Chapter Text
Michael didn’t go back to the Emerson house. Can’t say he tried all that hard, either. He knew he was being a coward but as the days turned into a week the habit of putting it off, of ignoring his problems, was too much of a set comfort to resist. So he didn’t.
It wasn’t that he was afraid of his mom knowing he was a monster. He was terrified of her finding out that he didn’t care. That he preferred it. That she’d take one look at him and realize he liked what he was and be disgusted by it and never ask him to come back again.
He still hadn’t made his first kill. He refused to leave the cave the nights the boys went hunting even though he wanted to. It was guilt that kept him from it, not any sense of morality. That ship had long since sailed, been dashed on the reefs and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.
Thank god they didn’t go every night, or even every other. He didn’t think he could take the heat from David’s glare that often, growing ire apparent in every aspect of his body language. He wanted Michael to feed. He knew Michael wanted to feed and couldn’t understand why he was fighting it.
Michael frustrated him to no end. He could sympathize. He frustrated himself, too.
David hadn’t fed him since that night either. Michael’s stomach growled. He scowled into the dark, curled in on himself further. He wondered if he pressed himself into a tight enough ball if he could stamp out the pit hunger was carving deep inside of him, leaving him feeling hollowed out.
A quiet desolation seemed to ooze from the cave walls when no one else was there with him. Or was it all in his head? The cave didn’t feel. It didn’t change. But Michael did.
So he brooded, wallowing in self-induced melancholy for the second time that week wrapped in deafening silence, stuck with nothing but the occasional coo of a pigeon and his own meandering thoughts.
He thought about Phoenix, everything that had happened there and now everything that wouldn’t. He thought about how he hadn’t lived at his Grandpa’s house long enough for it to feel like home but the cave did and he’d been there even less. But mostly he thought about how much he wished he was with his brothers. His pack. He cursed his stubbornness. Next time, he told himself, he’d go. There was no point in putting it off any longer. He was fuzzy on why he’d fought so hard over it in the first place.
***
The next night David took them to the boardwalk. The last few times they’d gone out had been to remote dive bars tucked away on the outskirts of unfamiliar suburbs and grimy, poorly lit clubs with sticky floors and live music that was sometimes good but more often not.
Michael knew David was doing it to fuck with him, putting him in small spaces tightly packed with warm human bodies, the smell of sweat and blood permeating the air. Trying to temp him. He thought it was ironic that the change of pace came when he’d decided to take the plunge.
Or maybe David already knew about his change of heart and this was his reward. Not that the boardwalk offered much of a reprieve. Blood pumping beneath tanned and oiled skin was equally as tempting paired with the ocean air as it was spilled beer and human desperation.
Michael leaned against the railing, the beach his backdrop, and inhaled his cigarette. He’d bummed it from David, lounging casually next to him with a smoke of his own dangling from sculpted lips. Michael had been noticing David more, lately. And not just his lips. Stubbornly, he kept his gaze on the crowds passing obliviously by in front of them, giving them a wide berth.
David watched the human masses move past, undulating like one gigantic living organism rather than the individuals beings. His eyes were calculating. Michael would have thought he was on the lookout for his next meal if he hadn’t fed the night before.
Despite his best efforts, Michael kept watching David out of the corner of his eye. At least, when he wasn’t distracted by Marko.
Marko, he’d found out, was their main breadwinner. The acquirer of cash. The little klepto was a skilled pickpocket. To Marko it was a favorite hobby rather than the simple necessity of stockpiling cash for the times they couldn’t steal what they wanted. But that meant they usually got a lot more than just bills liberated from wallets when he turned out his haul. The fountain at the cave was filled with all the extraneous trinkets and bobbles he plucked off of gullible tourists. Designer watches, bracelets, and rigs blended with Mardi Gras beads, key chains, and bottle openers.
“You wanna learn?” David asked.
“Huh?” Michael said.
He gestured toward their curly haired brother. “To steal.”
Michael shrugged. “Eventually. Ya know, after I got the murder thing down.” His sarcasm was as dry as his parched throat. He rubbed at it idly.
David chuckled. “Bold words for someone who hasn’t made their first kill. Tell me, Michael. You hungry?”
Michael’s stomach gave a low rumble, his saliva glands going into overdrive. Michael glared. He hated he’d been Pavlov-ed by the mere thought of blood.
“That’s what I thought.” David tossed his spent cigarette back into the sand. Some poor asshole would clean it up in the morning for two dollars an hour.
Michael stomped his out under the heel of his boot a bit more aggressively than necessary.
“Soon,” Michael muttered under his breath. He turned back to people watching. Marko surreptitiously lifted yet another bi-fold from a tourist gawking at a wall of stuffed prizes. Marko pocketed the cash and tossed the leftovers into a nearby trashcan. Michael shook his head, small smile on his face.
The evening should have been peaceful. It was a laid back night of dicking around on the boardwalk, stirring up a bit of trouble here and there but nothing serious. Maybe they’d get kicked out. Maybe they wouldn’t. They’d tear the beach up with their bikes once it got late enough, the crowds too thin to provide entertainment.
Would have been peaceful if it wasn’t for his name shouted on the wind.
He heard him before he saw him, sprinting down the asphalt and nearly tripping over the laces of untied sneakers.
“Mike! Mike!” Sam crashed into his side, almost knocking him into David. Not that there was far to go. Their shoulders were a hair’s width away from brushing.
“Sam? What are you doing here?” The last time his brother had seen him he’d been covered in David’s blood. Sam seeking him out was the last thing he’d thought would happen after that. He’d expected the opposite: running screaming in the opposite direction with an arm full of stakes.
Sam’s eyes welled with frustrated tears. “It’s Dad. It’s Mom! Dad’s got Mom!”
Michael’s blood ran cold. He grabbed Sam by the shoulders, held him steady. “Sam. Tell me.” He wasn’t asking.
Sam was on the edge of hyperventilation. Half of Michael wanted to sit him down, wrap him up in his arms and get him to breathe before he worked himself up so much he passed out but the other half knew time was of the essence.
Sam did his best to string his panicked thoughts together.
“Dad showed up. At Grandpa’s house. Grandpa’s not home. He went to see the Widow Johnson.” Tears spilled over, dripping down sun kissed cheeks. Fuck, he looked young. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. They’d left that life far behind in Phoenix and now the bastard had the gall to show his face here? A rumble shook in Michael’s chest, eyes flashing with gold.
“Alright, let’s go,” Michael said, dragging Sam toward his bike.
Shit, how did the kid get here? Did he run the whole way? It was miles from the house to the boards. How long did that take? Sam was quick when he wanted to be, but an athlete he was not. How much time had been wasted? Michael’s teeth ground together.
What the fuck was his dad doing here? He’d thought the divorce made it pretty fucking clear Mom wanted nothing to do with him anymore. And neither did he or Sam. They’d missed Phoenix but not that house. Not their dad. Not after all the shit he pulled. And now he was back. Michael walked faster.
“Hold on tight,” Michael told Sam as they climbed onto his bike. Sam wrapped his arms snugly around his waist. “Tighter.” Sam obeyed, clinging on impossibly harder.
His rear tire spun as he released the throttle. They jolted forward once the rubber found traction and rocketed into the night over the roar of firing pistons. Michael barely slowed the entire way to his Grandpa’s place, needle dancing at the far edge of the speedometer. Sam clung to him like his life depended on it (it sort of did), but he knew he wouldn’t lay the bike down.
Seconds mattered. He knew how his dad could get. How one minute he’d be laughing with you and the next his eyes would be hard and you’d be reeling from a blow you hadn’t seen coming. Almost always where no one would see the bruising. The man was smart enough for that, at least.
How the hell did that bastard make it to Santa Carla, anyway? On a good day he wasn’t fit to drive across town let alone a couple of state lines.
Mom had filed for divorce over a month ago and then they left. That should have been it. He should have been out of their lives. What right did he have to show up like this, out of the blue? And if Dad sent Sam running, whatever was going down at the house couldn’t be good. He edged a little extra speed out of his bike until it shuddered beneath them. Sam’s heart was racing like a jackhammer. Micheal tuned it out.
Gravel sprayed as the bike slid to a stop in the driveway. His dad’s beat up old Ford was parked haphazardly in the middle, familiar with its scraped paint and rusted out bed and close calls with his dad behind the wheel. He kicked his stand down. If he hadn’t had Sam behind him, he’d have been tempted to let it tumble to save precious seconds. He could hear raised voices fifteen paces from the door, easy.
Sam slid off the bike first and Michael followed.
“Stay behind me,” Michael said and jogged up the porch, barely pausing as he crossed the threshold even though a slimy feeling coated him at entering a residence without an invitation. There wasn’t time to ask. He’d get over it.
The yelling stopped as soon as they tumbled into the room, Sam tripping into Michael when he froze at the sight of his parents. In the same room. Alone together for the first time since the incident, flushed with anger. A familiar sight.
Michael felt an odd sense of déjà vu. He knew they were in Santa Carla, but Phoenix overlapped. He’d seen this exact thing before, the same defensive stances and stiff body language that spoke louder than the yelling.
He was twelve, he came home from school, the screaming stopped as soon as he walked in the door.
He was fourteen, he came home from Boy Scouts and the screaming stopped until he made it upstairs to his room. Then he heard it echoing through the walls, the slam of a door, and then silence.
He was seventeen, he came home from baseball practice. The screaming didn’t stop. He walked into the living room and they just kept going, Dad drowning out Mom like he always did. He slid around the edge of the room, to the kitchen. No one glanced his way. He grabbed a block of cheese and the deli bag of cold cuts and retreated to his room. Sam wasn’t home, he was at his comic book club so the noise didn’t matter. Michael was used to it by now, anyway.
He was eighteen, coming home after a late night hanging with the guys, smoking some weed and drinking a beer or six. The screaming didn’t stop. Michael frowned. Sam was home tonight. There was no way he was asleep over all the noise. He’d probably slipped into Michael’s room again, stole his Walkman and slipped the headphones over his ears to drown it all out with some ABBA or Madonna or whatever he was into now.
The alcohol had given him some extra courage. Maybe this was how his dad felt when he picked all those fights, egged on by the courage clouding his veins, convincing him that yeah, this was a great idea. Why shouldn’t I do this? So Michael intervened. Turned out to not be such a great idea. All he got for his troubles was a black eye and bruised ribs and his mom’s tears.
Mom filed for divorce the week after.
He was almost nineteen and he wasn’t in Phoenix anymore. He was standing in his Grandpa’s living room, his scared little brother at his side. In the house he had lived in for a few weeks but had never been his home.
Michael was almost nineteen but he never would be. Not really. Because he was half dead. He’d be all dead soon. He knew that. And his parents were fighting. That wasn’t new. But Santa Carla was his territory now. His dad wasn’t welcome there. And Michael would damn well make sure the man knew it.
Mom’s eyes bulged when he burst into the room. She made an aborted motion toward him but stopped when she remembered it was never a good idea to pull her attention from his dad when the man was like this. In a rage. Unreasonable. Drunk. Michael could smell the Jack Daniels from across the room.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Michael growled. His fists clenched, sharp nails biting into the skin but not breaking it. The last thing Michael needed was the scent of spilled blood clouding his head further.
“Don’t you fucking dare talk to me like that, boy.” His dad’s words came out lilting, slurred. That only happened when he’d been hitting the bottle hard. Usually he could hold his liquor. You’d only be able to tell from his breath. Or his attitude. Or his fists.
But Michael wasn’t twelve anymore. Or fourteen. Or seventeen. He was almost nineteen but he never would be. And his dad didn’t scare him. Not anymore. Michael was the monster in the room now, far more literally than his dad ever was. And if he kept this shit up, his old man might just find that out far more intimately than he’d like. His gums ached.
Michael shifted forward, but Sam’s hand on his sleeve stopped him cold. That’s right. Sam. He was still fourteen. And he’d come to find his big brother for help, despite knowing what he was. He couldn’t let his rage rule him. He’d only traumatize Sam more, and God knows the men in that room had already provided enough of that, intentionally or otherwise.
He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. It helped. Not enough, but a little. Even though he wanted to rip his father limb from limb, he couldn’t. Not in front of Sam, anyway.
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” he ground out through clenched teeth.
His dad’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. “I think I’m allowed to talk to my wife, don’t you?”
“She’s not your wife anymore.”
“The hell she ain’t! The paperwork’s been filed but it sure as hell ain’t finalized, boy. Hold your damn tongue unless you want your ass beat. Again.”
Michael felt the phantom ache in his ribs. “Just try it, old man. See what happens.” He slid forward a step. Sam gripped him tighter but it was little more than faint pressure on his arm.
He’d been weak when his dad had hit him. Had beat him. Had left him broken on the floor. But he wasn’t anymore. And he was itching to return the favor. His control was slipping. In the back of his mind, he knew it. He knew he should find a way to deescalate the situation. Or leave. But he couldn’t. This man was in his territory, threatening his family. He wasn’t backing down.
Mom spoke up. “How about we all take a minute and breathe. Discuss this like rational, civilized people. OK?” Her eyes darted to Dad. “I’ll put some coffee on. How’s that sound?” Her voice was careful, guarded. Like she was trying to calm a spooked dog. It pissed Michael off that he didn’t know which of them she was trying to pacify. Maybe both.
Tension eased out of the room enough that the ceiling no longer felt ready to burst. Michael let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, could have held indefinitely. On some level, Michael was grateful for it. On another, he’d been ready to waste his sorry excuse for a father. It didn’t bother him how much he’d been looking forward to pounding him into the dirt. But the night was still young. And knowing his dad, he’d be back on his bullshit soon enough.
Mom bustled off into the kitchen after casting a wary glance around the room, as if she were wondering if the peace would hold in her absence. The smell of fresh coffee grounds hit him soon after, deepening their earthy aroma as hot water seeped down over them. The domesticity of it was surprisingly comforting and it eased Michael’s nerves by a hair.
Dad had parked himself in Grandpa’s favorite chair. Sam pulled Michael down on the couch, huddled so close he was practically in his lap, holding his hand in a death grip. He wasn’t sure whose benefit it was for, his or Sam’s. Michael squeezed back gently, trying to be reassuring. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not until this was settled.
Michael glared at his dad. How dare this asshole force his way into their lives after what he did? Mom and Sam were working on a fresh start in a safe place. Well, sort of safe. Safe from the vampires, anyway. There were still plenty of other violent assholes in Santa Carla. Maybe Michael should prioritize eating those people if he was gonna do it anyway.
Michael opened his mouth to tell their dad to get the fuck out of here, but Sam elbowed him in the ribs. Pretty hard, too. Kid must have noticed not much else got his attention and went for it. Props to him because it worked. He snapped his mouth shut with an audible click and sunk back in the couch, arms crossed. He glowered.
The silence stretched, taught as a bow string ready to snap. The only sounds were his mom shuffling around in the kitchen, ceramic clicking together as she lined up mugs, and Sam tapping his feet restlessly. Michael kept his eyes on the ceiling. There was a water mark on the panel in the corner. His own personal Rorschach test for the evening. He kept seeing his father with his throat torn out.
He wished Grandpa would show up. Walk through the door and take care of everything, just like last week only with less property damage. (He was impressed at the speed of the repairs, honestly. They already had the new door framed in and everything.) Then he could leave the humans to deal with their human issues and know his mom and Sam would be safe from the asshole across the room. He was already on edge. His hunger made him more irritable than usual. Fuck. He should have gone with the others last night.
He let his eyes drift shut. Let himself feel Sam pressed up against him, desperate for comfort he was counting on his big brother to provide just like he used to when they were kids. Back when things weren’t so bad and he’d come crawling into Michael’s room at night after a nightmare and curl up next to him. Back before their dad had made the nightmare their lives.
Breathe in. Breathe out. He could do this.
His eyes snapped open when Mom came back through the swinging doors, a cluster of steaming mugs in hand. She gave Sam his first, made up just how he liked it: overflowing with sugar and cream, more dessert than drink. He unplastered himself from Michael just enough to take it.
Michael took his next with a tight smile. It was black. No sugar. Just like his Dad’s.
He took a gulp of the scalding drink. It burned, but not as badly as he thought it would. Or was he healing to fast to tell? He’d hoped it would help take the edge off his thirst. It didn’t. Somehow it felt like the caffeine exacerbated it.
His throat itched. It was getting harder to ignore.
“Lucy, I want you to come home.” Of course Dad had to be the one that broke the silence.
Mom choked on her drink. “I’m sorry?”
“I miss you,” he said as he turned to her. “I messed up. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
Michael stifled a snort into his mug. Empty words, as always.
Mom’s eyes were wide. There were a million thoughts running through her head, each one of them traded in passing for the next. What to say? What could she say without setting him off? Michael used to ask himself that very same question.
“Eric, I’m sorry, but that isn’t going to happen,” she settled on. Her knuckles were white around her coffee cup.
Dad’s face clouded over. “Why the fuck not? I goddamn said I won’t do it again! What more do you want?”
Mom flinched, coffee sloshing over the rim of her mug and scalding her. She set it down on the end table and wiped her hands delicately on her skirt, skin pink and irritated from the near boiling liquid. Michael blamed his dad for the wound. The monster in him stirred, restless, thirsting for retribution.
“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work like that,” she said softly. “It’s too late. You never apologized before. Not when you were in the wrong, not when your words were cruel. Not when you disappeared for days on end or came home drunk every night or yelled at me or scared our children. You never said sorry when you hit Michael.” Her eyes held more steel than Michael had ever seen in her.
Michael swallowed thickly. He’d never heard his mom talk like this before. Sure, she’d defended them from their dad in the past, usually using herself as a physical shield. But rarely ever with words. He felt like he was witnessing the onset of something new. Something better. A page turned in his mom’s story. Too bad his father had to open his damn mouth again and ruin it.
His dad scoffed. “That was nothing. My old man did worse to me.”
Michael wasn’t sure what was objectively more upsetting. That his dad had hit him in the first place or that he was dismissing it like it was nothing. His ribs had been so heavily bruised that it hadn’t faded for weeks, going from black to green to yellow, only disappearing after he’d drank from David. He’d barely been able to move for days. And it was nothing to his dad.
His chest rumbled threateningly. It wasn’t loud enough to be heard across the room, even across the sofa, but Sam was close enough to feel it. He got another tug on his sleeve.
“What your father did to you was wrong. That doesn’t make it OK for you to treat your children the same way. To treat me that way.”
“Don’t talk back to me.” His father’s eyes burned with malice.
“You’re in my house. I’ll do whatever I damn well please! And what I please is for you to leave. Now.” Michael had never heard his mom use that tone with their dad before. Only them, when they’d misbehaved. Badly.
His dad scoffed. “I don’t see your daddy here. So who’s going to make me?”
Michael. He volunteered. He’d be happy to throw that bastard the fuck out.
He watched his dad settle deeper into the chair, holing up for the long haul. He’d never seen the man do something Mom told him to. It was like it was a matter of pride for him to be a dick to his wife.
His dad stared at Mom like it was some kind of contest, not breaking eye contact. He slid a flask out of his inner jacket pocket, unscrewed the top. Poured a couple of shots worth into his half empty mug, filling it back up. Took a gulp. “I think I’m fine right where I am.” The bastard had the audacity to grin.
Mom stood. “You need to leave. Now.”
“I don’t fucking think so,” He chugged the rest of his drink. Wiped the spill from his chin with the back of his hand, adding to the stains on the end of his white shirt sleeve. Muttered, “Goddamn bitch thinks she can tell me what to do now.”
This time there was no mistaking the growl echoing off the walls. “Don’t fucking talk to her like that.”
His dad stood, staggered. “Or what, boy? The fuck you gonna do about it, huh? Get your ass beat again? Want me to get your other eye this time?” he sneered, face contorted and ugly.
Michael sprang to his feet, blunt teeth bared. His gums ached to let his fangs drop.
“Enough!” his mom yelled. “I’ve had enough of this! Eric! Leave. Now. Or I’m calling the cops.”
Evidently, that was the wrong thing to say.
His dad turned on her, loomed aggressively over her shorter stature.
Michael wished he’d been closer. Wished he could have stopped it. But he’d been trying so hard to tamp down his instincts, his consuming drive to destroy what threatened those he cared about. He’d respected his mother. His brother. Listened to them when they urged him to heel. It had been a mistake.
The backhand sent Mom reeling. Sam screamed. Michael smelled blood. His mom’s blood. And his dad was the one that drew it. He’d sworn to himself never again. This would never happen again on his watch. But it just did. And now he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to.
He roared as he shot forward, eyes tinting yellow. His fist struck his dad’s face before he’d consciously swung it. His dad dropped to the floor. Michael panted. But that jackass wasn’t the priority. Mom was.
“You OK?” he asked, helping Lucy steady herself. A thin line of blood trickled from her lip. He wanted to wipe it away but didn’t trust himself while the hunger roared through him, exacerbated by the flood of adrenaline. He could already tell she was bruising. The side of her face would be deep purple by morning.
“I’m fine, Michael. Thank you Honey,” she said, standing on surprisingly steady legs. She turned to his dad, curled up on the floor and moaning. “Out. Now.”
“Fuck you,” he spat, crawling to his feet. “You don’t fucking tell me what to do. Not now. Not ever. Fucking whore.” He grabbed his empty mug and hurled it at Mom.
Michael caught it in the air. Sent it careening back at him. It shattered in his face. His nose broke on impact and the ceramic shards left a string of shallow cuts. But that was the thing about head wounds. They bled like a bitch.
Blood gushed down his dad’s face. The hands clutching his fractured nose did little to stop the flow. Michael could hear it. Spurting from broken blood vessels down the man’s chin, onto his wrists. Hitting the floor in a steady drip, drip, drip that did nothing but entice Michael’s appetite. A feral hunger rose withing him. His monster poked its head out, rising above the surface. Intrigued. Famished. Vindictive.
He felt his features shift. He did nothing to suppress it, to tamp the beast back down. He knew it would be a losing battle and not one he felt the need to waste energy on when this was inevitable. When the hunt was calling to him, crooning in his ear about the thrill of closing in on a kill. Soon the burn in his throat would finally be quenched, his hunger sated. Soon his spiteful fuck of a father would be dead.
He slid forward, smooth and unnatural, eyes on his father and his father alone. Sam may have been yelling. Mom, too. He didn’t hear it. One step. And then another. He thrilled at the sight of his father’s wide eyes, of him staggering away.
“What the fuck? What’s wrong with your face?” his father garbled through gore and mangled cartilage, fractured nasal bone. “Get the fuck away from me!”
One step. And then another. He stalked his father. Was it even stalking if they knew you were coming? He didn’t care. His silent footfalls echoed through the room.
His father didn’t try to hit him again, too busy cowering away. His fear scent assaulted Michael’s nose, bitter and inviting. His blood was mouthwatering. For ever step back his father took, Michael matched it. Slow. Deliberate.
Inevitable.
His father tried to make a break for it. Tried to slip around Michael and sprint to the door. Michael caught him, twisted his arm so hard he heard it crack. His father screamed. Michael felt a wide smile slide across his face.
He shoved his father. The man stumbled, fell through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Hit the floor, hard. Scrabbled onto unsteady feet using a chair back for support. Michael was after him in less time than it took for his tepid heart to beat.
Michael grabbed his father by the lapel of his jacket, slammed him up against the kitchen table. He paused. Looked at his father, let his eyes drink him in.
He was old. Grey. The excess of alcohol was working its steady magic on the man’s liver. Underneath the fear sweat he could smell a hint of sickness. He seemed so small now. Not scary at all, not like he’d been when Michael was younger. Now his father was scared of him instead. He preened.
“Please. Mikey, kid, please. Let me go,” his father begged, tugging uselessly at iron fists.
Michael didn’t think so. He had a better idea.
One hand rose slowly, gently, tugged the collar away from his father’s neck. He licked his lips. And then, just as the kitchen doors stilled with a rare finality, shut fully and hiding him from prying eyes, he struck.
His father screamed.
Michael moaned.
Blood flowed over his tongue, rich and coppery. It was different from David’s. More alive. Flavor exploded through mouth fulls of crimson life and he swallowed them down greedily, bit harder to quicken the flow. Flesh parted beneath his fangs, tearing deep into the muscle and severing the artery.
His father’s struggles weakened. He started to sag against the table. Michael didn’t stop, throat working rhythmically.
Trails of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth down his chin. He couldn’t swallow fast enough, blood jetting out faster than he could keep up. That was alright though. It was more than enough.
His father’s legs gave out. Michael followed him down as the man sank gracelessly to the floor, never once surrendering the claim on his neck as they went. The blood was slowing. Michael whined low in his throat. The fire was quenched but he wanted more.
But that wasn’t how it worked. A few stuttering beats later and his father stilled, heart and all. Michael sucked at the gaping wound uselessly. Without a beating heart the blood stilled in the body, inaccessible. Michael let his father go, eyes trailing the lifeless corpse as it slumped to the floor, head bent unnaturally. Exposed tissue and tendon gently oozed where Michael had torn into him.
It was strange, Michael thought, head tilted to the side. His dad had been a part of his life for nearly two decades. It took barely two minutes to snuff him out. He thought he’d feel something when he made his first kill. Regret, maybe, over taking a life. But Michael was devoid of anything but ruthless satisfaction. His monster purred.
Michael’s mind started to feel hazy, as if a late night fog had rolled in without him noticing. He blinked blearily, sleepy. Swayed where he sat. Strong arms swooped in to steady him, steeped in leather and smoke.
“David?” Michael asked, eyes heavy. When did he get there? Not that Michael minded. He leaned back into the embrace, seeking more contact. His eyes fluttered, a low purr in his chest as David wrapped around him, pulled him tight in his arms.
“Yeah. Yeah, Michael. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
“David, what’s going on?” Michael’s voice sounded far away to his own ears.
“The final transformation. Your body’s dying.”
“What?” Michael’s eyes tried to fly open but his lids were heavy. They slipped shut and he slumped further into David’s solid chest.
He felt cool breath against his face. A tongue trailing over his skin, lapping up the blood he’d spilled, belatedly sharing in his first kill. A cool press of lips to his. There and then gone.
“You did great. I’ll take it from here. Get some rest.”
Michael hummed. His body felt heavy, weighed down with rocks pulling him into the mire. His heart thundered in his ears, irregular, slow, but powerful, like the final drum beats of a war waged and won. But each beat let more time stretch between it and the last. He thought he heard David chuckle, felt a hand run soothingly through his curls. And then nothing but black.