Midsummer's Moon
Feb. 10th, 2008 07:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrI actually finished it ^^; So, everyone be prepared for the end of the world.
In three parts, though I think everyone knew that
Part One: Waxing Moon
Lowell sighed as yet another car passed him by, and made a note to hate the driver and passengers the rest of his life. 'Body Found By Highway: No One Would Give Poor Werewolf A Ride in the Rain.'
The cold rain that was probably going to give him hypothermia or the flu or whatever. Maybe that was for the best, really. 'Werewolf Finally Dies: World Sleeps Better.'
Shaking his head at himself, Lowell waited until the car was well out of sight and truly had no intention of maybe turning around to help the poor bastard drowning slowly to death after all.
Damn it, he just wanted not to be wet anymore. He'd been needing a shower, but this was so not what he'd had in mind. Now if the rain was near-boiling and had come with soap…
Ugh, he must be tired if he was thinking such stupid thoughts.
At least it was a light, if steady, downpour. Unfortunately, the sun had decided to continue obeying the laws of nature. Or space. Physics? Whatever. It had decided to set, rather than help him by not setting, and his chances of hitching a ride diminished by the minute. When it was finally well and truly dark, he could kiss any hope of one goodbye. Dark automatically made him evil and scary, even if he was nothing more than some sort of sad, drowning puppy.
Werewolf. Drowning Puppy. Haha. 'Werewolf Kills Self To Spare World Bad Humor.'
He probably should have tried to sneak a sleep at the last gas station, but the clerk had creeped him out in no small way. Being a werewolf wasn't good for much, but it helped loads with the self-preservation thing.
At least the last sign had said Midsummer's Night was only twenty miles away.
Twenty miles and he could, at the very least, spend an hour or few in a waiting room. Like as not Dr. Kuhl would want nothing to do with him, and have security or something escort him out – that'd happened enough times in his life for him to know when it could happen – but at least for a bit he'd be warm and dry. Maybe there'd be time to read a few magazines, have a nap…
He really had come far in life, Lowell thought miserably, when the highlight of his day was killing time in some doctor's waiting room. Pathetic. He slid a hand into his pocket and touched the ziplock within it, filched from a shelter kitchen to protect his precious slip of paper from the elements.
Nothing but a name, an address, and the directions he'd gotten off a library computer. Not much at all, but it was a goal – a sliver of hope.
Hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to become normal. Get rid of the damned curse which had ruined any chance he had of a life. To be human, rather than some horrid monster no one could stand.
Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to get his hopes too high – it did seem kinda farfetched that anyone could actually make a cure for werewolf. He thought there was a fancier term for it. Ly-something.
Though at the rate he was going, it might not matter. He sneezed hard, shuddering in the rain, his clothes totally not up for the inclement weather. He'd had a raincoat once, an ugly red thing with an even uglier plaid lining, but it had been warm and dry. That's what he got for falling asleep at a bus station. He should have worked harder at staying awake. Served him right.
Drat it. Not so much as a single car. Even for an old highway this was a bit ridiculous.
Not that it really mattered. Raining and getting darker by the second – he should stop looking for a ride and look for a place he could sleep without getting run over or picked up by cops or mugged or something.
For better or worse, he was still two weeks from changing. Just as well, in the end, because he might have been tempted to travel as a wolf and he resisted such temptations whenever possible. The last time that had happened… Lowell shuddered and turned his thoughts elsewhere.
No, wolf form meant finding a place to hide until the hell was over.
Instead of bad memories, he turned to his most-hated, favorite game of 'what if'.
What if this Dr. Kuhl really had found a cure for ly…ly…werewolf-ness? What if he was good enough to give it to Lowell? Would he expect cash? The thought soured Lowell's stomach, because what little money he did have he'd refused to spend on the hope a meager two hundred dollars would be enough to pay for the cure, and he had the sinking feeling it wouldn't be nearly enough.
Maybe, however, Dr. Kuhl would let him work to cover the rest of it. He could certainly think of worse arrangements. Just stupid grunt work, but it wasn't like he could do anything else.
Then…then he'd finally have the cure, and would be normal and people wouldn't freak out and shun him or try to turn him over to animal control or the cops. They wouldn't try to shoot him or toss silver at him…and…
And it was all stupid daydreaming, because even assuming for one minute there was a cure and the doctor would give it to a nobody werewolf like him, he still would have a long way to go before he was anything but a homeless, worthless nobody.
Still, life would be a lot easier when he wasn't part wolf.
It would.
Determination renewed, he trudged on through the rain, glaring at the now nearly-set sun. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd had to trudge about everywhere in the dark. He'd live. Probably.
He sneezed again, steps faltering, sneaker catching on some stray bit of rubble and Lowell went tumbling, landing hard on the roadside. Damn it. 'Werewolf Killed By Own Clumsiness.'
Rolling his eyes, Lowell started to get up again – then just fell back down, suddenly too tired to move. His motivation of only seconds before had gone out like a light. What was he thinking, seriously? He was wearing jeans that had more holes than he could count, socks that were only clean because he'd collected enough change to do some laundry. The expense had made him cringe, but he definitely wasn't going to get a cure if he smelled like a garbage pit…an old corduroy jacket that should have been retired long ago…and hair so scraggly it was probably hard to tell he did, in fact, spend most of his time in a human-shaped form.
Homeless and pathetic, that's all he was, and one glance was all it took for anyone to figure it out. No way was some semi-famous doctor going to waste his time on a vagabond werewolf when he could sell the cure for thousands or even more to wealthy werewolves.
If there was such a thing, Lowell supposed. Probably there was. Surely not all werewolves were like him…but he'd only ever met a handful of others, and none of them had been much better off than he. There didn't seem to be many of them, but there must be if werewolves kept popping up, if a doctor would go to the trouble of creating a cure.
Right?
So, likely Dr. Kuhl would just call security and that would be that.
Which meant, nice waiting room aside, he was wasting his time. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should take his pathetic two hundred dollars and a find a room and food and then in the morning he could scrounge up some work to do to make more money.
…and pretend to be normal until the full moon struck and he turned into a wolf and either was accidentally seen or missed work and was fired, or something more disastrous (which had never happened to him, but he'd heard stories from the few other wolves, and didn't want a story of his own to tell).
Sighing, Lowell tried to make himself stand, because doing something was better than nothing – but for more years than he could remember he'd been trying one thing or another and all it had gotten him was an address and an empty road while the rain slowly pneumonia-ed him to death.
His head jerked up at the sound of a car, and he reflexively held out a thumb – wholly unsurprised when it kept right on going, paying him no mind.
Jerks. Couldn't they see he was too wet and cold and miserable to be a crazy ax murderer? His poor little backpack, filched from a dumpster, couldn't even hold an axe. It barely held his spare clothes as it was.
Lowell yawned, and gave serious consideration to the idea of falling over and going to sleep right in the puddle he was occupying.
Another car approached, but he didn't bother to try and flag it down, simply waited for it to zoom on past.
Except…he must be going crazy, cause it sure as hell sounded like it was slowing down…
Looking up, he saw that either he was sick enough the hallucinations had started – or the car really had stopped.
Then a man got out, bearing an umbrella, and jogged toward him.
"Are you okay?" the man asked. Lowell couldn't really see him much, not with the rain and dark and only the car for light…but his voice was pleasant. He knew real kindness when he heard it, and despite the sneezing his sense of smell wasn't totally gone.
What little he could smell actually smelled…yummy. Bad dog. No weird thoughts. Humans did not smell yummy, except to big bad wolfs and he wasn't one of those, no.
"Um…" Lowell tried to think of something to say, but obviously his brain was waterlogged. 'Mute Werewolf Left to Die.' Yeah, that'd be fitting.
But his possible rescuer didn't seem fazed at all, merely smiled and reached out to grasp Lowell's arm, tugging him up and close enough to stand beneath the large umbrella. "Come on, my friend, you can't stay out here – you'll catch your death, if you haven't already."
Lowell started to speak, then realized he'd probably only say 'um' again, and snapped his mouth shut.
Too tired to worry if Mr. Nice Guy might be the axe murderer, he allowed himself to be dragged toward and pushed down into the car.
Oh, heat. He was making a mess of the car and felt really bad about that, but the heat was turned on and rain wasn't falling on his head anymore and he didn't have to keep walking for at least a little bit…
It was almost enough to make him cry.
The driver door opened, his rescuer sliding into the seat, and Lowell dared to take a wary peek, never certain what to say or do in these rare moments where someone was nice to him.
Damn.
Was it a blessing or a curse that his rescuer was insanely hot? Not like, typical hot, but…something out of an old book or movie hot. Khakis, oxford, a long trench coat he hadn't bothered to fasten up… Slender, but not boney, dark hair and pretty blue eyes behind old-fashioned looking spectacles. Pretty.
"You look as though you've endured more than your fair share of the rain," the man said with a gentle laugh, fingers moving absently over the dash as he cranked the heat up, adjusted the vents. "We should be home shortly, you can shower and dry off and all there; I should even have some clothes lying about the place."
Lowell blinked. Come again? "Um – you don't – that is – I don't want to be a bother. Um. Thanks for the lift, it's really appreciated." He sneezed hard, and was almost grateful for it cutting off the rest of the stupidity that would have fallen out of his dumb mouth.
The man laughed. "Not a bother. You're welcome. I insist you come to my house. I promise I won't kill you or anything. Where are you headed?"
"Um." Lowell wanted to smack his head against the window. Think, stupid. Speak. Good dog. "I'm trying to get to Midsummer's Night."
"I see," the man said softly, and Lowell wondered why the happy tone of his voice had suddenly shifted. His smell had altered too, and he'd better stop thinking about smell because now that they were out of the rain he was forced to conclude that the stranger really and truly did smell yummy.
He couldn't quite define what yummy meant, but he knew that was definitely the way to describe it.
Damn it.
He licked his lips, and started speaking again just to drown his own dumb thoughts. "I'm, uh, looking for a guy…um, a doctor actually."
"Yeah, I rather imagined you were," the man replied sadly. He extended his hand, smiling in a way that was far from happy. "Doctor Peter Kuhl, at your service."
Lowell felt the hope he'd been trying not to have wither and die in his chest, leaving a terrible ache. "You are?" At Dr. Kuhl's nod, his shoulders drooped. "You don't have a cure."
"No," Dr. Kuhl said softly. "I do not. I'm afraid it's a rumor I've been trying to kill for a very long time." The hand Lowell hadn't shaken landed gently on his shoulder. "But, come home with me. I promise my house is always welcome to any werewolf in need of one. Get clean, warm, fed, and rested. We'll figure out the rest in the morning, okay? What's your name?"
He tried to argue, to make himself get out of the car or something, because what was the point if there was no cure?
But beggars could not be choosers, and he was definitely a beggar, and even if this guy was a lying axe murderer or simply an honest, simple doctor with no cure for werewolves – and he'd known Lowell was a werewolf, obviously, and that said a lot – that was still probably the best offer Lowell had ever heard. In his entire life.
"Okay," he said. Then he tried to remember his manners. "Thank you, Dr. Kuhl. Oh, um. My name is Lowell."
"You should not be thanking me for anything," Dr. Kuhl replied. "Please, call me Peter. It's about thirty minutes to my house yet, so go ahead and relax a bit."
Lowell nodded, having no intention of doing any such thing, but exhaustion and hunger and disappointment and the warm car all conspired against him, overriding even his wet, freezing clothes, and before he'd fully realized it he was falling asleep.
His shoulder was shaken gently some time later, and Lowell blinked sleepily at whoever was doing the shaking, a shout not to steal his stuff on the tip of his tongue – then he saw pretty blue eyes behind spectacles and everything came back. "Oh! Sorry!"
Peter laughed. "No worries, come on inside."
Stumbling a bit while he fought against sleep, Lowell followed him up a gravel driveway to a side door that led into a cozy little kitchen. Blue and green, little splashes of yellow here and there, a sturdy little corner table with benches and stuff at one end, an island in the middle.
Nice. He'd had a brief stint as an assistant in a diner kitchen, once. Mostly his job had been dishwashing and trash duty and stuff, but the cook had taught him a few things and he'd had a lot of fun actually making food and seeing how certain things were made…and eating all the leftovers, of course.
He so wished he knew what to do with a kitchen like this, 'cause it looked like knowing would be a lot of fun.
Ah, well. It wasn't like he was going to be here long. He was pathetic enough to take what was offered and stay the night, but he'd sneak off before morning. No one liked losers hanging around.
"This way," Peter said, and Lowell rather thought he should be too tired to notice Peter had a pretty smile…but then again, he saw very little pretty in his life, and even less of it smiled at him.
Slowly he followed Peter into what proved to be the laundry room.
"Here," Peter said, taking a folded towel from where it sat with other stuff on top of the dryer. He pointed past Lowell's shoulder, to where he saw another door. "Bathroom is right through there, just to the right. You can leave all your stuff here, we'll get it washed. I'll scrounge up some extra clothes while you get warm and clean, then throw some sort of dinner together."
He departed before Lowell could get a word in edgewise. Lowell stood for a moment, staring and blinking. Then he finally shrugged and did as he was told. Far be it for him to argue, though it would suck later to put on his dirty clothes. Oh, well. Nothing for it.
Stripping out of said dirty clothes, he left them in a heap in front of the washing machine, then clutched the towel close and went where he was directed, more than a little disconcerted to be walking about a stranger's house butt naked – but the bathroom was almost immediately off the laundry room.
He caught a glimpse of stairs, and what looked like a living room, then he closed the bathroom door behind him and made a beeline for the shower. When it was hot enough to all but melt off his skin, he hopped in and just stood.
Oh, a guilty pleasure this, and he shouldn't just use someone else's hot water like this, but everyone else got to have hot water every day and his last hot shower he could barely remember and Peter had told him to take a shower… 'Werewolf Drowns in Water and Own Thoughts.'
Shaking his head at himself, Lowell snagged the soap and began to scrub and scrub, washing himself until his skin was raw and not much of the soap remained. He'd leave money to pay for it.
Scrubbed clean, he tackled his hair next, washing and rewashing until he almost thought it didn't look like a rat nest.
At last he gave in and after one last, glorious minute of standing in the hot water, he turned it off and climbed out – and jumped.
Clothes were waiting for him on the counter. Like, they looked brand new and everything. Even the boxers still had tags on them.
What really bothered him, however, was that he hadn't heard Peter come in. He hadn't been that enamored of the soap. Almost, but not quite. That wasn't like him; the fact that he always paid such careful attention to his surroundings was the reason he was a miserable werewolf rather than a dead one.
So why hadn't he heard Peter come in?
He shrugged the question off for the time being, and considered the clothes instead. Brand new, he felt more than a little guilty…but he'd take them off again before he left, so all was good. Tearing the tags off, he quickly pulled on the blue boxers, jeans, white t-shirt, dark green sweater, and lastly a pair of thick, soft, white socks.
Finally he dragged his eyes up the mirror – and was not as horrified by what he saw as he had been expecting. He'd always tried to care of himself as best he could, cadging and filching and stealing what he could on the chance that someday he might have to look healthy and presentable.
Cleaned up, with his blonde hair showing and the grime scrubbed away enough you could see his green eyes…he was no one's idea of a prize, especially since he was mostly bone, but…he wouldn't make little children cry either.
Taking a deep breath, he threw his towel in a hamper near the toilet, then finally let himself out of the bathroom and found his way quickly back to the kitchen.
His stomach growled as the smell of something that contained veggies and steak and potatoes hit his nostrils. He wanted to actually growl, which was sort of freaky, 'cause normally he did that shit only a lot closer to the full moon.
"Warm and refreshed?" Peter asked, giving him another pretty smile.
Lowell nodded, hastily looking away, eyes landing instead on the table and the wonderful smelling food on it. Some sort of casserole thingie, with all the yummy stuff layered just so, mashed potatoes on top.
Peter laughed softly, and Lowell jerked his gaze up, feeling his cheeks heat. "Sit down, eat. Lord knows I would never have been able to eat this much by myself. Women around here seem to think I'm perpetually starving."
Not quite certain what to say to that, Lowell slowly slid into one of the seats and…sat and waited. He totally had no clue about uh, manners and stuff. 'Werewolf Eats More Like Werepig, Says Horrified Local Doctor.'
Then Peter sat down, and almost before he could blink Lowell found himself staring at a heaping plate of food. It was probably the second-best thing he'd ever smelled in all his life…and he would figure out why it took second place to Peter and his weird yummy smell later.
Picking up his fork, Lowell began decimating the contents of his plate. It was briefly empty, then suddenly filled again, and he could not find it in him to protest. He wouldn't be able to eat like this again for a very long time.
When he finally finished, and bothered to look up, he realized that Peter was watching him with a smile curving his face.
Flushing, Lowell dropped his fork and ducked his head. "Sorry," he muttered. "Guess I was hungrier than I thought…I, uh, didn't mean to—"
"It's all right," Peter said, reaching out and lightly patting his hand. "All this is the very least I can do, the very least I owe you, after you worked so hard to come here for something that proved false."
Oh, yeah. Suddenly the reason he would be sneaking out later came crashing back down, and Lowell struggled not to let it get to him because he'd known it likely wasn't true but still who wanted to spend his whole life a freak?
Peter's hand was on his again, squeezing it tight. "I'm sorry," Peter said slowly. "I tried for years to develop a cure, truly I did, but I've never been able to make it work. I gave up for good two years ago. A brighter mind than mine will figure it out someday, perhaps."
Lowell nodded, trying to accept, cause he'd known all along in his heart of hearts…but…"Stacey just sounded so…so…"
"Convincing?" Peter finished, voice going hard and flat. "Yes, I'm sure he did. Stacey was very good at sounding convincing."
Startled, Lowell looked up, only to be completely thrown by the anger and pain that were etched deep into Peter's face, sunk into his eyes. "Um…" He licked his lips, feeling nervous, hating that Peter seemed so miserable suddenly. "You knew Stacey?"
Peter nodded, voice still so flat and cold when he answered. "Yes, I knew Stacey." He started to say more when the back door abruptly flew open.
Lowell stared, nostrils flaring at the smell of blood that washed over him. Yet he could not associate it with the woman who stood in the doorway, though she was unmistakably the source.
She was…colorful. Jangly. Her skirt was made of all kinds of blocks of different colors and patterns, like she'd made it from a quilt or something. She wore a bright red tanktop, and jangled because of the profusions of beads and bells and other random bits and charms at her neck, wrists, and waist. Her blonde hair was just as crazy as the rest, curly here, braided there, most of it held up off her neck by a pair of red chopsticks. Pretty, but sort of overwhelming, and the color and beads and all were completely at odds with what he knew her smell to be.
"Vampire," he said in disbelief as she drew close enough there could be no mistaking the scent.
Peter groaned. "Bloodsucker, go away. Learn to knock."
The woman sniffed, planting a hand on her hips, a measuring cup clasped idly in the other. "If I knocked, you wouldn't let me in. Easier to skip that part."
"Go away, Sally," Peter repeated, glaring.
Instead, Sally just ignored him and strode to the counter near the stove, pulling forward a blue porcelain container, pouring out some of the contents into her measuring cup. "So who's the cutie?" she asked as she returned the container and wandered to the table.
Lowell just stared. He'd seen vampires before; they were usually kinda scary though they'd never actually bothered him. Always in the cities, though, he'd never seen them in the small towns. Not that he'd been in many small towns himself, but still.
"You're scaring him," Peter said sharply. "You scare everybody."
"Not you," Sally said, rolling her eyes. "I’m not scaring him. He's—"
"Probably not even eighteen," Peter said sharply. "I found him walking along the highway, and he was on his way to see me."
Sally blinked. "Oh. I see." She moved around the table and plopped down next to Lowell, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "You're a handsome one, no mistake. If I ever divorce my idiot husband, you and me can run away together."
Peter groaned. "I'm so about to go fetch your husband."
"Don’t you dare, he's still recovering from your nasty little stunt with the flares."
"You started it this time, bloodsucker," Peter retorted. "Next time tell him not to get in the line of fire."
Sally sniffed. "Whatever, Mad Scientist."
Lowell wondered if it were possible to discreetly slip under the table and then sneak away.
"You get used to her after awhile," Peter said, smiling briefly at him before shooting another glare at Sally.
"He's a cutie, really. Gonna keep him around?"
They exchanged a look, and Lowell knew undercurrents when he felt them. What was going on? Should he bolt? The arm around his shoulders was starting to freak him out. People didn't touch him. Ever. Unless they were cops or something and those guys were never nice except for like one who'd given him a cup of coffee and kept looking vaguely guilty.
"Let him go, Sally."
Instead of arguing, as Lowell had half expected, Sally promptly let him go and stood up, wandering to the fridge and pulling out a carton of eggs. She selected two and put them carefully on top of her sugar.
"I am not your grocery store, you damn bloodsucker," Peter said, standing up in exasperation and taking away the butter she'd just stolen.
Sally snatched it back, set it with her sugar, then vanished into the pantry. "Yes, you are. Especially when I'm making cookies. Don't you have any cocoa?"
"Third shelf, toward the back," Peter said, rolling his eyes at Lowell before striding over to the coffee maker tucked away in the corner of the counter near the sink. "Do you like coffee, Lowell?"
"Uh, yes," Lowell said. He loved coffee, not least of all because people would most often give him that for free. Coffee, (powdered) cream, and sugar tended to be his most common food groups.
Sally returned from the pantry, arms loaded down with various things – cocoa, chocolate chips, nuts… She smiled at him, setting everything on the table. "Do you like cookies, Lowell? I'm making double chocolate, classic chocolate chip, sugar cookies, and probably peanut butter or my husband will whine like a five year old."
Lowell tried not to stare, but he suspected he was failing. "Uh…you are a vampire, right?"
"Yes," Sally said, laughing. "The cookies are for the school fair tomorrow. I always help stock the snack bar. Plenty left over for my darling neighbor, however, even if he should still be in trouble for the flare stunt."
Peter snorted. "You started it, bloodsucker, and given you just emptied my pantry to make the cookies – you can share the goods."
Sally rolled her eyes at Lowell, then winked at him. "Have you got a basket? I forgot to bring one, and I can't carry all this back by myself."
"You!" Peter said, heaving a long sigh before stomping off into the laundry room. He came back with a basket that looked like an Easter Bunny reject and knocked Sally lightly upside the head with it.
"Thank you, darling grocery boy."
"Bloodsucker!"
"Mad Scientist!" Packing everything neatly into the basket, she wiggled her finger at Lowell and departed as suddenly as she had come.
Peter rolled his eyes again as he returned with two cups of coffee, departing briefly to fetch a sugar bowl and a carton of half & half from the fridge. "You get used to her after a bit. Vampires think they can muck with everyone and everything. Need to be kept in line." He grinned as he sat down, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
Was it okay to find his rescuer attractive? That was probably against the rules, or at the least very stupid – but ignoring shit like that was what had kept him alive. Despite everything, Peter smelled good and looked good and that definitely meant Lowell needed to go the very minute the getting was good.
He fixed his coffee and sipped it slowly, and wished he could freeze time right like this, where everything was perfect and nothing was going to ever go wrong. "Um. Thank you for, uh, all of this. I'm sorry to be such a problem."
Peter looked at him, smiling softly. "You're not a problem. I live here all alone; it's always nice to have someone else about. Besides, it's mostly my fault you're here at all. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. Was there anywhere else you needed to be?"
"No," Lowell said, almost laughing. Where would he have to go?
"If you don't mind my asking," Peter said slowly, setting his coffee down. "How old are you?"
Lowell shrugged, and looked down at his own coffee, humiliation making his cheeks hot. "I don't know." How could he? Vaguely he remembered an orphanage or something, but one too many fights with some of the others…
After that, it seemed there was always a reason no one wanted him around – even other supernaturals. The few wolves he'd encountered hadn't wanted company, which he'd never gotten, cause it'd be nice not to be the only wolf…
"That's what I thought," Peter said thoughtfully, idly tracing the rim of his cup. "If I had to guess, I would say you are right around eighteen, give or take a few months…" He smiled faintly. "Not that it really matters, forgive a scientist his curiosity."
Lowell shrugged, confused but beyond caring. It didn't matter to him how old he was, if it interested someone else, fine.
Peter laughed softly and stood to fetch the coffee pot, refilling Lowell's mug. "I'm glad you appear to have escaped being sick. I've learned the hard way that werewolves make lousy patients." He winked.
"Being sick sucks," Lowell said, because it did. He hated being sick. It just made the wolf stuff harder to control and contain, and he pretty much wanted to bite every stupid person that crossed his path.
He didn't know much about being a werewolf, but he'd learned pretty young not to bite people. Not that he usually wanted to, people never smelled like something he'd want to sink his teeth into.
Sometimes he wondered who had bitten him. The other werewolves he'd met knew who had bitten them, and why. Lowell couldn't remember; he must have been really tiny when he'd been bitten. There wasn't even a scar. He wondered what sort of jerk inflicted ly-whatever on a poor, dumb kid.
"You look ready to fall over," Peter said, breaking into his thoughts.
Lowell shrugged. He was tired, but really it seemed like he was always tired.
"Come on, you can catch some z's. I keep weird hours, I warn you now. All of Midsummer keeps weird hours, minus a small handful." Peter smiled. "It's a supernatural kind of town, really. Even the humans here have some sort of connection to supernaturals."
"Um…" Lowell had never heard of such a thing. He rarely ever saw supernaturals. Sometimes he swore the ones he did see tried to avoid him, except that was dumb – well, unless they were avoiding the werewolf hobo, which made sense, but sometimes he got good work and managed to be respectable for a bit and even then none of them hung about him for long. "That's weird."
"It's certainly not common, but I promise you won't be treated here the same as you've probably been treated everywhere else. Especially if you've got Sally's approval, which I think you do. No one is going to cross a top vamp, even if most other vampires consider her an embarrassment to their name."
Lowell almost smiled, but felt bad doing so. "I've never seen another vampire like her, though I haven't seen many. What's a…top vamp?"
Peter looked at him in surprise. "Do you not know anything about vampires? What do you know about werewolves?"
"Umm…vampires are scary, especially the ones that smell like there's something wrong with their blood. I met two others that smell like Sally, though I only saw them from far away."
"Top vampires," Peter said. "They've been around usually for centuries. I think Sally staked a claim here back when it was just a handful of shacks and a village well. Her husband – just one of her eccentricities – is human. Jordan, he's a nice guy, with the patience of a saint if he's married to her." He winked again, then turned more serious. "So you really don't know much about werewolves?"
Lowell shrugged. "Not really. Biting spreads it. I've never run across many others, and they never wanted to stick around. I don't remember who bit me or why."
"Bit you?" Peter repeated softly. "I see."
"See what?" Lowell asked.
"Mm, you really do look tired," Peter said. "I shouldn't keep rambling on. Come on, I'll show you to your bed, and get you settled, and we can talk more over breakfast."
Lowell frowned. But he'd been about to talk about werewolves…why would he stop? That wasn't fair. How did a human doctor know more about werewolves than him? He probably even knew that stupid Ly-word Lowell could never remember. "But—how do you know so much about werewolves? Were you really working on a cure? What…" What was going on, and why did he feel like he was missing something?
Peter reached out to lightly hold his hand again. "I promise I will explain what I know, and why, in due time. But right now you're tired and upset, and being inundated with information would not help you at all. I should never have started asking questions; my curiosity gets me in a lot of trouble. Come, let's get you to bed."
He tried to muster a protest, but even with the coffee in his system Lowell was suddenly succumbing to the exhaustion he'd been fighting since Peter had woken him up in the car. Shelving the protests for later, he went obediently as Peter guided him out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into a room that smelled like it hadn't been used for a bit. All the people smells were old, faded, and the sheets as he fell down on them smelled like nothing more than detergent.
It occurred to him belatedly, as he grew too heavy and sleepy to move, that if he wanted answers then he couldn't sneak away…but could he stay? Why would Peter want him to stay?
Then sleep took him, and the questions left him in peace for a time.
Lowell didn't know what to do with himself.
After eating breakfast, Peter had told him to 'explore and have fun' before vanishing through a door beneath the stairs. Lowell wondered what was down there, because it was obviously a lot more than a closet unless Peter was particularly strange.
Explore and have fun?
He got the explore part well enough, but how exactly was he supposed to go about having fun? What was fun? He didn't have a whole lot of 'fun' memories stored for reference. In his experience, fun usually required money and even though he now had two hundred dollars to play with…he had no idea what to buy with it.
Well, new soap and detergent and all kinds of things he should replace for Peter since he was using them.
Exploring the house didn't take long. It was a pretty big house, but half the downstairs was given over to a little clinic thing packed with all kinds of weird stuff that he was pretty sure, though not positive, were normally in a doctor's office.
The rest of the downstairs was a living room, and something that looked like a second, smaller living room but with more books and board games and a TV and stuff. Otherwise, it was just the bathroom, kitchen, and laundry room.
Upstairs was just three bedrooms and another bathroom, a couple of closets. Lots of windows, most of the coloring blue and green and gray, though 'his' bedroom was red and brown.
He wondered who had used it before. No hint of the former occupant remained, even most of the smell – not enough of it to give him some picture of the owner.
Not that he was really trying anymore, not after realizing he'd gotten some faint whiff of sex. It still felt like his face was on fire, cause that was so none of his business.
Still, probably a lover or something of Peter's? Which definitely meant it was none of his business.
Where was Peter? Well, down in the basement or whatever, but why was he still down there? It was almost lunch time.
Should he go outside, explore the yard?
Aargh, what was he supposed to do? Well, leave, and go be somewhere else, cause he never stayed in one place very long but then again he'd never been anywhere quite like this either.
He was giving himself a headache. Sighing, Lowell wandered back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. It was, for whatever reason, his favorite room to be in – assuming less than twenty four hours was enough time to pick a favorite room.
Maybe because one of his few good memories was of his stint as a cook's assistant. That had been fun, at least parts of it. Cutting stuff, frying it, grilling it, roasting, boiling…he so wished he could have hung around longer to learn more.
Wouldn't it be neat if he knew how to cook? Sadly, he just didn't know much. The diner had been an 'old-fashioned cooking' kind of place, and he hadn't been there long enough to learn all of it. Biscuits he remembered, and fried chicken but that had required a lot of work and he hadn't been allowed to do the actual cooking stuff though oh man had he watched and eaten the leftovers.
They'd had cereal and bananas for breakfast, and Sally had borrowed some eggs and he definitely knew how to cook eggs…
But was he allowed? Would he get in trouble?
He snorted at that. Get in trouble. Like that was new, or even mattered. He got in trouble, Peter kicked him out, that was that. Back to life as normal. It wasn't like this weird situation would last.
Shrugging, he slowly wandered the kitchen hunting down everything he thought he'd need, coming up with a skillet, eggs, butter, cheese, several things from a spice rack that made him gawk, a few other things and then he slowly started to get to work.
Scrambled eggs weren't really much, but it was the one thing he knew he could do without burning the house down. Or otherwise screw up. 'Werewolf and Kitchen Tragic Combination.' Frowning, he dumped the whisked eggs into the warmed skillet and watched carefully as they cooked.
He was so busy concentrating, on fretting about what would happen when – if – Peter came upstairs, that the new scent didn't register until a voice broke into his thoughts.
"Smells good."
Lowell jumped, the new scent hitting his nose even as he dropped his spatula and it clattered to the kitchen floor.
"Sorry!" The new guy, pushing up the glasses on his nose, smiled sheepishly. "I figured you'd know I was here, though you were looking pretty hard at those eggs."
Nodding, Lowell bent to retrieve the dropped spatula, then moved to the sink to wash it. "You smell like the vampire," he said slowly. "Uh. Are you allowed in here?"
"Yeah," the man replied. "Name's Jordan. I stopped by to meet the new werewolf my wife keeps going on and on about. I think I'd be jealous, except I know better." He winked, and briefly touched his neck, where Lowell could see what were obviously bite marks. He jerked his gaze away, realizing he was staring.
Jordan laughed softly, but it was a kind rather than a mean sound, or so Lowell thought but who knew? "Have you never seen vamp bites before?"
Lowell shook his head, feeling his cheeks grow hot, and turned back to save his eggs from burning. "I'm a loner."
"So was I, actually," Jordan replied. Then he grinned. "Vampire hunters by and large tend to be loners. There are exceptions, but most of us work alone." He moved closer to the stove. "Can I steal some?"
"You…want some of the eggs?" Lowell asked, surprised.
"They smell really good," Jordan said. "Don't tell her I said so, cause I'll die a slow and painful death, but Sally is much better at baking than cooking." He winked. "Of course, she's a vampire and rather an old one at that. Don't tell her I said that either."
Lowell stared at him.
Jordan smiled. "So can I have some eggs? Cause my cooking is worse than Sally's, though neither of us is nearly as bad as Peter. You'd think a man who dealt with formulae and stuff would be better at measuring out flour, but let me tell you the one day he tried to make a cake it—"
"Continue with that sentence, Jordan, and I'll tell your wife everything you just said," Peter said from the hallway, glaring at him.
"Whoops. Busted. Can I still have eggs?"
Peter moved into the kitchen, still glaring, but Lowell almost thought he looked amused too. "No, you may not, for attempting to tell humiliating stories about me."
"At least I didn't bring up the incident—"
"Finish that sentence and the next time I throw my handy little 'solar flares' down the chimney your vision will suffer a lot longer than twenty four hours."
Jordan laughed. "She was pissed with you, man. Sometimes I think I miss the good ol' days of courtship. I got away with more when she thought I was being a cute little human trying to flirt."
Peter rolled his eyes.
"Um," Lowell broke in hesitantly. "Do you want to eat?"
"Yes," Peter and Jordan chorused, breaking off their congenial bickering to fetch plates and forks, and before Lowell could blink his scrambled eggs were gone from the pan, on three plates – and mostly gone by the time he sat down to enjoy his own.
He listened as they continued to talk and bicker, eating his eggs quickly, trying not to smile because there was no good reason to smile, though he was glad his eggs didn't taste awful and that he wasn't in trouble.
The words 'vampire hunter' broke into his idle thoughts, and he looked up, speaking before he thought better of it. "What's a vampire hunter?"
As the talking ceased and they both looked at him in brief surprise, Lowell wished he'd remembered in time to keep his mouth shut.
Then Peter shook his head, and Jordan smiled ruefully. "You're not kidding," Jordan said with an easy smile. "He really did manage to avoid learning anything. How, though?"
Peter shrugged. "It wouldn't be hard, all things considered."
"True enough, I suppose," Jordan muttered.
Lowell wished he understood what they were talking about.
Jordan shook his head. "Sorry. Um, there are different kinds of vampires. What we in the business typically call Broken, Average, and Tops."
"Sally…Peter called a Top."
"Yeah, that's right," Jordan said. "A vampire is considered a top when he's a hundred and eighty years old, or roughly three times the average span of a human life. That's about the point when they're well and truly adjusted to being vampire rather than human, and can more or less be trusted not to go on massive killing/making sprees. Uh, making as in 'making more vampires' cause they're only allowed to make so many per decade."
Lowell nodded, not sure he got it but it was still more than he'd ever known.
Jordan continued. "Average vampires are the middle ones, the young ones, those turned that seem to be doing well but haven't reached that definitive point yet. Most of them won't, cause forgetting how to be human is hard."
"Broken vampires are those that aren't well-made, or simply don't take, as well as some averages who over time can't take it. Vampire hunters come in two main grades – those who hunt broken vamps and those averages who break the rules, and then those who watch over the tops."
"Uh, okay," Lowell said. He wanted to ask more questions, cause he totally didn't get half of it, but a more pressing question burned to be asked. "Is there, um, stuff like that for werewolves?"
The two men exchanged a look. Lowell hated when people did that. It never spelled good news for him.
Finally Peter spoke. "Werewolves…are something else entirely. There's a popular theory that vampires and werewolves are closely related. Both are transmitted through bites, both have a fatal allergy to silver, both are in some way tied to the night…and no one knows where or how they originate. The oldest of both races are long dead, and not even the oldest vampires, it's said, remembered much of anything about their origins. It's believed to be a combination of science and magic, some experiment that had two end results. We'll never know for certain."
"What we do know," Jordan said, "is that vampires became jealous of werewolves. They saw to it that almost all werewolves were wiped out, and I'm sure they'd all be gone except there were enough who helped at least some werewolves survive. Sally, for instance, never hated them."
Lowell stared. "Jealous?" he asked.
"Yes," Peter said, fidgeting with his glasses. "Most only change with a full moon, so once a month…otherwise they are mostly human, able to blend with humans better…and can move about in daylight. More important still, they can mate with humans, and do not require human blood to live. Vampires are more powerful, and immortal…but they lose much of the freedom which werewolves retained."
Jordan pushed his own glasses up his nose, and Lowell thought it was kind of funny they both did that. "For a time, it was said some of the best vampire hunters in the world were werewolves. Even today, there's a pretty famous family in the business that people swear have werewolf blood in their veins."
Lowell frowned. "How can they have wolf blood and not be werewolves? That doesn't make sense."
"It's like anything passed on through blood," Peter said. "Over time, if not kept strong, it fades and thins out. I doubt there's much of it left, especially if no werewolves have popped up in the bloodline after so many years."
Jordan snorted. "One never knows with that loud and proud lot."
Lowell shook his head, utterly confused. "I don't get it. What do you mean passed on through blood?"
Dismay flickered across Peter's face. "Ah—I keep forgetting, even as we discuss this, that you just don't know these things. Not all werewolves are the result of biting. Some are simply born. It's passed through genetics as easily as through a bite. Though, it's rare. Often it just sits dormant. Like in the case of the hunter family we were just discussing. Depends."
"Oh," Lowell said quietly. "Um…could that, uh, be why I don't remember getting bitten?"
"Probably," Peter said gently. "Very likely, you had a parent who was a werewolf. I could not say for certain, of course, but if you do not have a bite scar…"
I don't," Lowell said quietly, staring at his empty plate. It didn't really matter, of course, how he'd become a werewolf…except…if his mother or father had known what he might be born as…why would they abandon him to it? Why had no one told him? Why had no one cared?
Stupid questions, for which he would never find answers, so it was pointless wondering. So he was a born werewolf rather than a made. He felt stupid for not knowing such a thing was possible, but ultimately it didn't make a difference so he should just stop wondering.
Peter and Jordan were looking at him uneasily, and exchanging looks again, but Lowell didn't want to know this time. He'd had more than enough information for one day.
Standing, he gathered up the plates and skillet and moved to the sink to wash the dishes.
"You don't have to do that," Peter said, standing up and joining him at the sink. "You cooked, I'll wash. House rules."
Jordan snorted, earning a glare from Peter, and then fell silent.
"Here, go sit down," Peter said with a smile, and Lowell meant to protest – he really did, because he was the one mooching off of Peter so the least he could do was cook and clean as best he was able…but it was hard to muster an argument against that smile, and it was already distracting enough how good Peter still smelled.
He really needed to figure that out. Distracted by his own thoughts, he returned to the table and obediently sat down, toying restlessly with a paper napkin.
"So are you going to resume the experiments then?" Jordan asked into the silence.
"No," Peter said sharply, turning around.
Jordan held up his hands. "I didn't know, man. Neither did Sally. Thought I'd ask. Why not?"
"Because there will never be a cure," Peter said, voice still sharp, but Lowell could detect a trace of sadness in it. "After so many years of trying, I am willing to admit an exercise in futility at last. Stacey was the last straw."
"Stacey," Jordan said contemptuously, "deserved to be taken into the woods and—"
"That's enough!" Peter said, all but shouting the words – and punctuated by the plate that shattered as it slipped from his hands. "Damn it." He sighed and walked gingerly across the kitchen, vanishing into the laundry room and returning with a broom and dustpan. "Just stay there," he said, motioning for Lowell to sit when he would have stood to help.
Jordan grimaced. "I'm sorry, Peter."
Peter sighed as he dumped broken porcelain into the trash, and started sweeping the floor a second time. "No. You're right. I know it. Still a sore subject I guess."
Lowell wondered if maybe he should leave. He so hated not knowing what was going on. Was he part of the problem? Stacey was a werewolf, and one who had known Peter…and he wondered how they had known each other, given how upset and all Peter got.
He bit back any questions though. He didn’t know much, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
"Maybe now's a good time for me to take my leave, before I shove my foot so far into my mouth I start choking on it," Jordan said. He stood and clapped Peter on the back, waved to Lowell, and then was gone.
Peter started to speak when the back door abruptly opened again.
"I think you've got a patient coming, Doc," Jordan said, holding up a hand to forestay whatever remark Peter was about to make. "Looks like Ms. Holly's truck."
"Oh, great," Peter said with a sigh. He rolled his eyes, and then vanished briefly to return the broom and dustpan to the laundry room.
Lowell sat, wishing he knew what he was supposed to do.
Jordan vanished again, and Peter pinched the bridge of his nose.
After a moment he looked up, and a weak smile curved his mouth. "You look more than a little confused, Low. I apologize for being so obtuse and unpleasant. Stacey is an unpleasant subject for—" He broke off as a car horn blared, and heaved a long sigh as it faded.
Wry amusement lit his eyes as he turned again to Lowell. "Ms. Holly is one of the town Gossips. She comes here every couple of days to try and weasel out of me whatever I might know about everyone else who has been to see me – and she knows exactly who has been out here." He rolled his eyes as a sharp buzzer rang throughout the house. "I will bet my laboratory she's here to see you, so best come and get it over with." He winked, then motioned for Lowell to follow him.
Bemused, Lowell went obediently, trailing along as they went from the living portion of the house to the clinic areas.
"Ms. Holly," Peter said cheerfully, smiling and holding out his hands to the woman who harrumphed loudly before setting her hands in his. Peter kissed her cheek. "You look as wonderful as always. What ails you, my dear lady?"
If she heard anything he said, she made no show of it, her bright green eyes solely for Lowell.
She smelled like medicine and stale flowers, a little bit like honey, and man did he know her type – Scary Old Lady. He backed up as she let go of Peter to come toward him, looking warily at the massive handbag hanging from her forearm. He swore they carried bricks in those things.
No way was he getting in range of the thing.
"My, my, you are a handsome one, aren't you?" Ms. Holly muttered. "Sally wasn't kidding."
"Sally?" Peter said sharply. "What in the hell has that bloodsucker been saying now?"
Ms. Holly glared at him. "You should not call her ladyship by such a crass term. Honestly, Peter, your mother instilled manners in you. Make use of them."
Lowell frowned. She really shouldn't speak to Peter like that, especially since Sally didn't care if he called her a bloodsucker. He rather thought it was like the way she called Peter Mad Scientist…though he'd only been here a night and a day, so what did he really know?
"Anyway," Ms. Holly continued with a sniff. "She said only that Peter had a new housemate, and he was young and very handsome. I see she did not lie."
Peter shook his head. "If you wanted to come for a visit, Ms. Holly, you could have simply knocked on the front door."
"Bah!" Ms. Holly said, flapping one arm furiously back and forth, the floral pattern of her knee-length, long-sleeved dress moving wildly enough it almost made Lowell dizzy. He wondered what the point of the dress was, cause it really didn't look good, but he sensed saying such a thing would be more fatal to his continued existence than silver. "I'm too busy to run about on frivolous pursuits of curiosity." She turned with a weird sort of flounce toward the back room, saying something about a painful cough.
Lowell looked at Peter, who rolled his eyes. "She's never been sick a day in her life," Peter said. "She just seems to think none of us knows we're being interrogated." He winked. "You can go find something more amusing to do, if you like. Sorry about all this. Price of small towns is popping up in the local gossip periodically." He laughed, and winked again. "I bet most of my visits the rest of the day and night will all be people wanting a look at my young and handsome border. Go have fun, I'll see you for dinner."
With that, he strode after Ms. Holly, leaving Lowell feeling more than a little dazed and confused. He hadn't cared at all when Ms. Holly had called him handsome, or even that she'd been repeating Sally's words. He didn't believe it. Even on those few other occasions he'd been cleaned up, no one had called him handsome.
Yet hearing Peter say the exact same thing made his cheeks feel hot, made him all the more painfully aware of just how yummy Peter always smelled.
Oh, great. That explained the smell at least in part, and of course the fact that Peter was being nice to him for no good reason would amplify it – it was just that those who stirred lust didn't normally have such a smell, so he hadn't quite connected it.
Typical of his stupid life to feel a bit of lust for someone who was just being nice, and probably would begin to hint – if not outright demand – that he move on.
Part II
In three parts, though I think everyone knew that
Midsummer's Moon
Part One: Waxing Moon
Lowell sighed as yet another car passed him by, and made a note to hate the driver and passengers the rest of his life. 'Body Found By Highway: No One Would Give Poor Werewolf A Ride in the Rain.'
The cold rain that was probably going to give him hypothermia or the flu or whatever. Maybe that was for the best, really. 'Werewolf Finally Dies: World Sleeps Better.'
Shaking his head at himself, Lowell waited until the car was well out of sight and truly had no intention of maybe turning around to help the poor bastard drowning slowly to death after all.
Damn it, he just wanted not to be wet anymore. He'd been needing a shower, but this was so not what he'd had in mind. Now if the rain was near-boiling and had come with soap…
Ugh, he must be tired if he was thinking such stupid thoughts.
At least it was a light, if steady, downpour. Unfortunately, the sun had decided to continue obeying the laws of nature. Or space. Physics? Whatever. It had decided to set, rather than help him by not setting, and his chances of hitching a ride diminished by the minute. When it was finally well and truly dark, he could kiss any hope of one goodbye. Dark automatically made him evil and scary, even if he was nothing more than some sort of sad, drowning puppy.
Werewolf. Drowning Puppy. Haha. 'Werewolf Kills Self To Spare World Bad Humor.'
He probably should have tried to sneak a sleep at the last gas station, but the clerk had creeped him out in no small way. Being a werewolf wasn't good for much, but it helped loads with the self-preservation thing.
At least the last sign had said Midsummer's Night was only twenty miles away.
Twenty miles and he could, at the very least, spend an hour or few in a waiting room. Like as not Dr. Kuhl would want nothing to do with him, and have security or something escort him out – that'd happened enough times in his life for him to know when it could happen – but at least for a bit he'd be warm and dry. Maybe there'd be time to read a few magazines, have a nap…
He really had come far in life, Lowell thought miserably, when the highlight of his day was killing time in some doctor's waiting room. Pathetic. He slid a hand into his pocket and touched the ziplock within it, filched from a shelter kitchen to protect his precious slip of paper from the elements.
Nothing but a name, an address, and the directions he'd gotten off a library computer. Not much at all, but it was a goal – a sliver of hope.
Hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to become normal. Get rid of the damned curse which had ruined any chance he had of a life. To be human, rather than some horrid monster no one could stand.
Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to get his hopes too high – it did seem kinda farfetched that anyone could actually make a cure for werewolf. He thought there was a fancier term for it. Ly-something.
Though at the rate he was going, it might not matter. He sneezed hard, shuddering in the rain, his clothes totally not up for the inclement weather. He'd had a raincoat once, an ugly red thing with an even uglier plaid lining, but it had been warm and dry. That's what he got for falling asleep at a bus station. He should have worked harder at staying awake. Served him right.
Drat it. Not so much as a single car. Even for an old highway this was a bit ridiculous.
Not that it really mattered. Raining and getting darker by the second – he should stop looking for a ride and look for a place he could sleep without getting run over or picked up by cops or mugged or something.
For better or worse, he was still two weeks from changing. Just as well, in the end, because he might have been tempted to travel as a wolf and he resisted such temptations whenever possible. The last time that had happened… Lowell shuddered and turned his thoughts elsewhere.
No, wolf form meant finding a place to hide until the hell was over.
Instead of bad memories, he turned to his most-hated, favorite game of 'what if'.
What if this Dr. Kuhl really had found a cure for ly…ly…werewolf-ness? What if he was good enough to give it to Lowell? Would he expect cash? The thought soured Lowell's stomach, because what little money he did have he'd refused to spend on the hope a meager two hundred dollars would be enough to pay for the cure, and he had the sinking feeling it wouldn't be nearly enough.
Maybe, however, Dr. Kuhl would let him work to cover the rest of it. He could certainly think of worse arrangements. Just stupid grunt work, but it wasn't like he could do anything else.
Then…then he'd finally have the cure, and would be normal and people wouldn't freak out and shun him or try to turn him over to animal control or the cops. They wouldn't try to shoot him or toss silver at him…and…
And it was all stupid daydreaming, because even assuming for one minute there was a cure and the doctor would give it to a nobody werewolf like him, he still would have a long way to go before he was anything but a homeless, worthless nobody.
Still, life would be a lot easier when he wasn't part wolf.
It would.
Determination renewed, he trudged on through the rain, glaring at the now nearly-set sun. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd had to trudge about everywhere in the dark. He'd live. Probably.
He sneezed again, steps faltering, sneaker catching on some stray bit of rubble and Lowell went tumbling, landing hard on the roadside. Damn it. 'Werewolf Killed By Own Clumsiness.'
Rolling his eyes, Lowell started to get up again – then just fell back down, suddenly too tired to move. His motivation of only seconds before had gone out like a light. What was he thinking, seriously? He was wearing jeans that had more holes than he could count, socks that were only clean because he'd collected enough change to do some laundry. The expense had made him cringe, but he definitely wasn't going to get a cure if he smelled like a garbage pit…an old corduroy jacket that should have been retired long ago…and hair so scraggly it was probably hard to tell he did, in fact, spend most of his time in a human-shaped form.
Homeless and pathetic, that's all he was, and one glance was all it took for anyone to figure it out. No way was some semi-famous doctor going to waste his time on a vagabond werewolf when he could sell the cure for thousands or even more to wealthy werewolves.
If there was such a thing, Lowell supposed. Probably there was. Surely not all werewolves were like him…but he'd only ever met a handful of others, and none of them had been much better off than he. There didn't seem to be many of them, but there must be if werewolves kept popping up, if a doctor would go to the trouble of creating a cure.
Right?
So, likely Dr. Kuhl would just call security and that would be that.
Which meant, nice waiting room aside, he was wasting his time. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should take his pathetic two hundred dollars and a find a room and food and then in the morning he could scrounge up some work to do to make more money.
…and pretend to be normal until the full moon struck and he turned into a wolf and either was accidentally seen or missed work and was fired, or something more disastrous (which had never happened to him, but he'd heard stories from the few other wolves, and didn't want a story of his own to tell).
Sighing, Lowell tried to make himself stand, because doing something was better than nothing – but for more years than he could remember he'd been trying one thing or another and all it had gotten him was an address and an empty road while the rain slowly pneumonia-ed him to death.
His head jerked up at the sound of a car, and he reflexively held out a thumb – wholly unsurprised when it kept right on going, paying him no mind.
Jerks. Couldn't they see he was too wet and cold and miserable to be a crazy ax murderer? His poor little backpack, filched from a dumpster, couldn't even hold an axe. It barely held his spare clothes as it was.
Lowell yawned, and gave serious consideration to the idea of falling over and going to sleep right in the puddle he was occupying.
Another car approached, but he didn't bother to try and flag it down, simply waited for it to zoom on past.
Except…he must be going crazy, cause it sure as hell sounded like it was slowing down…
Looking up, he saw that either he was sick enough the hallucinations had started – or the car really had stopped.
Then a man got out, bearing an umbrella, and jogged toward him.
"Are you okay?" the man asked. Lowell couldn't really see him much, not with the rain and dark and only the car for light…but his voice was pleasant. He knew real kindness when he heard it, and despite the sneezing his sense of smell wasn't totally gone.
What little he could smell actually smelled…yummy. Bad dog. No weird thoughts. Humans did not smell yummy, except to big bad wolfs and he wasn't one of those, no.
"Um…" Lowell tried to think of something to say, but obviously his brain was waterlogged. 'Mute Werewolf Left to Die.' Yeah, that'd be fitting.
But his possible rescuer didn't seem fazed at all, merely smiled and reached out to grasp Lowell's arm, tugging him up and close enough to stand beneath the large umbrella. "Come on, my friend, you can't stay out here – you'll catch your death, if you haven't already."
Lowell started to speak, then realized he'd probably only say 'um' again, and snapped his mouth shut.
Too tired to worry if Mr. Nice Guy might be the axe murderer, he allowed himself to be dragged toward and pushed down into the car.
Oh, heat. He was making a mess of the car and felt really bad about that, but the heat was turned on and rain wasn't falling on his head anymore and he didn't have to keep walking for at least a little bit…
It was almost enough to make him cry.
The driver door opened, his rescuer sliding into the seat, and Lowell dared to take a wary peek, never certain what to say or do in these rare moments where someone was nice to him.
Damn.
Was it a blessing or a curse that his rescuer was insanely hot? Not like, typical hot, but…something out of an old book or movie hot. Khakis, oxford, a long trench coat he hadn't bothered to fasten up… Slender, but not boney, dark hair and pretty blue eyes behind old-fashioned looking spectacles. Pretty.
"You look as though you've endured more than your fair share of the rain," the man said with a gentle laugh, fingers moving absently over the dash as he cranked the heat up, adjusted the vents. "We should be home shortly, you can shower and dry off and all there; I should even have some clothes lying about the place."
Lowell blinked. Come again? "Um – you don't – that is – I don't want to be a bother. Um. Thanks for the lift, it's really appreciated." He sneezed hard, and was almost grateful for it cutting off the rest of the stupidity that would have fallen out of his dumb mouth.
The man laughed. "Not a bother. You're welcome. I insist you come to my house. I promise I won't kill you or anything. Where are you headed?"
"Um." Lowell wanted to smack his head against the window. Think, stupid. Speak. Good dog. "I'm trying to get to Midsummer's Night."
"I see," the man said softly, and Lowell wondered why the happy tone of his voice had suddenly shifted. His smell had altered too, and he'd better stop thinking about smell because now that they were out of the rain he was forced to conclude that the stranger really and truly did smell yummy.
He couldn't quite define what yummy meant, but he knew that was definitely the way to describe it.
Damn it.
He licked his lips, and started speaking again just to drown his own dumb thoughts. "I'm, uh, looking for a guy…um, a doctor actually."
"Yeah, I rather imagined you were," the man replied sadly. He extended his hand, smiling in a way that was far from happy. "Doctor Peter Kuhl, at your service."
Lowell felt the hope he'd been trying not to have wither and die in his chest, leaving a terrible ache. "You are?" At Dr. Kuhl's nod, his shoulders drooped. "You don't have a cure."
"No," Dr. Kuhl said softly. "I do not. I'm afraid it's a rumor I've been trying to kill for a very long time." The hand Lowell hadn't shaken landed gently on his shoulder. "But, come home with me. I promise my house is always welcome to any werewolf in need of one. Get clean, warm, fed, and rested. We'll figure out the rest in the morning, okay? What's your name?"
He tried to argue, to make himself get out of the car or something, because what was the point if there was no cure?
But beggars could not be choosers, and he was definitely a beggar, and even if this guy was a lying axe murderer or simply an honest, simple doctor with no cure for werewolves – and he'd known Lowell was a werewolf, obviously, and that said a lot – that was still probably the best offer Lowell had ever heard. In his entire life.
"Okay," he said. Then he tried to remember his manners. "Thank you, Dr. Kuhl. Oh, um. My name is Lowell."
"You should not be thanking me for anything," Dr. Kuhl replied. "Please, call me Peter. It's about thirty minutes to my house yet, so go ahead and relax a bit."
Lowell nodded, having no intention of doing any such thing, but exhaustion and hunger and disappointment and the warm car all conspired against him, overriding even his wet, freezing clothes, and before he'd fully realized it he was falling asleep.
His shoulder was shaken gently some time later, and Lowell blinked sleepily at whoever was doing the shaking, a shout not to steal his stuff on the tip of his tongue – then he saw pretty blue eyes behind spectacles and everything came back. "Oh! Sorry!"
Peter laughed. "No worries, come on inside."
Stumbling a bit while he fought against sleep, Lowell followed him up a gravel driveway to a side door that led into a cozy little kitchen. Blue and green, little splashes of yellow here and there, a sturdy little corner table with benches and stuff at one end, an island in the middle.
Nice. He'd had a brief stint as an assistant in a diner kitchen, once. Mostly his job had been dishwashing and trash duty and stuff, but the cook had taught him a few things and he'd had a lot of fun actually making food and seeing how certain things were made…and eating all the leftovers, of course.
He so wished he knew what to do with a kitchen like this, 'cause it looked like knowing would be a lot of fun.
Ah, well. It wasn't like he was going to be here long. He was pathetic enough to take what was offered and stay the night, but he'd sneak off before morning. No one liked losers hanging around.
"This way," Peter said, and Lowell rather thought he should be too tired to notice Peter had a pretty smile…but then again, he saw very little pretty in his life, and even less of it smiled at him.
Slowly he followed Peter into what proved to be the laundry room.
"Here," Peter said, taking a folded towel from where it sat with other stuff on top of the dryer. He pointed past Lowell's shoulder, to where he saw another door. "Bathroom is right through there, just to the right. You can leave all your stuff here, we'll get it washed. I'll scrounge up some extra clothes while you get warm and clean, then throw some sort of dinner together."
He departed before Lowell could get a word in edgewise. Lowell stood for a moment, staring and blinking. Then he finally shrugged and did as he was told. Far be it for him to argue, though it would suck later to put on his dirty clothes. Oh, well. Nothing for it.
Stripping out of said dirty clothes, he left them in a heap in front of the washing machine, then clutched the towel close and went where he was directed, more than a little disconcerted to be walking about a stranger's house butt naked – but the bathroom was almost immediately off the laundry room.
He caught a glimpse of stairs, and what looked like a living room, then he closed the bathroom door behind him and made a beeline for the shower. When it was hot enough to all but melt off his skin, he hopped in and just stood.
Oh, a guilty pleasure this, and he shouldn't just use someone else's hot water like this, but everyone else got to have hot water every day and his last hot shower he could barely remember and Peter had told him to take a shower… 'Werewolf Drowns in Water and Own Thoughts.'
Shaking his head at himself, Lowell snagged the soap and began to scrub and scrub, washing himself until his skin was raw and not much of the soap remained. He'd leave money to pay for it.
Scrubbed clean, he tackled his hair next, washing and rewashing until he almost thought it didn't look like a rat nest.
At last he gave in and after one last, glorious minute of standing in the hot water, he turned it off and climbed out – and jumped.
Clothes were waiting for him on the counter. Like, they looked brand new and everything. Even the boxers still had tags on them.
What really bothered him, however, was that he hadn't heard Peter come in. He hadn't been that enamored of the soap. Almost, but not quite. That wasn't like him; the fact that he always paid such careful attention to his surroundings was the reason he was a miserable werewolf rather than a dead one.
So why hadn't he heard Peter come in?
He shrugged the question off for the time being, and considered the clothes instead. Brand new, he felt more than a little guilty…but he'd take them off again before he left, so all was good. Tearing the tags off, he quickly pulled on the blue boxers, jeans, white t-shirt, dark green sweater, and lastly a pair of thick, soft, white socks.
Finally he dragged his eyes up the mirror – and was not as horrified by what he saw as he had been expecting. He'd always tried to care of himself as best he could, cadging and filching and stealing what he could on the chance that someday he might have to look healthy and presentable.
Cleaned up, with his blonde hair showing and the grime scrubbed away enough you could see his green eyes…he was no one's idea of a prize, especially since he was mostly bone, but…he wouldn't make little children cry either.
Taking a deep breath, he threw his towel in a hamper near the toilet, then finally let himself out of the bathroom and found his way quickly back to the kitchen.
His stomach growled as the smell of something that contained veggies and steak and potatoes hit his nostrils. He wanted to actually growl, which was sort of freaky, 'cause normally he did that shit only a lot closer to the full moon.
"Warm and refreshed?" Peter asked, giving him another pretty smile.
Lowell nodded, hastily looking away, eyes landing instead on the table and the wonderful smelling food on it. Some sort of casserole thingie, with all the yummy stuff layered just so, mashed potatoes on top.
Peter laughed softly, and Lowell jerked his gaze up, feeling his cheeks heat. "Sit down, eat. Lord knows I would never have been able to eat this much by myself. Women around here seem to think I'm perpetually starving."
Not quite certain what to say to that, Lowell slowly slid into one of the seats and…sat and waited. He totally had no clue about uh, manners and stuff. 'Werewolf Eats More Like Werepig, Says Horrified Local Doctor.'
Then Peter sat down, and almost before he could blink Lowell found himself staring at a heaping plate of food. It was probably the second-best thing he'd ever smelled in all his life…and he would figure out why it took second place to Peter and his weird yummy smell later.
Picking up his fork, Lowell began decimating the contents of his plate. It was briefly empty, then suddenly filled again, and he could not find it in him to protest. He wouldn't be able to eat like this again for a very long time.
When he finally finished, and bothered to look up, he realized that Peter was watching him with a smile curving his face.
Flushing, Lowell dropped his fork and ducked his head. "Sorry," he muttered. "Guess I was hungrier than I thought…I, uh, didn't mean to—"
"It's all right," Peter said, reaching out and lightly patting his hand. "All this is the very least I can do, the very least I owe you, after you worked so hard to come here for something that proved false."
Oh, yeah. Suddenly the reason he would be sneaking out later came crashing back down, and Lowell struggled not to let it get to him because he'd known it likely wasn't true but still who wanted to spend his whole life a freak?
Peter's hand was on his again, squeezing it tight. "I'm sorry," Peter said slowly. "I tried for years to develop a cure, truly I did, but I've never been able to make it work. I gave up for good two years ago. A brighter mind than mine will figure it out someday, perhaps."
Lowell nodded, trying to accept, cause he'd known all along in his heart of hearts…but…"Stacey just sounded so…so…"
"Convincing?" Peter finished, voice going hard and flat. "Yes, I'm sure he did. Stacey was very good at sounding convincing."
Startled, Lowell looked up, only to be completely thrown by the anger and pain that were etched deep into Peter's face, sunk into his eyes. "Um…" He licked his lips, feeling nervous, hating that Peter seemed so miserable suddenly. "You knew Stacey?"
Peter nodded, voice still so flat and cold when he answered. "Yes, I knew Stacey." He started to say more when the back door abruptly flew open.
Lowell stared, nostrils flaring at the smell of blood that washed over him. Yet he could not associate it with the woman who stood in the doorway, though she was unmistakably the source.
She was…colorful. Jangly. Her skirt was made of all kinds of blocks of different colors and patterns, like she'd made it from a quilt or something. She wore a bright red tanktop, and jangled because of the profusions of beads and bells and other random bits and charms at her neck, wrists, and waist. Her blonde hair was just as crazy as the rest, curly here, braided there, most of it held up off her neck by a pair of red chopsticks. Pretty, but sort of overwhelming, and the color and beads and all were completely at odds with what he knew her smell to be.
"Vampire," he said in disbelief as she drew close enough there could be no mistaking the scent.
Peter groaned. "Bloodsucker, go away. Learn to knock."
The woman sniffed, planting a hand on her hips, a measuring cup clasped idly in the other. "If I knocked, you wouldn't let me in. Easier to skip that part."
"Go away, Sally," Peter repeated, glaring.
Instead, Sally just ignored him and strode to the counter near the stove, pulling forward a blue porcelain container, pouring out some of the contents into her measuring cup. "So who's the cutie?" she asked as she returned the container and wandered to the table.
Lowell just stared. He'd seen vampires before; they were usually kinda scary though they'd never actually bothered him. Always in the cities, though, he'd never seen them in the small towns. Not that he'd been in many small towns himself, but still.
"You're scaring him," Peter said sharply. "You scare everybody."
"Not you," Sally said, rolling her eyes. "I’m not scaring him. He's—"
"Probably not even eighteen," Peter said sharply. "I found him walking along the highway, and he was on his way to see me."
Sally blinked. "Oh. I see." She moved around the table and plopped down next to Lowell, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "You're a handsome one, no mistake. If I ever divorce my idiot husband, you and me can run away together."
Peter groaned. "I'm so about to go fetch your husband."
"Don’t you dare, he's still recovering from your nasty little stunt with the flares."
"You started it this time, bloodsucker," Peter retorted. "Next time tell him not to get in the line of fire."
Sally sniffed. "Whatever, Mad Scientist."
Lowell wondered if it were possible to discreetly slip under the table and then sneak away.
"You get used to her after awhile," Peter said, smiling briefly at him before shooting another glare at Sally.
"He's a cutie, really. Gonna keep him around?"
They exchanged a look, and Lowell knew undercurrents when he felt them. What was going on? Should he bolt? The arm around his shoulders was starting to freak him out. People didn't touch him. Ever. Unless they were cops or something and those guys were never nice except for like one who'd given him a cup of coffee and kept looking vaguely guilty.
"Let him go, Sally."
Instead of arguing, as Lowell had half expected, Sally promptly let him go and stood up, wandering to the fridge and pulling out a carton of eggs. She selected two and put them carefully on top of her sugar.
"I am not your grocery store, you damn bloodsucker," Peter said, standing up in exasperation and taking away the butter she'd just stolen.
Sally snatched it back, set it with her sugar, then vanished into the pantry. "Yes, you are. Especially when I'm making cookies. Don't you have any cocoa?"
"Third shelf, toward the back," Peter said, rolling his eyes at Lowell before striding over to the coffee maker tucked away in the corner of the counter near the sink. "Do you like coffee, Lowell?"
"Uh, yes," Lowell said. He loved coffee, not least of all because people would most often give him that for free. Coffee, (powdered) cream, and sugar tended to be his most common food groups.
Sally returned from the pantry, arms loaded down with various things – cocoa, chocolate chips, nuts… She smiled at him, setting everything on the table. "Do you like cookies, Lowell? I'm making double chocolate, classic chocolate chip, sugar cookies, and probably peanut butter or my husband will whine like a five year old."
Lowell tried not to stare, but he suspected he was failing. "Uh…you are a vampire, right?"
"Yes," Sally said, laughing. "The cookies are for the school fair tomorrow. I always help stock the snack bar. Plenty left over for my darling neighbor, however, even if he should still be in trouble for the flare stunt."
Peter snorted. "You started it, bloodsucker, and given you just emptied my pantry to make the cookies – you can share the goods."
Sally rolled her eyes at Lowell, then winked at him. "Have you got a basket? I forgot to bring one, and I can't carry all this back by myself."
"You!" Peter said, heaving a long sigh before stomping off into the laundry room. He came back with a basket that looked like an Easter Bunny reject and knocked Sally lightly upside the head with it.
"Thank you, darling grocery boy."
"Bloodsucker!"
"Mad Scientist!" Packing everything neatly into the basket, she wiggled her finger at Lowell and departed as suddenly as she had come.
Peter rolled his eyes again as he returned with two cups of coffee, departing briefly to fetch a sugar bowl and a carton of half & half from the fridge. "You get used to her after a bit. Vampires think they can muck with everyone and everything. Need to be kept in line." He grinned as he sat down, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
Was it okay to find his rescuer attractive? That was probably against the rules, or at the least very stupid – but ignoring shit like that was what had kept him alive. Despite everything, Peter smelled good and looked good and that definitely meant Lowell needed to go the very minute the getting was good.
He fixed his coffee and sipped it slowly, and wished he could freeze time right like this, where everything was perfect and nothing was going to ever go wrong. "Um. Thank you for, uh, all of this. I'm sorry to be such a problem."
Peter looked at him, smiling softly. "You're not a problem. I live here all alone; it's always nice to have someone else about. Besides, it's mostly my fault you're here at all. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. Was there anywhere else you needed to be?"
"No," Lowell said, almost laughing. Where would he have to go?
"If you don't mind my asking," Peter said slowly, setting his coffee down. "How old are you?"
Lowell shrugged, and looked down at his own coffee, humiliation making his cheeks hot. "I don't know." How could he? Vaguely he remembered an orphanage or something, but one too many fights with some of the others…
After that, it seemed there was always a reason no one wanted him around – even other supernaturals. The few wolves he'd encountered hadn't wanted company, which he'd never gotten, cause it'd be nice not to be the only wolf…
"That's what I thought," Peter said thoughtfully, idly tracing the rim of his cup. "If I had to guess, I would say you are right around eighteen, give or take a few months…" He smiled faintly. "Not that it really matters, forgive a scientist his curiosity."
Lowell shrugged, confused but beyond caring. It didn't matter to him how old he was, if it interested someone else, fine.
Peter laughed softly and stood to fetch the coffee pot, refilling Lowell's mug. "I'm glad you appear to have escaped being sick. I've learned the hard way that werewolves make lousy patients." He winked.
"Being sick sucks," Lowell said, because it did. He hated being sick. It just made the wolf stuff harder to control and contain, and he pretty much wanted to bite every stupid person that crossed his path.
He didn't know much about being a werewolf, but he'd learned pretty young not to bite people. Not that he usually wanted to, people never smelled like something he'd want to sink his teeth into.
Sometimes he wondered who had bitten him. The other werewolves he'd met knew who had bitten them, and why. Lowell couldn't remember; he must have been really tiny when he'd been bitten. There wasn't even a scar. He wondered what sort of jerk inflicted ly-whatever on a poor, dumb kid.
"You look ready to fall over," Peter said, breaking into his thoughts.
Lowell shrugged. He was tired, but really it seemed like he was always tired.
"Come on, you can catch some z's. I keep weird hours, I warn you now. All of Midsummer keeps weird hours, minus a small handful." Peter smiled. "It's a supernatural kind of town, really. Even the humans here have some sort of connection to supernaturals."
"Um…" Lowell had never heard of such a thing. He rarely ever saw supernaturals. Sometimes he swore the ones he did see tried to avoid him, except that was dumb – well, unless they were avoiding the werewolf hobo, which made sense, but sometimes he got good work and managed to be respectable for a bit and even then none of them hung about him for long. "That's weird."
"It's certainly not common, but I promise you won't be treated here the same as you've probably been treated everywhere else. Especially if you've got Sally's approval, which I think you do. No one is going to cross a top vamp, even if most other vampires consider her an embarrassment to their name."
Lowell almost smiled, but felt bad doing so. "I've never seen another vampire like her, though I haven't seen many. What's a…top vamp?"
Peter looked at him in surprise. "Do you not know anything about vampires? What do you know about werewolves?"
"Umm…vampires are scary, especially the ones that smell like there's something wrong with their blood. I met two others that smell like Sally, though I only saw them from far away."
"Top vampires," Peter said. "They've been around usually for centuries. I think Sally staked a claim here back when it was just a handful of shacks and a village well. Her husband – just one of her eccentricities – is human. Jordan, he's a nice guy, with the patience of a saint if he's married to her." He winked again, then turned more serious. "So you really don't know much about werewolves?"
Lowell shrugged. "Not really. Biting spreads it. I've never run across many others, and they never wanted to stick around. I don't remember who bit me or why."
"Bit you?" Peter repeated softly. "I see."
"See what?" Lowell asked.
"Mm, you really do look tired," Peter said. "I shouldn't keep rambling on. Come on, I'll show you to your bed, and get you settled, and we can talk more over breakfast."
Lowell frowned. But he'd been about to talk about werewolves…why would he stop? That wasn't fair. How did a human doctor know more about werewolves than him? He probably even knew that stupid Ly-word Lowell could never remember. "But—how do you know so much about werewolves? Were you really working on a cure? What…" What was going on, and why did he feel like he was missing something?
Peter reached out to lightly hold his hand again. "I promise I will explain what I know, and why, in due time. But right now you're tired and upset, and being inundated with information would not help you at all. I should never have started asking questions; my curiosity gets me in a lot of trouble. Come, let's get you to bed."
He tried to muster a protest, but even with the coffee in his system Lowell was suddenly succumbing to the exhaustion he'd been fighting since Peter had woken him up in the car. Shelving the protests for later, he went obediently as Peter guided him out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into a room that smelled like it hadn't been used for a bit. All the people smells were old, faded, and the sheets as he fell down on them smelled like nothing more than detergent.
It occurred to him belatedly, as he grew too heavy and sleepy to move, that if he wanted answers then he couldn't sneak away…but could he stay? Why would Peter want him to stay?
Then sleep took him, and the questions left him in peace for a time.
*~*~*
Lowell didn't know what to do with himself.
After eating breakfast, Peter had told him to 'explore and have fun' before vanishing through a door beneath the stairs. Lowell wondered what was down there, because it was obviously a lot more than a closet unless Peter was particularly strange.
Explore and have fun?
He got the explore part well enough, but how exactly was he supposed to go about having fun? What was fun? He didn't have a whole lot of 'fun' memories stored for reference. In his experience, fun usually required money and even though he now had two hundred dollars to play with…he had no idea what to buy with it.
Well, new soap and detergent and all kinds of things he should replace for Peter since he was using them.
Exploring the house didn't take long. It was a pretty big house, but half the downstairs was given over to a little clinic thing packed with all kinds of weird stuff that he was pretty sure, though not positive, were normally in a doctor's office.
The rest of the downstairs was a living room, and something that looked like a second, smaller living room but with more books and board games and a TV and stuff. Otherwise, it was just the bathroom, kitchen, and laundry room.
Upstairs was just three bedrooms and another bathroom, a couple of closets. Lots of windows, most of the coloring blue and green and gray, though 'his' bedroom was red and brown.
He wondered who had used it before. No hint of the former occupant remained, even most of the smell – not enough of it to give him some picture of the owner.
Not that he was really trying anymore, not after realizing he'd gotten some faint whiff of sex. It still felt like his face was on fire, cause that was so none of his business.
Still, probably a lover or something of Peter's? Which definitely meant it was none of his business.
Where was Peter? Well, down in the basement or whatever, but why was he still down there? It was almost lunch time.
Should he go outside, explore the yard?
Aargh, what was he supposed to do? Well, leave, and go be somewhere else, cause he never stayed in one place very long but then again he'd never been anywhere quite like this either.
He was giving himself a headache. Sighing, Lowell wandered back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. It was, for whatever reason, his favorite room to be in – assuming less than twenty four hours was enough time to pick a favorite room.
Maybe because one of his few good memories was of his stint as a cook's assistant. That had been fun, at least parts of it. Cutting stuff, frying it, grilling it, roasting, boiling…he so wished he could have hung around longer to learn more.
Wouldn't it be neat if he knew how to cook? Sadly, he just didn't know much. The diner had been an 'old-fashioned cooking' kind of place, and he hadn't been there long enough to learn all of it. Biscuits he remembered, and fried chicken but that had required a lot of work and he hadn't been allowed to do the actual cooking stuff though oh man had he watched and eaten the leftovers.
They'd had cereal and bananas for breakfast, and Sally had borrowed some eggs and he definitely knew how to cook eggs…
But was he allowed? Would he get in trouble?
He snorted at that. Get in trouble. Like that was new, or even mattered. He got in trouble, Peter kicked him out, that was that. Back to life as normal. It wasn't like this weird situation would last.
Shrugging, he slowly wandered the kitchen hunting down everything he thought he'd need, coming up with a skillet, eggs, butter, cheese, several things from a spice rack that made him gawk, a few other things and then he slowly started to get to work.
Scrambled eggs weren't really much, but it was the one thing he knew he could do without burning the house down. Or otherwise screw up. 'Werewolf and Kitchen Tragic Combination.' Frowning, he dumped the whisked eggs into the warmed skillet and watched carefully as they cooked.
He was so busy concentrating, on fretting about what would happen when – if – Peter came upstairs, that the new scent didn't register until a voice broke into his thoughts.
"Smells good."
Lowell jumped, the new scent hitting his nose even as he dropped his spatula and it clattered to the kitchen floor.
"Sorry!" The new guy, pushing up the glasses on his nose, smiled sheepishly. "I figured you'd know I was here, though you were looking pretty hard at those eggs."
Nodding, Lowell bent to retrieve the dropped spatula, then moved to the sink to wash it. "You smell like the vampire," he said slowly. "Uh. Are you allowed in here?"
"Yeah," the man replied. "Name's Jordan. I stopped by to meet the new werewolf my wife keeps going on and on about. I think I'd be jealous, except I know better." He winked, and briefly touched his neck, where Lowell could see what were obviously bite marks. He jerked his gaze away, realizing he was staring.
Jordan laughed softly, but it was a kind rather than a mean sound, or so Lowell thought but who knew? "Have you never seen vamp bites before?"
Lowell shook his head, feeling his cheeks grow hot, and turned back to save his eggs from burning. "I'm a loner."
"So was I, actually," Jordan replied. Then he grinned. "Vampire hunters by and large tend to be loners. There are exceptions, but most of us work alone." He moved closer to the stove. "Can I steal some?"
"You…want some of the eggs?" Lowell asked, surprised.
"They smell really good," Jordan said. "Don't tell her I said so, cause I'll die a slow and painful death, but Sally is much better at baking than cooking." He winked. "Of course, she's a vampire and rather an old one at that. Don't tell her I said that either."
Lowell stared at him.
Jordan smiled. "So can I have some eggs? Cause my cooking is worse than Sally's, though neither of us is nearly as bad as Peter. You'd think a man who dealt with formulae and stuff would be better at measuring out flour, but let me tell you the one day he tried to make a cake it—"
"Continue with that sentence, Jordan, and I'll tell your wife everything you just said," Peter said from the hallway, glaring at him.
"Whoops. Busted. Can I still have eggs?"
Peter moved into the kitchen, still glaring, but Lowell almost thought he looked amused too. "No, you may not, for attempting to tell humiliating stories about me."
"At least I didn't bring up the incident—"
"Finish that sentence and the next time I throw my handy little 'solar flares' down the chimney your vision will suffer a lot longer than twenty four hours."
Jordan laughed. "She was pissed with you, man. Sometimes I think I miss the good ol' days of courtship. I got away with more when she thought I was being a cute little human trying to flirt."
Peter rolled his eyes.
"Um," Lowell broke in hesitantly. "Do you want to eat?"
"Yes," Peter and Jordan chorused, breaking off their congenial bickering to fetch plates and forks, and before Lowell could blink his scrambled eggs were gone from the pan, on three plates – and mostly gone by the time he sat down to enjoy his own.
He listened as they continued to talk and bicker, eating his eggs quickly, trying not to smile because there was no good reason to smile, though he was glad his eggs didn't taste awful and that he wasn't in trouble.
The words 'vampire hunter' broke into his idle thoughts, and he looked up, speaking before he thought better of it. "What's a vampire hunter?"
As the talking ceased and they both looked at him in brief surprise, Lowell wished he'd remembered in time to keep his mouth shut.
Then Peter shook his head, and Jordan smiled ruefully. "You're not kidding," Jordan said with an easy smile. "He really did manage to avoid learning anything. How, though?"
Peter shrugged. "It wouldn't be hard, all things considered."
"True enough, I suppose," Jordan muttered.
Lowell wished he understood what they were talking about.
Jordan shook his head. "Sorry. Um, there are different kinds of vampires. What we in the business typically call Broken, Average, and Tops."
"Sally…Peter called a Top."
"Yeah, that's right," Jordan said. "A vampire is considered a top when he's a hundred and eighty years old, or roughly three times the average span of a human life. That's about the point when they're well and truly adjusted to being vampire rather than human, and can more or less be trusted not to go on massive killing/making sprees. Uh, making as in 'making more vampires' cause they're only allowed to make so many per decade."
Lowell nodded, not sure he got it but it was still more than he'd ever known.
Jordan continued. "Average vampires are the middle ones, the young ones, those turned that seem to be doing well but haven't reached that definitive point yet. Most of them won't, cause forgetting how to be human is hard."
"Broken vampires are those that aren't well-made, or simply don't take, as well as some averages who over time can't take it. Vampire hunters come in two main grades – those who hunt broken vamps and those averages who break the rules, and then those who watch over the tops."
"Uh, okay," Lowell said. He wanted to ask more questions, cause he totally didn't get half of it, but a more pressing question burned to be asked. "Is there, um, stuff like that for werewolves?"
The two men exchanged a look. Lowell hated when people did that. It never spelled good news for him.
Finally Peter spoke. "Werewolves…are something else entirely. There's a popular theory that vampires and werewolves are closely related. Both are transmitted through bites, both have a fatal allergy to silver, both are in some way tied to the night…and no one knows where or how they originate. The oldest of both races are long dead, and not even the oldest vampires, it's said, remembered much of anything about their origins. It's believed to be a combination of science and magic, some experiment that had two end results. We'll never know for certain."
"What we do know," Jordan said, "is that vampires became jealous of werewolves. They saw to it that almost all werewolves were wiped out, and I'm sure they'd all be gone except there were enough who helped at least some werewolves survive. Sally, for instance, never hated them."
Lowell stared. "Jealous?" he asked.
"Yes," Peter said, fidgeting with his glasses. "Most only change with a full moon, so once a month…otherwise they are mostly human, able to blend with humans better…and can move about in daylight. More important still, they can mate with humans, and do not require human blood to live. Vampires are more powerful, and immortal…but they lose much of the freedom which werewolves retained."
Jordan pushed his own glasses up his nose, and Lowell thought it was kind of funny they both did that. "For a time, it was said some of the best vampire hunters in the world were werewolves. Even today, there's a pretty famous family in the business that people swear have werewolf blood in their veins."
Lowell frowned. "How can they have wolf blood and not be werewolves? That doesn't make sense."
"It's like anything passed on through blood," Peter said. "Over time, if not kept strong, it fades and thins out. I doubt there's much of it left, especially if no werewolves have popped up in the bloodline after so many years."
Jordan snorted. "One never knows with that loud and proud lot."
Lowell shook his head, utterly confused. "I don't get it. What do you mean passed on through blood?"
Dismay flickered across Peter's face. "Ah—I keep forgetting, even as we discuss this, that you just don't know these things. Not all werewolves are the result of biting. Some are simply born. It's passed through genetics as easily as through a bite. Though, it's rare. Often it just sits dormant. Like in the case of the hunter family we were just discussing. Depends."
"Oh," Lowell said quietly. "Um…could that, uh, be why I don't remember getting bitten?"
"Probably," Peter said gently. "Very likely, you had a parent who was a werewolf. I could not say for certain, of course, but if you do not have a bite scar…"
I don't," Lowell said quietly, staring at his empty plate. It didn't really matter, of course, how he'd become a werewolf…except…if his mother or father had known what he might be born as…why would they abandon him to it? Why had no one told him? Why had no one cared?
Stupid questions, for which he would never find answers, so it was pointless wondering. So he was a born werewolf rather than a made. He felt stupid for not knowing such a thing was possible, but ultimately it didn't make a difference so he should just stop wondering.
Peter and Jordan were looking at him uneasily, and exchanging looks again, but Lowell didn't want to know this time. He'd had more than enough information for one day.
Standing, he gathered up the plates and skillet and moved to the sink to wash the dishes.
"You don't have to do that," Peter said, standing up and joining him at the sink. "You cooked, I'll wash. House rules."
Jordan snorted, earning a glare from Peter, and then fell silent.
"Here, go sit down," Peter said with a smile, and Lowell meant to protest – he really did, because he was the one mooching off of Peter so the least he could do was cook and clean as best he was able…but it was hard to muster an argument against that smile, and it was already distracting enough how good Peter still smelled.
He really needed to figure that out. Distracted by his own thoughts, he returned to the table and obediently sat down, toying restlessly with a paper napkin.
"So are you going to resume the experiments then?" Jordan asked into the silence.
"No," Peter said sharply, turning around.
Jordan held up his hands. "I didn't know, man. Neither did Sally. Thought I'd ask. Why not?"
"Because there will never be a cure," Peter said, voice still sharp, but Lowell could detect a trace of sadness in it. "After so many years of trying, I am willing to admit an exercise in futility at last. Stacey was the last straw."
"Stacey," Jordan said contemptuously, "deserved to be taken into the woods and—"
"That's enough!" Peter said, all but shouting the words – and punctuated by the plate that shattered as it slipped from his hands. "Damn it." He sighed and walked gingerly across the kitchen, vanishing into the laundry room and returning with a broom and dustpan. "Just stay there," he said, motioning for Lowell to sit when he would have stood to help.
Jordan grimaced. "I'm sorry, Peter."
Peter sighed as he dumped broken porcelain into the trash, and started sweeping the floor a second time. "No. You're right. I know it. Still a sore subject I guess."
Lowell wondered if maybe he should leave. He so hated not knowing what was going on. Was he part of the problem? Stacey was a werewolf, and one who had known Peter…and he wondered how they had known each other, given how upset and all Peter got.
He bit back any questions though. He didn’t know much, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
"Maybe now's a good time for me to take my leave, before I shove my foot so far into my mouth I start choking on it," Jordan said. He stood and clapped Peter on the back, waved to Lowell, and then was gone.
Peter started to speak when the back door abruptly opened again.
"I think you've got a patient coming, Doc," Jordan said, holding up a hand to forestay whatever remark Peter was about to make. "Looks like Ms. Holly's truck."
"Oh, great," Peter said with a sigh. He rolled his eyes, and then vanished briefly to return the broom and dustpan to the laundry room.
Lowell sat, wishing he knew what he was supposed to do.
Jordan vanished again, and Peter pinched the bridge of his nose.
After a moment he looked up, and a weak smile curved his mouth. "You look more than a little confused, Low. I apologize for being so obtuse and unpleasant. Stacey is an unpleasant subject for—" He broke off as a car horn blared, and heaved a long sigh as it faded.
Wry amusement lit his eyes as he turned again to Lowell. "Ms. Holly is one of the town Gossips. She comes here every couple of days to try and weasel out of me whatever I might know about everyone else who has been to see me – and she knows exactly who has been out here." He rolled his eyes as a sharp buzzer rang throughout the house. "I will bet my laboratory she's here to see you, so best come and get it over with." He winked, then motioned for Lowell to follow him.
Bemused, Lowell went obediently, trailing along as they went from the living portion of the house to the clinic areas.
"Ms. Holly," Peter said cheerfully, smiling and holding out his hands to the woman who harrumphed loudly before setting her hands in his. Peter kissed her cheek. "You look as wonderful as always. What ails you, my dear lady?"
If she heard anything he said, she made no show of it, her bright green eyes solely for Lowell.
She smelled like medicine and stale flowers, a little bit like honey, and man did he know her type – Scary Old Lady. He backed up as she let go of Peter to come toward him, looking warily at the massive handbag hanging from her forearm. He swore they carried bricks in those things.
No way was he getting in range of the thing.
"My, my, you are a handsome one, aren't you?" Ms. Holly muttered. "Sally wasn't kidding."
"Sally?" Peter said sharply. "What in the hell has that bloodsucker been saying now?"
Ms. Holly glared at him. "You should not call her ladyship by such a crass term. Honestly, Peter, your mother instilled manners in you. Make use of them."
Lowell frowned. She really shouldn't speak to Peter like that, especially since Sally didn't care if he called her a bloodsucker. He rather thought it was like the way she called Peter Mad Scientist…though he'd only been here a night and a day, so what did he really know?
"Anyway," Ms. Holly continued with a sniff. "She said only that Peter had a new housemate, and he was young and very handsome. I see she did not lie."
Peter shook his head. "If you wanted to come for a visit, Ms. Holly, you could have simply knocked on the front door."
"Bah!" Ms. Holly said, flapping one arm furiously back and forth, the floral pattern of her knee-length, long-sleeved dress moving wildly enough it almost made Lowell dizzy. He wondered what the point of the dress was, cause it really didn't look good, but he sensed saying such a thing would be more fatal to his continued existence than silver. "I'm too busy to run about on frivolous pursuits of curiosity." She turned with a weird sort of flounce toward the back room, saying something about a painful cough.
Lowell looked at Peter, who rolled his eyes. "She's never been sick a day in her life," Peter said. "She just seems to think none of us knows we're being interrogated." He winked. "You can go find something more amusing to do, if you like. Sorry about all this. Price of small towns is popping up in the local gossip periodically." He laughed, and winked again. "I bet most of my visits the rest of the day and night will all be people wanting a look at my young and handsome border. Go have fun, I'll see you for dinner."
With that, he strode after Ms. Holly, leaving Lowell feeling more than a little dazed and confused. He hadn't cared at all when Ms. Holly had called him handsome, or even that she'd been repeating Sally's words. He didn't believe it. Even on those few other occasions he'd been cleaned up, no one had called him handsome.
Yet hearing Peter say the exact same thing made his cheeks feel hot, made him all the more painfully aware of just how yummy Peter always smelled.
Oh, great. That explained the smell at least in part, and of course the fact that Peter was being nice to him for no good reason would amplify it – it was just that those who stirred lust didn't normally have such a smell, so he hadn't quite connected it.
Typical of his stupid life to feel a bit of lust for someone who was just being nice, and probably would begin to hint – if not outright demand – that he move on.
Part II
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Date: 2008-02-11 12:57 am (UTC)Ok, um, going to read the entire story now. Except I have schoolwork to do first, so I'll read it in a little while, but I just wanted to shout my excitement at finally being able to read the entire story.
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Date: 2008-02-11 01:35 am (UTC)...s/b "boarder" (darn those homonyms).
Right, on to the rest! ♥
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Date: 2008-02-11 01:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-11 01:57 am (UTC)LMAO. Yeah, I hear that. Good luck! <3
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Date: 2008-02-11 03:52 am (UTC)Oh, and there was an incongruency I think I found. At first, you say Lowell has two thousand dollars, but then you say "fun usually required money and even though he now had two hundred dollars to play with..."
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Date: 2008-04-16 08:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-16 08:21 pm (UTC)yeah, I totally rehauled it. I really need to update my bloody website -__-
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Date: 2008-04-17 05:16 am (UTC)I"m reading Treasure now, for the first time, and I don't think I've quite decided how to go about reading it yet. Because I started reading the older version and after two chapters found the newer one...and then I sort of switched off between the two which I don't think was very good of me. The decision, however, has been made for the moment, as I'm on chapter 5 of the re-write (though I may go back and read the old one once I'm done, just to see the differences, unless you'd rather I didn't).
Taka is my favorite, with Kin a close second (because he sticks to stuff and good for him. I'd stay mad over the 'slavery' thing too, though as a reader I'm certainly happy with it XD). Raiden is infuriating but justly so, and Kyo, well...I like him more in this version over the last one, but it always takes me a while to warm up to characters who prod for no reason (specially if the person being prodded has a reason to be angry). But I'm confident in your ability to make me like him and to work out the pairing (because ohoho we already know how that is going to play out, though I must admit the pretty pictures helped picture it).
I'd also like to point out that you are disastrous to my already-lacking sleep regimen.
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Date: 2008-06-17 06:47 am (UTC)He's so sweet and tender and funny! Whit that skill to pop headlines up in his head, I'd definitely adopt him... errr... hire him as my asistant. Hehe.
Well, on for part two~~~