Midsummer's Moon

[maderr]

Part I



Part Two: Full Moon

Lowell slowly dragged his eyes open, pushing back the warm covers and sitting up. He dragged a hand through his hair and blinked to clear his sleep-blurred vision. The air was cool, and he fought a sleepy urge to pull the covers back up and return to dreamland.

Something had woken him up, and even barley half-awake he knew better than to ignore such a thing – especially since it was strange he was still half-asleep. That wasn't like him.

Clambering out of bed, he fumbled for a t-shirt and pulled it on, then sat down to pull on some socks before finally padding to the door and stepping cautiously into the hallway. No lights were on, he could hear no noise…no sense of danger, merely a vague feeling of something being different.

He glanced again toward the door to Peter's room. No light at all, so he was still in bed probably…

Shaking his head, Lowell moved quietly down the stairs, examining each room of the downstairs before scratching his head in confusion. He turned to go back and give the clinic another look over when he noticed something that was strange – the back porch light was off. Peter always left all the porch lights on. People, he said, visited him at all hours of the night and many felt more comfortable doing so if they saw the lights on.

Nothing smelled strange, so no guests had come by…

Hesitating, he finally shrugged and just opened the door.

Peter.

Lowell stood in the doorway, confused as to what to do now. He had thought Peter still in bed, and yet here he was sitting in the dark with a glass of something that was definitely alcohol with the lights off.

Definitely an 'I want to be alone' sort of thing.

He turned to leave.

"I wondered if I'd wake you," Peter said, just as he grabbed the door to shut it.

"Sorry," Lowell said. "I thought you were in bed. I didn't know what had woken me. I can go."

Peter turned to face him, smiling gently. "No need, if you're inclined to stay. I was just out enjoying the night. It's very good for brooding. Come, sit, unless you'd rather return to your bed – which I would wholly understand."

Lowell closed the back door and moved slowly to sit down next to him. The back of the house was a large wooden porch, looking over a backyard that was all hill, the bottom spilling into a creek and dense forest. They sat in deep, wooden lawn chairs set roughly in the center. Relaxing back in the seat, Lowell realized he had a perfect seat for watching the stairs.

The glass Peter held clinked as he set it down on the porch. "So do you like it here, Low?"

Was it stupid to always feel sort of flustered by the way Peter kept shortening his name? Lowell couldn't remember the last person who had bothered to remember his name, let alone shorten it. "Yes," he said quietly. He liked it way too much. A week and a half into his stay, he felt sick every time he thought of the inevitable moment when Peter would ask him to leave.

"I do," he said quietly. "It's totally different than other places."

People were always bringing Peter food, and they always wanted to see Lowell and it sort of freaked him out when they tried to pinch his cheek or stroke his hair but at least they weren't trying to hit him or shoot him or anything.

Sally was even teaching him how to cook – just a few hours ago they'd been doing their best to burn down Peter's kitchen making fried chicken and biscuits and co slaw.

He wished they'd tell him to leave before he got too attached.

"I'm glad," Peter said. "You fit in well. Much better than Stacey ever did." He sighed softly, and picked up his alcohol again.

Lowell frowned, wanting to ask. It wasn't hard for even an idiot like him to realize Peter and Stacey had been way more than roommates or even friends. Remembering Stacey's smiles, his charm, the way he'd so cheerfully explained there was doctor working on a cure…

How stupid he'd been! He wanted to find Stacey and do violent things. Seeing the sadness in Peter's face…he wanted to do extremely violent things.

"He does it to get back at me," Peter said quietly, staring into his drink. "I was never able to be exactly what he wanted, and I couldn't figure out the cure…and, well…" He sighed softly. "This is not your problem, I apologize. I came out here because I was obviously in a brooding mood."

Lowell looked toward him – and realized abruptly that Peter was bare-chested. Funny he hadn't noticed that before. He was glad the dark hid his suddenly hot cheeks. "Uh—everyone broods? I don't mind. You're way nicer to me than anyone else has ever been, and I don't do anything but wander around and try to destroy your kitchen. So, um, brood. Stacey was your, uh…um…" He ducked his head, realizing how stupid and rude he was being – and staring at Peter's bare chest did not help his brain function at all.

Peter laughed in his gentle way. "My lover, yes. He lived here five years, and we were lovers for two of them." He sighed softly. "I cannot blame him for hating me, not really. So many years and I've discovered nothing. After he left, I gave it up for good." His hand tightened around the glass, face twisted with bitter misery – a feeling Lowell was all too acquainted with – before it smoothed out again.

"You are more than welcome to stay for as long as you like," Peter said. "I don't know that I've made that clear. Having someone else around makes me happy…especially werewolves…" He smiled faintly, then tilted his glass back and polished off the contents in one long swallow. "I've told you before, and you've seen for yourself…this village is unusually friendly towards supernatural types. Most of that is Sally's work; she's been here since pilgrims first landed. This little town has always been her territory. But some of it…." He set his glass down and gave another sigh.

Lowell frowned, wishing he knew what to say or do. It was obvious Peter wanted to talk, yet hesitated… 'Werewolf Makes Lousy Psychologist; Doctor Succumbs to Misery' Scowling, he reached out and lightly touched the back of Peter's hand. "Uh, some of the people who keep faking sick made it sound like it was normal to have werewolves here. Is that possible? I've never seen many werewolves."

Peter turned his hand, and held Lowell's briefly for a moment. "Yeah, werewolves are normal. There used to be a full pack living here. They moved away almost fifteen years ago." Pain twisted his face.

His words drew Lowell up short. A pack? Werewolves…there were enough of them to do that? They wanted to do that? Werewolves actually shared space? Then why had no one ever wanted to hang with him? He swallowed. Was he a freak even amongst other freaks?

This wasn't about him, though. He was used to being unwanted. Peter was kind to him, he could try to return the favor. "Why did they leave?" he asked.

"Anger, pain…hatred…." Peter shook his head. "I guess I really am feeling sorry for myself tonight." He smiled ruefully. "That's why I hoped I wouldn't wake you. Should have known better, given how close we are to the full moon."

Lowell cringed at the reminder, though it was true enough. All his senses were heightening, improving to an almost painful degree. He hated this part, because he already smelled and heard everything to a super-acute degree. There were some things he just did not want to better smell.

Such as Peter.

Why oh why did he have to be so stupid as to think his host was hot? Couldn't he just be grateful for the kindness and having some sort of companion rather than want something he'd never in a million years actually get?

He finally managed to shrug. "Doesn't bother me. So, uh, did you know the werewolves really well then?" Had one of them been Peter's lover too? The thought made Lowell's stomach knot, and he scowled at himself.

Peter laughed, and Lowell had never heard such an unhappy sound. "Yeah, I knew them. They—"

Lowell leapt to his feet as a smell struck his nose, combined with the sound of a car on the road in front of the house. Blood and leather and silver, a trace of something that was dog – and yet not just dog. It held a hint of something that reminded him of Jordan.

Growling low, barely realizing he was doing so, he abandoned the porch and strode back inside, bolting down the hallway to the front door. Throwing it open, he spilled out into the front yard to see a car pulling to a stop in Sally's driveway.

A man climbed out, accompanied by the largest greyhound Lowell had ever seen. He stopped at the edge of Peter's yard, hands not quite balled into fists, wondering who the heck the strange man and dog were. It must early early morning, who in the world paid a visit at this hour?

Well, he was visiting vampires.

Sure enough, the door flew open a moment later and Sally came spilling out, porch light revealing her to be dressed in a dizzying array of blues and greens, silver and gold glinting amongst her beads and baubles.

"Clarence!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "There you are, I was beginning to worry. You're nearly an hour late." She swatted him on the arm.

The man – Clarence – laughed. "There was fog for a good stretch, slowed me down."

Lowell wondered what he should do. Obviously he needed to stay in bed the next time something weird woke him up. 'Nosy Werewolf Gets Just Desserts."

He started to turn when he heard Peter coming up behind him – and the massive greyhound, so unlike the few he'd ever seen, moved toward him.

She whined softly as she reached him, laying down and then turning over to expose her belly.

Lowell frowned, because dogs did that to him all the time, and bent to pet her.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you," Peter said quietly. "It'll hurt to touch her."

"What?" Lowell asked, turning to frown at Peter as he came up to stand beside Lowell.

"Yeah," a new voice agreed.

Lowell jerked his head back around to see that Clarence and Sally were crossing the street. Clarence was looking at his dog in faint amusement. He whistled softly, and the greyhound immediately rose and went to sit next to him.

Clarence smiled. "She's a vampire hunting dog," he said. "Specially bred, specially fed. There's enough silver in her, part of her, that you'd probably cause yourself some pain touching her."

He'd smelled the silver, but thought it a lingering trace from the silver he could smell on Clarence. Now that he was paying attention, it was easy to pick it out as part of her blood, her body. "How do you do that?"

"Tincture of the Moon," Peter said quietly, kneeling to beckon to and pet the greyhound. "Vampire hunter secret, something that helps them literally infuse the dogs with an 'essence of silver'. I've never been able to make it work with werewolves." The words were said with no small amount of bitterness.

Lowell wondered what it meant that the bitterness got to him more than the fact that there would likely never be a cure for his werewolf-ness. Maybe because he was used to dealing with the latter, and he had no idea how to deal with the pain of someone he was growing to like, wholly aside from the fact Peter was nice to him.

"You'll get it eventually, man," Clarence said, moving closer. He extended his hand abruptly, startling Lowell. "You're the wolf Sally told me about."

"Um…" Lowell stared at the hand, confused. Then he abruptly realized what Clarence was doing. He slowly held out his own, and shook Clarence's hand. "Um. My name is Lowell. You, uh, smell sort of like Jordan but not really." He flushed, realizing how stupid he sounded.

Clarence laughed, and Lowell dared to look up again.

He was handsome, Lowell supposed. Really tall, dark hair and eyes. He looked like it wouldn't be too hard for him to pick Lowell up and throw him across the yard, and his handshake had only confirmed that impression. The smell of blood and leather and silver came from him.

"I'm a vampire hunter," Clarence said. "I work this neck of the woods, and checking up on Sally every now and then is part of what I do. What they call a top hunter."

"Oh," Lowell said, struggling to remember what they'd told him about vampire hunters. Not much, he didn't think. "Jordan used to be a hunter, right?

Sally snickered. "Yeah, he did. Clarence was pulled away to do something else, and he asked Jordan to come pay me a visit – the rest, as they say, is history." She rolled her eyes. "A very colorful history."

Peter and Clarence laughed.

"Didn't think to see another werewolf after…" Clarence shrugged at a look from Peter. "Just saying, man. Good to see one. This place just isn't the same without your family running about the place."

Oh. Oh. The werewolves Peter had been talking about had been his family?

Lowell looked at Peter, whose expression had closed up. Why would his family leave? Why would Peter stay and not go with them? What in the world was going on and had he wound up with an axe murderer afterall? 'Werewolf Becomes Meal to Crazy Werewolf Enthusiast.'

Yet, seeing the expression – or lack thereof – on Peter's face, he couldn't even sort of believe that. Whatever had happened, it really hurt Peter. He wished he could ask, that it was his business.

"So are we going to stand around in the street all night, or shall we go inside and sit like civilized humans, vampires, and werewolves," Sally said, bright voice cutting through the sudden tension. "I vote Peter's house, since I really don't want to wake Jordan. He's tired from feeding me."

Peter rolled his eyes, but turned and strode to his house, motioning for the others to follow him. Lowell followed quickly, wanting for some reason to stay close to Peter, not liking how unhappy he was – or that other people were making his already unhappy mood worse, and he wondered if he'd get kicked out if he tried to make the others leave.

Like he had any right to do that – what was wrong with him? Maybe he just needed to go back to bed. After a week and half here, and never really having had much of a schedule in his life, he was adjusting easily to the odd hours kept by Peter – work and stuff in the morning, lunch followed by a long nap, then up 'til one or so in the morning. Of course, at any time of the day or night patients arrived, so even that odd schedule was not set in stone.

Lowell didn't care, he liked waking up in the same place every morning and not being beaten or hauled away by cops.

Inside, he went straight to the coffee maker and got it going, fetching Peter's mug and his own. He hesitated on a third, looking at Clarence. When he nodded, Lowell pulled down a third mug and set them all by the coffee maker.

Then he stood feeling a bit lost. "Uh, would anyone like anything to eat?"

"Whatever you've got," Clarence said promptly, ignoring the glare Peter sent him. "I see you're the courteous half of the household. That particular element was always missing."

"Says a man whose job is to be nosy," Peter said with a roll of his eyes. "If I'm rude, it's just because I follow the example of present company."

Sally smirked. "Personally, I think all men present should follow your example and walk around half-naked."

Peter swore, and Lowell tried not to stare at the way his cheeks went suddenly pink before Peter fled the kitchen and stomped up the stairs.

He went to the fridge as Sally laughed and Clarence softly chuckled, pulling out what was left of the fried chicken and slaw, the cherry pie that Sally had made for them. Wasn't there some…oh, there they were. He grabbed the mashed potatoes, the leftover gravy beside it, then shut the fridge with his foot and carried the mass in his arms to the table. Sally helped him get it all in order, and Lowell moved to fetch the biscuits from where they were in a container on the counter.

"Oh, man. Real food. I haven't had that in forever. You are the coolest werewolf ever, hands down."

Sally shook her head and smiled at Lowell, as though they were sharing some private amusement.

It was so weird being treated like he was normal. He kept waiting for the catch. 'Werewolf Killed By Kindness; Kindness Prefers Semiautomatics'.

Setting the biscuits down, he returned to the fridge for drinks as Sally stood up to fetch plates and cups.

He turned as he smelled and heard Peter returning, both relieved and disappointed to see he'd changed into old jeans and a dark blue t-shirt.

Which reminded Lowell abruptly that he was still in his own night clothes. Setting the pitcher of iced tea and a couple of beers on the table, he left to go get changed, pulling on jeans that were just a bit too long, and a t-shirt that fit perfectly. Had these clothes belonged to Stacey? Someone else? Was he wearing the clothes of all the other wolves who had lived here?

The thought made him want to growl, and he shook his head at himself. Maybe being well fed and well rested was bad for him – obviously not having to struggle for food was giving his wolf aspects a chance to get worse. He'd have to watch it…especially given how appealing he found Peter.

He didn't want to get carried away with some werewolf thing he didn't understand and screw up the only good thing to ever happen to him. Screwing it up would so be his luck, but maybe he could somehow change his luck just this once. 'Werewolf Has Delusions of Grandeur.'

Going back downstairs, he saw that a plate had been made up for him – and he was seated right next to Peter, who was bickering colorfully with Sally. Lowell let his gaze wander, and took note of the way Clarence was looking at something just out of sight – his dog, obviously.

"Um, is she hungry?" he asked.

Clarence looked up. "Hm? Oh, no, she's fine. I'm getting the woeful I am starving puppy eyes, but she's just fine. So you're changing tomorrow, right? Vamps like full moons, since they're so bright. I think with most, it's the no more sunlight that's hardest to get used to."

Sally shrugged. "Probably. It's been so long, I don't recall. I never ask the others, they get too wigged out by me."

"You shouldn't be so flashy," Clarence teased lightly, chuckling when Sally shook a bracelet-laden wrist at him. He turned back to Lowell. "So how old are you? You look about eighteen, though it's so hard to tell anyone's age. My last lover could have passed for nineteen but he was twenty six. Not that he ever corrected anyone who thought he was nineteen." He rolled his eyes.

Lowell frowned, confused. "I do not know. Why does my age matter so much? Is there some werewolf thing I don't know?"

"Enough," Peter snapped. "Leave him alone."

"Okay, okay, sheesh," Clarence said, holding his hands up. "I didn't mean any harm, and someone neglected to tell me to keep my mouth shut." He glared at Sally.

Sally patted his hand. "There's no point. Men never keep their mouths shut anyway."

"Oh, yes, and who is head of the village gossips?" Peter demanded.

"I am the village top," Sally said loftily. "It is my duty to be apprised of all situations."

Peter rolled his eyes.

Lowell wondered if he could go back to bed. He ate in silence, doing his best to be invisible, hoping he wasn't asked any more questions that made him feel like he was the only one in the room missing out on the joke. He hated feeling like that. Why didn't they just tell him? That was two people now whom Peter had told to shut up after they asked about his age.

It seemed important that he was eighteen?

He really hated being a werewolf who didn't know anything about his own disease or whatever. Lowell stabbed at his mashed potatoes, then set his fork down with a sigh and reached for his coffee. Sweet and creamy, which meant Peter had made it – thankfully he hadn't let Sally. It was obvious she probably had never once had coffee in her entire life.

Setting it down again, he returned to making a half-hearted effort at eating. Normally he ate like…well…a wolf. He should be eating so now, because who knew when the regular feedings would stop? One day it would be back to scrounging for food in every conceivable place, a few of those wretched enough to make him cry, so he should not be moping instead of eating right now. Seriously, he was already getting spoiled on having a taste of normal life.

Fingers touched his shoulder lightly, and he dragged his eyes up to Peter, who was looking at him in concern. "Don't worry on it. I assure you there's nothing about which you should worry. Just ignore us, hmm?"

Lowell shrugged. "I, uh, kinda wish I did know my age, you know? But I don't. Not even sure how I got my name, it's just what I remember being called, and I don't remember if the orphanage had a fam—family name for me." He ducked his head and bit into his chicken before any more stupidity fell out of his mouth.

"Ouch, okay, I can take a hint," Clarence said. "I really didn't mean to upset anyone. Just curious. I'll keep it to myself."

Peter smiled faintly. "No, you won't. Curiosity is your middle name."

"Yeah, yeah. Can I have another beer?"

"I'm impressed you bothered to ask," Peter replied dryly.

"I figure I'm in enough trouble," Clarence said with a smile, and stood to fetch another beer from the fridge. He sat down again, idly petting the head of his greyhound, who rest it on his thigh. "So this neighborhood is getting exciting again. Sally, how is Jordan? Given more thought to…"

Sally shrugged. "It's too soon yet to tell. We'll see in a decade or so if he's suitable for turning."

"Suitable for turning?"

"Yeah," Sally said softly. "He's asking about my turning Jordan into a vampire. I've had other beaus in the past, but none of them had what it took to endure immortality." She shook her head. "I had a husband as a mortal, too…" She looked briefly sad. "We had a daughter. Illness took them not long after we arrived here. Funny the things you do remember, even after a few hundred years." She shrugged. "I think Jordan will work, but it's just too soon to say. Age determines it, and he's young yet."

Peter snorted. "Jeez, Clarence. I realize you vampire hunters are all idiots, but surely you can come up with a happy topic of conversation?"

Clarence smiled sheepishly. "Obviously not. Not even any interesting new hunter gossip, since I was last around."

Sally leaned over the table and kissed his cheek. "No harm, dear hunter. Now, I say you boys make fresh coffee and then we will cut this cherry pie for you."

A knock at the door drew their attention, and Sally smiled as she caught the shadow through the blind over the glass window in the top half of the door. She opened it and gently tugged Jordan inside, kissing him softly. "Rested, sweetheart?"

"Of course," Jordan said with a yawn, undermining his words by wrapping his arms around Sally's waist and resting his head on her shoulder.

Laughing softly, Sally kissed his brow, then dragged him to the table and pushed him into the chair next to hers. Then she bustled about cleaning away dishes and fetching new ones, giving Lowell a warning look when he tried to help her.

In due order there was fresh coffee – made by himself – and cherry pie, and Lowell dug into it happily, worries of only a moment ago briefly buried by the sweet, tart dessert. He listened, eyes growing heavier by the second, as the group talked quietly about different people they knew, Jordan and Clarence talking about hunting, Peter offering his own dry comments here and there.

He barely noticed when a hand covered his, and only slowly lifted his head to look up at Peter. "Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for," Peter replied, gently pulling and pushing until Lowell was standing and going obediently toward the stairs. He heard the others leaving, the door closing, someone turning out the kitchen lights…then he just felt Peter's hand on his back, easy and warm, making all the more acute the dratted smell that was probably going to drive him crazy here shortly.

Tomorrow night he was going to turn wolf; he really hoped he didn't do something stupid then. It was so much harder to be normal in wolf form…and the circumstances this time were wholly different.

Maybe he should just lock himself in his room, or maybe head off into the woods so he was well away from anywhere he might cause trouble.

Except once he turned, no doubt he'd undo all his own hard work.

He blinked and sleepily shook his head as they reached his room, and smiled up at Peter. "Sorry. Are you going to bed?"

Peter smiled faintly, and reached up to tousle his hair. "Yes, vampires and hunters wear even me out. Get some rest, I'm sorry I woke you."

"No, uh, it was fine." Lowell tried to smile, scrubbing a hand through his hair, noting absently he much preferred the feel of Peter's hand doing the same thing."Um. Good night. Or, uh, good morning?"

Laughing, Peter briefly gripped his shoulder, then wandered down the hall to his own room, the door closing quietly behind him.

Lowell stood watching it for several minutes, then with a sigh finally turned away to find his own bed.

He'd just picked up his discarded sleep pants when the back of his neck prickled. Dropping the pants, he abandoned his room and went back downstairs, pausing briefly before finally decided to go out the back door.

It was quiet – too quiet. The barest hints of morning were beginning to lighten the sky, nothing but threads of gray.

The wind shifted, and suddenly he could smell it. He barely noticed the growl that lodged in his throat, and when the intrusive scent drew closer he threw himself without thought over the porch railing and down onto the hill below – and shifted as he did so, a large wolf as he hit the thick forest at the base of the hill.

Snarling he weaved his way through the trees, headed straight for the threat, the enemy. He would not tolerate unwelcome persons in his territory. It was his now, the others would get out.

Breaking through the forest into a clearing, he growled at the intruder.

The man froze. Lowell could smell his fear. Good. He barked loud, high and sharp – ordering the intruder to back off or fight properly. When the man didn't move, Lowell again barked, forcing the issue. One last, reverberating growl – and the man obediently changed before his eyes.

Lowell threw himself at the intruder, giving no quarter, fighting for all he was worth because this was all his and this wolf had no right and was not welcome and he would go or die. That was the way of things.

He snarled as the intruder attacked, throwing him off and lunging in for a bite of his own, drinking down the scream of pain, dragging the wolf to the ground and then—

"Lowell!"

He jerked around as the smell and scent of his mate reached him – and then barely dodged the teeth that came at him. Snarling with renewed fervor, he threw himself back at the intruder, going for his throat—

"Lowell, stop!"

Growling low, he barked sharply once at the intruder, then quickly backed off, padding over to the one he protected, pushing into the hands that stroked him, soothed and calmed, letting the anger bleed away – though he never forgot the vile intruder who lingered still.

The world smelled of blood, from the intruder and the drinkers. He could hear them talking, but did not follow the words, merely pressed closer to his mate and let himself be assured that all was well.

He growled and jerked his head up as he heard the intruder growing closer. However, the intruder only whimpered, limping and bleeding, begging him quietly.

Lowell ignored him. If the intruder was not good enough to escape injury, then he could suffer his wounds. He did not smell like one doomed to die, so perhaps he would learn not to come uninvited into Lowell's territory.

His mate moved forward, slowly caressing his fur as he went, but Lowell growled in discontent all the same as his mate approached the intruder – and snarled in anger as the wolf abruptly lunged, biting down hard on his mate.

Springing forward, he sank his teeth into the vile intruder, shaking and growling, letting the taste of hot blood consume him, not relenting until the intruder collapsed in a trembling heap at his feet and whimpered in submission.

Growling one last warning, he turned to his mate, snarling at the drinkers who dared touch him, pushing and nosing until he could sniff the wound, examine it himself. He whined softly, licking his mate's face, pushing up against him, sharing his warmth.

"It's okay, Low," his mate said softly, petting him with his good arm, carefully holding his injured one against his chest. "Thank you."

The drinkers were talking again, and now he noted one who smelled like drinkers and silver…and another, one like him but not. She was okay. He growled approval as she drew close and showed proper deference.

He turned back to his mate, refusing to let another draw close.

"Low," his mate said softly, still petting and caressing. "Can you change?"

Growling, understanding the request, Lowell focused – and shifted back to his other form.

Lowell stood, staring and blinking, wondering what the hell was going on.

He could see Peter, who was bleeding. What? Why? Oh no, what had he done?

Something whimpered and he turned to see an injured werewolf lying on the ground – blood, so much blood.

"Lowell!!"

He heard Sally call his name, and the others, Peter's voice louder than all the rest but it was obvious he'd done some crazy werewolf thing and he'd hurt Peter and oh god what was he going to do now?

"I'm sorry!" He said – then promptly passed out.

*~*~*

Lowell woke with a gasp, chased out of sleep by nightmares of wolves fighting, the taste of blood in his mouth.

His hand shook as he lifted it to his face. What was wrong with him? Why was he having such horrible dreams? He'd never do that to someone else. It wasn't his style to be so angry. If it was, he'd have been arrested for murder rather than trespassing a dozen times over.

At least it was just a dream, right? Weird dream, maybe it had something to do with the fact he'd be changing tonight. Usually he loathed his change because he had nowhere to safely hide, or was hungry and tired and stuff on top of the change itself. This time, he had none of that to worry about.

Only how stupid he would behave with Peter around.

So maybe his dumb brain was making up problems to occupy his time.

Still feeling kinda shaky, wishing he could discard the dream that insisted on clinging to him, Lowell reached for—

Why the hell was he naked?

He never woke up naked except when he changed, and it wasn't time to change.

Maybe it had to do with his dumb dreams?

Shaking his head, Lowell quickly grabbed his clothes and bolted across the hall to the bathroom.

Hot water made everything better, as did soap. By the time he'd finished, Lowell felt a little bit more normal. Pulling on his clothes, wiping the bathroom down and throwing his towel in the hamper, he finally padded down the stairs and into the kitchen.

He froze at the sight before him, eyes going wide, nostrils flaring.

Stacey stood in the kitchen, wearing nothing but sweats and a t-shirt and he was standing close to Peter and touching him and Lowell was across the kitchen before he knew what he was doing, shoving Stacey hard against the counter, grasping his wrists and pinning them down.

"Lowell!"

Peter's voice was a bucket of cold water.

Immediately Lowell let go, stumbling back, something heavy and painful lodging in his chest. "Oh, god. It wasn't a dream." He buried his face in his hands, then turned and fled, choking back sobs.

He bolted from the house, unable to stand being in it after all he'd done. How could Peter even stand to look at him? Put him back in bed? They should have shot him in the head and why couldn't he remember it all better?

Outside, he half-ran, half-stumbled down the porch steps, then down the hill and splashed across the creek, going into the woods until he could no longer see so much as a hint of the house – then kept going.

What was wrong with him? Why was he acting this way? Had he finally turned into some sort of awful monster? Peter! He remembered Peter had been bitten. Lowell drew up his knees and folded his arms across them, then buried his face in his arms. Oh, god. What was he going to do? He should just kill himself.

It wasn't fair! He'd always tried so hard to be a good werewolf. Staying away from people as best he could when he changed, running instead of fighting, not resisting the cops when they took him in, leaving the other werewolves alone like they wanted even though he didn't want to be alone himself…

Now he'd managed to screw up the only good thing to happen to him, and on top of that he'd ruined Peter's life! Maybe Peter wouldn't mind too much, since he liked wolves and his family apparently was all werewolves…

Except that wasn't the point. The point was that Lowell had finally gone insane and turned into a monster. He wondered why they hadn't just killed him, that would have been the smart thing to do – but Peter really was a nice guy, look at the way he'd taken Lowell in and put up with all the nosy townspeople and stuff.

Why had he done it? He was mad at Stacey, but not that mad. So why?

He wished he could remember! It was always so hard totally remembering everything he did as a wolf, and that bugged him because if he was both then shouldn't he be the same mind or whatever in both forms? Why was he so stupid as a wolf? Couldn't he have been smart enough in that form to remember how stupid it would be to fuck up what he'd found here with Peter?

Apparently not.

Damn it. He didn't want to leave – but he didn’t want to stay and be a monster either. What if next time he actually killed someone?

Why had he been a wolf at all? The full moon was tonight! He'd never changed early before; he hadn't even known werewolves could change early. Surely even he, stupid and ignorant as he was, would have known if that were a possibility?

Ha. Who was he kidding? Of course he was that stupid and ignorant. 'Werewolf Dumbest On Planet, Studies Show.'

Sitting up, he wiped the tears from his cheeks and struggled to remember all he could.

He'd gone to bed. Then something had felt wrong. He remembered being angry, running to the porch – then he could only remember the forest, Stacey, blood, then Peter's voice…

Anger. He definitely remembered that damn anger. Stacey had made him furious and Lowell could not fathom why. Or maybe he didn't want to remember. All he did know was that Stacey was here and he didn't like it.

Really didn't like it, to judge by the way he'd gone all werewolf-like in the kitchen. If not for Peter…what would he have done?

Yet remembering how close they'd been standing, the way Stacey had been touching -- it made him see red all over again. If Stacey were here, he didn't doubt he'd go ballistic all over again.

He buried his face in his arms again, wanting everything to just go away, wishing Peter had never found him that night and he'd drowned in the stupid rain.

The sound of someone crashing through the brush brought his head up, and he realized suddenly he could smell Peter – and looked up just as the man himself came into view.

"Lowell," Peter said, relief in his voice "There you are. I was beginning to think you'd managed to well and truly hide yourself."

"I'm sorry," Lowell said miserably, fighting an urge to run because he didn't want Peter seeing him acting so pathetic on top of being a monster last night. When would life stop sucking? When would he just stop breathing?

He slowly looked up again as Peter knelt beside him. "Low, it's okay."

"It's not!" Lowell protested, feeling even more wretched at the way Peter kept calling him 'Low.' "I—I went crazy. I hurt people." He blinked furiously, only growing more upset because he wouldn't stop the stupid crying. "I hurt you."

Peter startled. "What? Oh, no, Low. Stacey bit me, not you."

Lowell went still. He slowly looked up. "I didn't bite you?"

"No, Low," Peter said gently, reaching out to gently brush back Low's hair. "You'd never bite me."

"I dunno," Lowell said miserably, wanting so bad to lean into the touch but he had no right to start with, and certainly not now that he was turning into a monster. "I seem to be going crazy. I swear I've never acted like that before. Usually I just try to find somewhere to sleep, I promise!"

All of a sudden he found himself pressed against Peter, who despite everything smelled warm and good and right and Lowell didn't understand any of this one little bit and he should be running away but somehow all he could do was hold tight and let Peter embrace him.

It didn't help at all that the only thing that apparently smelled better than Peter was the way their scents mingled. He wished it was okay to stay like this forever.

But he was a monster. He couldn't forget that for a minute. Forcing himself away, Lowell tried to look Peter in the face, but it was hard because he still acted so nice and kind and Lowell didn't understand it all. "I really am sorry, I've never acted like a monster before. I don't even remember it well, and that just makes it worse."

"Oh, Low…" Peter sighed softly, and then reached out to cup his face, stroking Lowell's cheeks with his thumbs. "You didn't act one bit like a monster – you acted like a werewolf. Nothing more."

"I've never done that before," Lowell said miserably. "Why did I change early? I didn't know we could do that."

"Most werewolves can't," Peter said.

Lowell stared at him, feeling suddenly cold, cause a statement like that… "So what am I, if not a normal werewolf?"

Peter shook his head, and let go of his face to grab his hands and slowly pull them both to their feet. "Come on, the middle of this forest is not the place to discuss this. I should have done it after you arrived…" He sighed and shook his head, and held fast to Lowell's hand. "Inside, then we'll talk."

"What about…uh…Stacey?"

"I told him to make himself scarce," Peter said, squeezing his hand. "I'm sure precious few people would care if you did actually succeed in killing him, but I do not want you burdened by that."

Lowell almost started crying again. "I've never wanted to kill anyone before, and I don’t now, except when—" He thought about Stacey touching Peter, and then he started feeling like a monster again.

"Well, if he's around right now, I'll probably punch him myself. I really am not pleased to see him."

Nodding, Lowell let himself be dragged along – and then began to wonder just how far he'd run. "How did you find me?"

"I followed your scent," Peter said with a smile. "That aside, no one knows these woods better than me. Much of it is my land, after all, and the rest may as well be for all the use it gets from everyone else."

"My scent?" Lowell repeated. "But…you're human…aren't you?"

Peter smiled at him again. "Yes and no, Low. Come on, let's get inside."

Lowell wanted to ask more questions, but he was hardly in a position to protest waiting a few more minutes for answers. Suddenly he just wanted another nap, as they trudged up the hill and back into house.

He obediently went to change into dry clothes at Peter's urging, but hesitated on going back downstairs. Gods, he was stupid. And a freak of the highest order, apparently. Swallowing, telling himself to stop being a coward, he finally forced himself to go back downstairs and into the kitchen.

Peter held out a cup of coffee, and Lowell slowly accepted it. "Um, I can uh, leave if you want. Which you must, I know, cause—"

His chin was grasped, and he didn't resist as Peter urged him to look up. "No, Low," Peter said softly. "If you want it to be, this is your home. I will never ask you to leave. I don’t want you to leave. This is my fault, in the end. Come and sit, and I'll try to explain."

Stiffly Lowell obeyed, sliding into the bench as Peter indicated he should, staring across at where Peter took one of the chairs.

"You said I'm not a normal werewolf."

Peter laughed in his gentle way. "Oh, Low…the irony is that you're the most normal werewolf of all. It's the other ones, the ones partly human, that are technically freaks."

"The ones…are you saying I'm not human? Or something? Like the way I was born a werewolf, not bitten?"

"Yes…" Peter said, toying idly with his coffee cup. "No one really knows the true origins of vampires and werewolves…if there are vampires still alive who know the truth, they do not speak of it, and nearly all werewolves were wiped out, so there is no legacy left to tell us from that side… What we do know, Low, is that there is still by some miracle something we now call a 'purebred' werewolf."

"A…purebred? You mean like dogs or something?"

"Sort of," Peter said, "though I would never in a million years call you a dog, or in any way similar. Purebred werewolves are those werewolves who have untainted blood. There are all manner of theories about the origins of vampires and werewolves. One rather controversial theory is that once werewolves were a proper race. That either humans sought to copy them, or they sought to save themselves by mingling with humans… Most say humans sought the power of lycanthropy, and vampirism was a failed attempt at that."

Lowell waited.

Peter smiled faintly. "You are strong evidence for that theory, Lowell. As I said, you are purebred. It's very easy to pick out for those of us that are so intimately acquainted with werewolves. There is not a single drop of human blood in you. Through and through, you are werewolf. You said it always seemed like other werewolves didn't want to stay around you…"

"Yeah," Lowell said thinly, hands wrapping tightly around his coffee mug. "Are they scared of me?"

"Maybe a few…but I think it more accurate to say that they held you in awe…and were probably baffled when you gave no indication of knowing all that you are."

Lowell slumped. He was scary, even to other werewolves? How depressing.

Peter reached out and lightly touched his hand, pulling it away from the mug, holding it tight. "Don't worry so much, Low…now that you're learning more, it won't be so hard. You've also got me, for what little that is worth."

The knot in his chest unwound the slightest bit, the words stupidly reassuring for a reason Lowell could not name. "So is this, uh, purebred thing the reason I can change early? I know I've never done that before…"

"It's in part a purebred thing…but it's an exclusive power of alphas. You obviously don't remember that Stacey was a wolf as well."

Lowell startled, unconsciously tightening the hold he had on Peter's hand. "That's right, we were fighting. I tried to kill him – but how did he become a wolf? Is he purebred too?"

"No, Stacey is not purebred. He was only able to change because you forced him to change – that is the power of an alpha werewolf once he reaches his maturity and comes into his full power. The age of maturity in werewolves is roughly eighteen years, give or take a few months."

"Oh," Lowell said, feeling a little bit dazed, a little bit loopy. "What, uh, is an alpha?"

Peter laughed again, and with anyone else it would have stung but with Peter it just made him feel warm and less of a monster. "An alpha…is, simply put, the leader of the pack. You're meant to lead, to be in charge, to have wolves obey you and submit. That is why so many are intimidated by you, why dogs always prostrate, and even people to some degree have probably not been as rough with you as they might have otherwise been – though I'm sure that last you find hard to believe."

Lowell shrugged. He didn't believe it for a second. Cops left bruises, and people in their fancy houses with an income and full fridges got really fucking pissed about him stealing a little bit of grass to catch a few z's.

Him in charge? Of what? The idea was stupid. "I'm not an alpha. How could I be?"

"You've been homeless your entire life, Low, and no one has ever taught you about werewolves. Given half a chance, and I intend to give you far more than half, you will come well and fully into your own. That display last night proved loud and clear that you're an alpha, and will not tolerate threats to what you consider yours."

"So being an alpha means turning into a monster whenever wolves I don’t like come around?"

Peter sighed softly, squeezing his hand tightly. "No, Lowell. That's not it at all." He smiled faintly. "You were protecting your home…" He hesitated. "You were protecting us."

Lowell frowned. That didn't sound quite right, and Peter was hesitating. His cheeks burned with humiliation. "This morning I attacked him because…because I didn't like him touching you. I almost killed him because he was touching you – that sounds like a monster to me."

"No," Peter said firmly. "That sounds like after going your whole life knowing nothing about werewolves, you somehow have managed to have everything dumped on you at once. I have tried to make everyone keep their mouths shut, because I knew too much too fast would cause you problems. You're not a monster – you're a werewolf. You were protecting me, Low…" He paused, and when he started speaking again, Peter's voice was low and soft. "You were protecting what you knew belonged to you."

"Belonged…" Lowell stared, cheeks growing hotter than ever. "But that—I don't—"

Peter let go of his hand and took off his glasses, then stood up. He moved around the table and pulled Lowell up. "I saw you sitting on the road and thought you were nothing more than a homeless person. I got out of the car and realized immediately you were a werewolf…"

He brushed back strands of Lowell's hair, eyes so intent and bright, naked without the glasses. "Once I got you out of the rain, I realized you were much, much more than I could ever have imagined. A purebred, an alpha…and by some strange twist of fate, I do believe we are mates."

"Mates?" Lowell asked, the word making him feel sort of dizzy, a sensation not helped at all by the way Peter kept touching him. No one ever touched him, except to drag him off or beat him or get him to do some grungy task. "What does that mean?"

Peter's mouth curved in a smile that was equal parts amused and sweet. "It means that you smell as good to me as I smell to you."

"Oh," Lowell squeaked, and scrambled to get away, feeling one hundred percent stupid for being so thoroughly busted.

"It's okay, Low!" Peter said. "You should know that. Hell, I'm sort of baffled you have any interest in me at all, other than the fact I make good coffee." He winked, holding Lowell's face firmly between his hands. "I must have roughly nine years on you, and the quiet life of a small town doctor is not the sort of life most envy. Neither have you been here long, and far too much information has been dumped upon you."

Lowell nodded, or tried, but he was rather too overwhelmed to figure out words right now.

Peter slowly let him go, and the memory of his fingers tingled on Lowell's skin.

He swallowed. "So, uh, um…I really don't know what to say or do."

"I guess not," Peter said. "For now, I suggest we get breakfast, and we can talk a bit longer to help you feel a bit more steady." His face briefly clouded. "Then when Stacey shows his damned face again, we can figure out what the hell he was doing here—" He broke off as the back door opened, and Stacey strolled into the kitchen.

Lowell growled, unconsciously reaching out to hold fast to Peter, shoving him back, moving forward. "Go away," he snarled, unable to help it even as he wondered what the hell his problem was.

He was a purebred wolf. He was alpha. Peter…was his, uh, mate. Stacey was a jerk. Okay, he could work with that.

"Stacey…" Peter sighed. "Why are you here? You left swearing you would sooner kill yourself than come back. I don't want you here."

"Your fucking attack dog went ballistic on me," Stacey said.

Lowell bristled. "Shut up," he snapped – then stood sort of gawking at his own words, his own tone.

Stacey laughed. "It's cute how he's trying to be all tough."

Alpha. In charge. Stacey made Peter unhappy. "I wasn't the one bleeding to death in the forest," he said quietly. "I'm not the one who smells like blood and medicine."

"You—"

"Enough!" Peter said sharply. "Stacey, shut the fuck up or I will let him tear you to pieces. He's still coming into his full power, and likely to move more on instinct than rational thought, which means he will attack you first and ask questions later. Shut up, sit down, and explain what in the hell you're doing here."

Stacy rolled his eyes, opened the fridge and snatched out a carton of orange juice, then sat down at the table and drank straight from the carton. "How's that bite, Pete?"

"Shut up," Peter said tiredly. "You know damn good and well how it is."

"Yeah, but I bet that cub there doesn't. You into jailbait now, Pete?"

"His name is Peter, not Pete," Lowell said quietly, but firmly. He hesitated, then let his hatred of Stacey surface, let it course through him. "Get a glass for the juice, stop drinking out of the carton."

Stacey stared at him, blinking slowly several times – then he stood up and snagged a glass, stomping back to the table and pouring the orange juice into it. "Fucking weirdo wolf, I knew you were odd when I first saw you."

Lowell said nothing, merely fetched the mugs on the table and filled them with fresh coffee for himself and Peter.

"Why are you here, Stacey?"

"I wanted to see how the family reunion was going," Stacey replied.

There was a weighted pause, and Lowell barely caught back the mug he'd handed to Peter, as Peter let go of it in surprise. "What family reunion?"

Stacey grinned in a way that was more a baring of teeth. "I guess I'm a little early. Your brother will be here soon, though, I'm sure. Funny, Pete, that you never fucking told me you have a family of werewolves. But, they hate you too, don't they? Afraid jailbait will hate you too? He should."

"Shut up," Lowell snarled, hating the pain he could see in Peter's stance, his face, the way he'd gone so white. "I could never hate him."

"Ask him why that bite I gave him isn't a problem," Stacey said, snarling the words right back. "Ask him, then tell me if you could never hate him."

Lowell threw his coffee at Stacey, then himself, picking Stacey up and throwing him toward the back door. "Get out. Stay out. Come back and I will kill you."

He stood shaking as the door closed behind Stacey, feeling like he was two different people, one of them a total stranger.

"Low…"

The gentle touch to his shoulder had him turning around, going easily into the arms that pulled him close, allowing himself to be soothed by the feel and smell of Peter, who said they were mates, and he didn't wholly understand it but for now just knowing was enough.

Part III