensity.

For as exhausted as Mike is, chest heaving like a bellows, sweat trickling in rivulets down his face to drip onto Henry’s body, he’s surprisingly alert. Hyperaware, almost. He feels everything in every inch of his being. He doesn’t want to let go of this moment, or move away from where he’s still connected to Henry and still so close and intimate…

But, Henry’s got to breathe too. And supernatural strength be damned, it can’t be comfortable to be contorted like that with Mike’s weight holding him down.

So Mike rolls off of him and collapses on his side. He stays close though, leaving dozens of points of contact between their bodies. He feels like he can’t move away.

“You sure,” he asks, a bit mumble-mouthed, “’bout there being no link caused by drinking blood?” What else would explain the way he feels right now?

Henry makes a low humming noise. “Quite sure, Mike.”

“Just checking.”

He’s not ready to go to sleep… not yet. So he starts talking. Well, he starts Henry talking. Mostly about what happened in the woods. He makes Henry walk him through the whole evening from the moment he left Mike’s sight at the cabin.

“Am I being interrogated, Detective?” Henry asks, the words curling off his tongue in amusement.

“What happened to Mike?”

Henry jostles a shoulder into him. “When you’re grilling me like a suspect, it’s hard to make the switch.”

Mike snorts. “Fair enough. So start talkin’, Fitzroy.”

Henry must be in the same kind of mood as Mike because he obliges. He fills in the details and fields Mike’s many, many questions.

“And that,” Henry concludes, quite a bit of time later, “is when you woke up and found me in the cabin. I believe you can fill in the rest from there.”

“Yeah, I suppose I can.” Mike agrees, and lets out a teeth-clacking yawn. “Sorry,” he mutters at the end of it, “think the night’s catching up to me.”

Henry turns to press his mouth into Mike’s shoulder. “And the day is catching up with me,” he says softly.

Mike looks past him to the clock. It’s almost a quarter after six. Sunrise is at six-twenty-two. Mike checked online.

“I should go.”

Henry has to get to darkness and safety. Mike knows that. “Yeah,” he agrees aloud, when he ridiculously wants nothing more than to protest and keep Henry here with him.

He’s loathe to lose this. Deep down, Mike knows that it’s probably just the shared blood and overwhelming sex creating a false sense of intimacy, but he feels like what they have right now in this room, is all they’ll ever get. Once Henry’s gone, reality is going to reassert itself and he’s kind of afraid he and Henry are going to go back to what they’ve always been: semi-adversarial compatriots, thrown together in the vague, occasional fight against the unnatural and otherworldly.   Everything they’ve been here – this night and these past two days – will be gone and done.

It kinda sucks.

When Henry starts to rise, Mike moves with him. “Please, stay in bed, Mike.” Henry tells him, pushing Mike’s shoulder back to the bed.

“Thought I’d…” he doesn’t know.

“What? Walk me to my room?” Henry laughs, and Mike thinks he’s trying to be harsh and a little cruel, like maybe that’ll make it easier for him to leave that way, but it just comes out kind of petulant.

“God, you’re an asshole sometimes, Henry.” Mike lets out a low chuckle.

Henry leans over him, locking onto his eyes in the pre-dawn gloom (he’s really running out of time). He holds Mike’s gaze a long moment. “Yes, but that’s why you like me, Mike,” he declares and then catches Mike’s lips in a final, searing kiss.

Mike’s mouth chases after him when he pulls away, head lifting off the pillow, but Henry’s still pinning one shoulder to the bed. He licks his lips, tastes Henry on them and manages a hoarse, “Yeah, same could be said for you, Henry.”

“Absolutely, Detective.” Henry agrees with a wink.   And then he’s up and out of the room before Mike can even open his mouth to retort.

Mike stares at the empty doorway and sighs.

“Have a good day, Henry,” he grumbles, not entirely sure if Henry will be able to hear him, and then rolls over into Henry’s spot on the bed and pulls the covers up and settles in to sleep.

When Mike wakes up next it’s late morning and edging into early afternoon. He can’t quite believe how late he slept. The sun is streaming bright and blinding through the gaps in the blinds. For a moment Mike gropes at the empty space in the bed next to him before he remembers that he’s alone, and why. Henry is locked in a room downstairs, probably; pretty much dead to the world, from what Mike understands of the way things work for vampires.

He doesn’t really feel up to thinking about what happened last night. So he keeps those thoughts at bay as he gingerly eases his aching body out of bed. It’s hard to forget everything when every move his body makes just adds more evidence to the growing pile. He shuffles to the bathroom for a shower, and things are even more difficult to ignore when he gets a look at himself in the mirror.

Like Mike asked, Henry was careful about not leaving marks from feeding anywhere that people could see, but Mike’s going to have to be really careful about taking a shower in the locker room for a few days. Because what Henry didn’t do by feeding, he did with groping fingers, and clenching thighs and desperate kisses. Mike looks utterly and thoroughly debauched.

At least he can explain away the hickeys and scratch marks and finger-print bruises.

The purpling around one side of his groin and the still-healing fang-marks are a different story. It still aches, but it’s not as bad as it could be. He knows Henry did his best – even when he was probably half-crazed with hunger – to cause as little damage as possible. Although he’s going to be walking funny for a few days, that’s for sure.  Mike’s going to have to see if he can maybe spend some time at his desk; luckily he’ll probably have enough paperwork to catch up on by the time he gets back, which will be a good excuse.

After his shower, Mike makes himself a hearty breakfast. He scrambles six eggs and fries up half a package of bacon and toasts four slices of bread. He even fries up some hash browns, although they’re the frozen kind. He’s regretting not getting the makings for a good buttermilk pancake batter.

He eats everything. He doesn’t recall ever being so ravenous.

Although, he’s got to make up for quite a bit of blood loss. He’s definitely got a bit more recouping to do.

The next thing he does after breakfast is done and the dishes are put away is call Gabe. He’s not in – likely out making his rounds – but Mike had left him that brief message last night after Henry got back, and wanted to follow-up. He spins a vague story that’s just a bit left of the truth, and leaves Gabe his number and a message and promises to talk with him later.

He’s got one other call to make, although this one he’s looking forward to. He calls his brother’s house to talk to Marie.

Paul answers. “Hey, bro.”

“Hey, Paul. So,” he tells him, “I think you’re gonna find that the bear problem is taken care of.”

Henry had explained – when they were lying in bed together, waiting for the dawn – a little bit more about his fight with the creature. He still didn’t actually know what that thing was. It wasn’t something he’d ever seen before, or heard of, though he recognized enough about its nature to know that it had turned feral or rabid and pretty much out of its mind in a frenzy. He’d also told Mike that in a fortuitous turn, there was a freshly killed brown bear near the creature’s den (Mike hadn’t commented on the unspoken knowledge that whatever Henry had scrapped – and killed – had been strong enough to take out a damn bear).   So Henry had dragged the carcass near to the tree line just beyond the petting zoo barn.

“That’s good, man. You do a little off season hunting?” Paul’s teasing, but Mike can tell he’s just a little bit worried.

“No,” Mike laughs, “I just met up with Gabe and talked with him. We happened to be checking out the woods near the petting zoo and there was a damn dead bear there. Looks like a hunter got it a while ago with an arrow or a bullet, but didn’t kill it. So it’s been sick and hurting and that’s probably why it was attaching the goats and stuff. It was skinny and losing its hair… looked pretty bad.”

“Sucks for the bear. But that’s good to hear it’s taken care of, then.” Paul sounds relieved. “I suppose you’ll want to tell Marie?”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees. “She’ll want to know that the horses are safe.”

Paul chuckles. “You’re right. Hang on. I’ll get her.” He hears the muffled sound of Paul calling for his daughter to pick up the other phone.

“Uncle Mike!” Marie is clearly thrilled to hear from him if her volume is any indication. Mike has to pull the phone away from his ear a moment.

“Hey, Kiddo.”

“Did you get the monster?” she asks in eager concern.

He’s obviously not going to go into any detail, but he wants her to be reassured and to feel safe. “Yeah, Kiddo. It’s all taken care of.”

“Did you arrest it?” she asks.

“Not quite,” Mike says, kind of hedging how he’s going to answer this. “A friend of mine came along with me and he took care of it. It won’t bother any of the animals up there ever again.”

“Oh, well that’s good.”

Because it will distract her from asking any more questions about just what they did with the not-bear, Mike says, “And the horses are all safe and sound.”

He swears he can hear her smiling through the phone. “That’s so wonderful, Uncle Mike,” she enthuses. “Thank you so much. I knew you could do it. You’re the best Uncle ever.”

It’s odd how empowering the unshakable faith of an eight year old little girl is, but right at that moment Mike feels like he could take on any fucking monster in the world.

He spends a few more minutes on the phone with her, because she wants an update on every single horse in the barn. He made the mistake of telling her helped feed them all. Her particular favorite is the big pale golden one in the last stall that had been nibbling at his shirt. He agrees but is firmly corrected, “George is a palomino, Uncle Mike.”

There’s just a hint of that pre-teen, know-it-all-ness in her voice and God she’s gonna be a hell raiser when she’s older. He doesn’t know if he dreads the thought or looks forward to it.

Once he finally manages to get her off the phone, Mike calls in to check with the precinct. Which turns out to be a bad idea because as soon as he calls in, he’s routed right through to the Captain who asks when he’s coming back and could he cut his vacation short?

Turns out that one of Mike’s cold cases – a wicked double-murder that drove Mike nearly crazy trying to solve two years ago – has gone hot again thanks to new witness coming forward. So they want him to come back and do the interview and take control of the case again. Mike hangs up after making a vague promise to make it in as soon as he can.

He sits heavily down on the couch. Well shit, this just got complicated.

Mike thinks of Henry asleep downstairs, and how if they stay another night they’re going to have to talk. And maybe the stuff that happened last night will repeat itself. Or, maybe it won’t and Henry will come to his senses and realize that he doesn’t need to be fucking around with a thirty-something year-old police detective who’s got his own issues with his heterosexuality and plenty more fucking baggage to deal with. Good Christ, then there’s the whole thing with Vicki…

Leaving early would be the cowards’ way out. He knows that. But the precinct genuinely does need him. It’s a chance to put away a potential serial killer (Mike’s always been convinced his prime suspect had more than those two killings under his belt) and if anyone could understand that, he knows it would be Henry.

That decides it for him.

He calls back into the station and tells the Chief that he’ll be back in town in a few hours and he’ll get started reviewing the case file tonight. If they’re lucky the witness will still be willing to come in after hours.

He debates the best way to let Henry know what’s going on and really hopes the leaving him a note isn’t too chicken-shit an option.

Mike struggles with what to write for a ridiculously amount of time. He starts and stops and scribbles stuff out and tosses about three sheets of the pretty stationary he’d found in the den into the trash before he finally decides to go for it and write whatever the fuck he wants. Henry knows him well enough to get that he’s not the most eloquent guy in the world. He’ll speak from his gut.

When he’s done, he rereads just once, really quick, to make sure it’s semi-decent.

Henry,

Something urgent came up at the precinct and I absolutely had to head back today. If it weren’t important, I wouldn’t have left. I hope you know that.

I know things are probably pretty fucked up between us and I don’t know what I wanna say about that or what we need to do about that, or where things go from here, or any of that shit, yet. And I’m probably fucked up about this, but look: I’m glad you’re okay. And I’m glad you let me help. And everything that happened last night was… really amazing.

So. Sorry to seem like I’m taking the coward’s way out but maybe it’s for the best. Maybe we both need to go our separate ways for a little while. You can hang out here as long as you want.

Anyway. Call me.

Mike

Not quite a Dear John letter, but fucking close enough.

It’s shitty and it really doesn’t say much of any of substance, but Mike’s never been really good at conveying his feelings anyway, so he’s lucky he managed that much. He pins the note to the door outside of Henry’s room so he’ll see it first thing when he comes out.

He doesn’t want Henry waking up and wondering where he is and looking around for him like he’s still there to be found. He knows that Henry can use those inhuman senses to tell when there are people nearby.

It makes him feel like worse of a dick that Henry’s going to come awake with the night, and feel nothing but an empty house. Mike presses a palm up against the door to his room, frowning. Maybe trying to see if he can sense anything of Henry in the room beyond…

“You fucking idiot,” he mutters at himself, whipping his hand away.

He finishes cleaning up the cabin, packs up his shit and tosses the bags of his and Henry’s ruined clothes into the trunk of his car to be thrown in a dumpster somewhere on the way back to the city. Then he heads out without looking back.

The next two weeks are hell for Mike – mostly due to the case, but a little bit is the fact that Henry is a constant distraction at the back of his mind - but they end in the best way possible: they catch the guy responsible for murdering at least three women (having tied together another old cold case based on a really weak hunch of Mike’s). It turned out to be the suspect Mike had liked for the first two murders all along, but had never been able to pin it on because of shitty evidence. He’d been fucking mocking the police for months, and now they had him.

On that last day, after the guy has been booked, and Mike’s signed his name on the final form, he has a couple of beers with his colleagues to celebrate and then begs off yet another round and drags his ass home. Mike stumbles into his apartment that night exhausted and strung-out, but fucking relieved and kind of happy. Sometimes things go right in his world.

He’s kicked back in his recliner, another beer in his hand, and there’s a recorded Jays game on the TV - which he actually hasn’t had the score spoiled for by his well-meaning colleagues - when the phone rings. He debates for a few moments – through the second and third ring – letting it go to voicemail to screen then decides, “Ah, fuck it.” He can deal with anything right now. He answers the phone.

“Celluci, here.”

“Detective.” Henry’s voice is that annoying combination of amused and mocking.

“Hey, Henry.” Mike shoots back, perhaps a little pointedly. He’s still buzzing high on the adrenaline of closing his case and there’re a few beers running through his veins, and maybe he’s feeling a little bit reckless anyway. “So what’s up?”

“I thought you’d like to know, Detective, that I finally figure out what it was that was terrorizing your brother’s camp ground.”

“Oh!” Mike sets his beer down and sits up in his chair.

“It was a Dzu-Teh,” Henry explains.

“What the fuck is that when it’s at home?” It’s nothing Mike’s ever heard of.

“It’s a kind of rare, apelike creature. The closest analog would be to something like a small semi-intelligent bigfoot or perhaps a yeti. It’s not native to the area, or this country even, and normally they’re omnivorous scavengers who live in small family groups. They don’t kill their own prey. Their normal diet consists of nuts and berries and insects.”

Mike swears. “Jesus, nuts and berries and yet this one is chowin’ down on goat? What’s up with that?”

“Ahh,” Henry says and Mike can just picture one of those brows arching, “here’s the thing. They very rarely are known to go feral, like this one did. If it happens, their tribe or family group will chase them away and they’ll begin to attack livestock and other easy to access prey. Most often they’re hunted down by farmers and mistaken – as ours was – for bear. Very rarely will they attack people. But, not being near any farms, that’s why this one targeted the campground and the animals there.”

“So, putting it down was the right thing to do?” Mike wants to know, because he hadn’t really wanted to think that the thing might be sentient. He just kind of assumed it was an animal.

“Yes,” Henry states fervently, “it needed to be put down.”

“Well, thanks for taking care of that then.”

“You’re welcome, Detective.” Henry says simply.

Mike knows he has a choice here. He could say ‘well thanks for the call and for letting me know’ and hang up and that would really be the end of it. Because he knows Henry won’t push. Or, he can say, “I thought we were back to Mike?”

Henry makes an odd little sound into the phone. “Are we?” he asks, and there’s a bit of archness to his tone that Mike really can’t blame him for. “I wasn’t so sure.” Henry admits.

And like their bedroom encounter – when Mike was deciding whether or not he should proposition Henry for the second round – he knows that if Henry had pulled his ‘Prince of Men’ routine, or talked down to Mike or treated him like he had no idea what Mike was talking about, then that would have been the end of it.

But Mike thinks he knows what it probably took for Henry to reach out and make this call in the first place. To take that first step. There’s a vulnerability to Henry’s tone that tells Mike that he’s not imagining that this – whatever it is between them - means something to Henry; that he’s not the only one who’s been thinking about where they might go from here.

Mike decides he can be strong too, grow a pair, and he bites the bullet and says, “So, I was thinking, maybe you could come over and we could talk about it.”

“Come over?” Henry repeats.

“Yeah.” Mike says. He swallows hard and then adds, “You know, for dinner.” He hopes there’s no misinterpreting what he means by that considering what Henry's diet consists of.

“Come over for dinner?” Henry echoes again.

“Yeah,” Mike confirms. “I’d like it if you did.”

“Detective,” Henry starts and then stops himself. “Mike, I would love to come over for a—“

“Wait, wait, wait, stop right there,” Mike interrupts. “Don’t say it,” he warns. Because he may be dealing with this whole ‘sex with a vampire (guy), feelings for a vampire (guy), maybe even fucked up relationship with a vampire (guy)’ thing, but there is no way in hell he’s dating one who makes lame vampire puns.

Henry finishes the thought anyway, full of sass and smarm. “For a bite.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Jesus you’re an asshole, Fitzroy.”

“Likewise, Detective.” Henry shoots back. “I’ll be over by nine.”