Description: A full Harvest Moon illuminates all that is strange and wild. Especially in Gravedale's resident werewolf. R/V Veggie
A/N: This is mainly a creepy modern-style Gravedale High fic about transformation and identity, circulating around the main character in this story Reggie. There will be some side romance/sexual tension/bit-o-smut between two male characters. If you don't wish to read about that, then kindly press backspace. There will also be cursing...did I mention sexual tension already?
More A/N: I wanted to have this whole story done by Halloween. Now it's the middle of fall and I have only one chapter done. Joni Mitchell was right about seasons going round and round...and painted ponies goin' up and down...
Even more A/N: I do not own Gravedale High. Gravedale High (c) Hanna-Barbera
Chapter: Bell
Reggie never wore glasses during the dreams he could remember the following morning. Significant dreams.
He felt his pulse rise, wrenching at the pooling sheets below him.
The bed did not dip beneath the additional weight, rather this presence hovered between Reggie and his sheets. Yet he felt himself press further and further into the mattress.
The plot had begun so long ago in this particular story. As if he'd skipped the first twelve chapters of a book, a thing he'd never do in his waking hours. Dreams often gave their holders the innate ability to know everything, without explanation or reason.
A hand whisked along his rib cage, it's fingers snaking through the wolf teen's soft layer of fur. He shuddered a gasp he could not suppress, the night air cooling his tongue. He writhed sleepily as another hand dipped below his waistline.
A mouth pressed into his, echoing a moan without a voice, that bounced against his throat. The owner made no haste in moving down Reggie's jaw and neck, a fiery sensation trailing against his flesh.
His handler was a being released from repression, un-bashful, assertive and without self control. And in this lustful wake, Reggie was quick to comply.
Wrapping his arms around the shoulders looming above, the lycan readied his claws, preparing to slowly drag them dow-
*AWOOOOGAAHHHH!!*
-Gooooooooood morning dudes and dudettes! This is Gill-
-And Frankentyke!
-Here to wish you a perfectly grisly October day on this totally sick Thursday mornin'!
*DAH DAH DAAAAHHH DUUUUMMM*
-Your preaching to the choir man. I hope this warm, crappy weather clears up before tomorrow's Har-
The voices of his friends from Mr. Schneider's class were silenced by a gentle press of a button on his radio-alarm clock, rather than a series of blind and clumsy slaps. Reggie sighed, allowing the bristling fur on his spine to resettle.
He thought about the events that lead to the slackers seizing control of the Gravedale High airwaves. One day their teacher, Mr. Schneider, pulled Gill and Frankentyke aside and told them that in order to graduate in a year, they would need to express more interest in the school's pre-approved extracurricular activities. And to be quick about it.
One misunderstanding lead to another, and now Reggie found himself wondering what the liberal media saw in loud, clownish disc-jockeys and obnoxious sound effects. Or how the two mustered this much energy so early in the morning.
He was staring into the abyss of the wrong side of the bed.
Silence hung heavily in the stale, and chilled morning air. Reggie curled deep into the damp warmth of his pillow, trying to slink back into the remnants of his dreams. However the chances of achieving REM and reentering that oasis in the next five minutes were slim.
And to expect to stay for five measly minutes, then leave on his own free will, was an impossible task. His overpowering logic would not let him forget this.
7:02 am. 14 seconds. Reggie rarely needed to look at the clock. The green glowing digits on the radio-alarm were nothing but blurs whenever he wasn't wearing his glasses.
The R&R ship had sailed and he needed to prepare for the day ahead. He stretched his lean arms with a great yawn. C'mon Reggie, wake up...he thought, encouraging himself from the pillow. Carpe diem, as they say. Rise and sh-
His stream of thought was stopped by an unignorable ache between his legs.
"-it."he grumbled, colorfully concluding his slew of mental cheering. He was in dire need of a cold shower.
***
14 minutes, 38 seconds. Shaking out his damp hair a third time, and literally by instinct, shaking out a leg, he slipped out the door.
Though Gill and Frankentyke's sources were often questionable, their meteorology had been spot on. A fresh and scenic morning fog had blown in two, maybe three and a half hours previous, from Reggie's prediction. Blown was not the correct term. The mist was an exhalation of warm breath, hanging over the school grounds.
No blistering chill. No eerie howl of wind, weather more preferable to monsters. Not ONE spark of lightening, ripping through a single, solitary, fat, black little cloud could be seen whatsoever.
Reggie couldn't see anything at all for that matter. Even with his glasses, now slightly fogged with condensation around their rims. The horizon was obscured by a blank void. A few yards away, puncturing through the veil of white, he could just make out the red leaves of the woods, browning in their final days before their eventual fall.
Hopefully it'll at least drizzle later...he mused, drinking in the air with a deep breath. Mid sip however, he felt something.
Being a creature of great intelligence, and part-beast, he had the benefit of great discernment, and intuition. What most called ESP, or psychic powers, he clarified as a good sense of smell and hearing.
Closing his eyes, he sniffed at the hazy air again. Cautious at first, then greedily inhaling, filling his wolfish snout to the brim.
Instantly he regretted it. Something was wrong. Or different. Terribly different at least. His head swam, as the essence of everything around him engulfed his senses at once. He nearly doubled over as every sound and smell shouted for attention. Instinctively, his clamped a clawed hand over his panting mouth, trying to regain control of his perceptions.
Nerves ignited, with every blade of dead grass crunching below. The sweet-rotten perspiration of 13 distinct species of trees, amongst the dozens nearby, sent fireworks flaring in his skull.
Reaching out, searching blindly for support from any solid object, he realized he had stumbled towards the edge of the woods, in a cloud of confusion. Though his eyelids had been sealed shut, Reggie knew he had caught the embrace of the trunk of a tree. It was smooth, small knots here and there. Birch. It had begun shedding it's leaves and skin by now. He permit his free hand to explore the tree's moist, and papery bark. Distracting his mind with touch somewhat cooled the boil and bubble between his ears. He tried to clear his mind by worrying whether anyone saw him look foolish, staggering across the lawn.
Perhaps, he thought I could walk this off. He didn't want to miss school because of overzealous sinuses. He simply didn't want to bring any unwanted attention to himself.
7:19.
...thirt-49 seconds!
Mr. Schneider didn't take attendance and begin teaching until 8:15. Announcements were made over the intercom at 8:10. Five minutes to eight the warning bell sounded before the official Bell at 8:00. When the weather wasn't vindictive, and he had time to spare, Reggie often walked to school, cutting through the woods between the Student Haunted-Housing grounds and the Gravedale High campus. The entire walk took between 29 and 32 minutes, give or take.
Standing for 20 immobile and unproductive minutes, for an 8 minute bus ride, in a cramped and loud vehicle, with a pounding headache, made walking sound all the more sensible. And pleasurable.
Ironically, in this fog he would have to resort to dependency on the very two senses that plagued him. Before he could so much as consider flipping a coin, his legs had already carried him into the foggy wood.
Concentrate on movement Reggie... Just keep moving...body in motion stays in...
He always followed a path, cleared by consecutive routine and his own lingering scent. It was impossible to become lost. Reggie rarely used sight to navigate through the trail, often busying that sense with images of sky, trees and any fascinating organisms he saw. He would calmly let his instincts take control, basking in the calm of the morning, growing cooler as the days went by.
No such luck this particular morning.
Squinting, he tried to see past the curtain of branch and cloud, bowing his head with every step. Searching the ground for rocks and other trip worthy hazards, on this winding path he'd taken so many times before. Breathing softly and sparingly, alternating between his nasal passage and mouth proved to be more physically and mentally demanding than he predicted.
The normal noises of the forest and it's active inhabitants were silenced and smothered by the pillowing fog. Though this predatory quiet was disturbing, Reggie felt an odd sense of comfort in the lack of noise, despite the crack of twigs and rustle of leaves he maneuvered past.
You'll be fine...your okay...keep moving...only 25 minu...no wait...twenty-three...twent...y...
The sound of thought began to creep off into the mist. What disturbed Reggie most was how easily his mental voice had abandoned him. Sugar dissolving into a briny sea.
Reggie's reserved and shallow tufts of breath deepened as he started to run. Feeling as though he surrendered somehow, his concentration carelessly riveted to his sprinting body; easily stripped of all precaution and fear, left only with feel. Looming tree trunks whistled by as he plunged through dense and clouded thicket.
He didn't stop to think on the pungency of the wet and fruitful earth filling his head, or the branches lashing his arms. Nor why he had given in to his unexplained and rushed desire to run. Dodging around unearthed roots and mud puddles, Reggie silently urged himself faster and further. Till the woods blurred, and he could breath in the very scent of oxygen that enveloped him whole. More than ever he wanted to lose himself wholly.
***
"Eh Vinnie, where's mah tip?"
He was so close.
So...close...
Two more steps and Vinnie would have been outside Big Daddy's Gumbo Emporium, and "regretfully" unable to hear the chef call after him.
"Uh...B.D.?" he hastily replied, weighing his options. Fabricate or flight. Vinnie opted for the nobler path, and turned to face Big Daddy with a chuckle and the famed Stoker grin. "Aww, c'mon Daddy-o. I'm ahh lil'...short in cash today 'n I have class in a few... sooooo..." he sang out, spinning on heel to grab at the glass door's handle. "I'mjustgonna-"
He was cut off by the *twang* of a butcher knife, splitting through the plaster wall by the door frame, inches from where his head was. Fortunately, his hair remained untouched.
"Big Dahdeh, whut did I tell you 'bout tossing them knives 'round?" a dour waitress groaned, not looking up from the table she was busing.
"Dis lil' blud-suckah heah wus tryin' to give me de slip." he growled, ignoring the four other patrons, old ladies idly sipping their Arachnid blood-tea. Their bulging eyes rolled within the deep sockets of their shrunken heads, as the decaying biddies continued their gossip.
Since exclusively opening the Emporium to the "inhuman" community, Big Daddy was another human that no longer feared the monster world, and those who happened to keep his restaurant in business. Meaning, every time one of his nocturnal regulars tried to make off without leaving 15% gratitude, he would NOT let them forget it.
"Nice shot." Vinnie awed at the chef's aim, oblivious to his near post-death experience.
"Ah missed."
"...yo, all I had was the coffee 'n goat heart." Vinnie reasoned with a shrug. He had wanted to add that the organ must have been marinating in it's own fluid for a few hours, but decided to keep his mouth shut. The chef may have been concealing more cutlery.
Big Daddy huffed a raspy sigh, turning toward the kitchen door, muttering something inaudible (And most likely offensive) in Creole. Before he could muster a creative way in which to maim his favorite late night miser, the waitress, Bev, bless her soul, had maneuvered behind the chef. She massaged his hulking shoulders, whispering something into his ear. Damn was that woman good.
As the tension in the Gumbo Master's back melted away, he turned to faced the vamp teen, cracking his knuckles with a calm smirk.
Vinnie cringed, backing into the door behind him. He had good reason to worry when Big Daddy looked that happy. He'd feel safer if the man was turning different shades of red and chucking sharp objects at him.
"Eheheheh, ahrigh' Vin," Big Daddy chuckled, ducking to root through the fridge behind the counter. "ah believe we migh' be able to make a lil' deal, no?"
Vinnie had a vague idea what that meant. "...no?" he guessed, echoing meekly.
"Oui!"
"Ugh...yeah?"
"YES!!" Big Daddy shouted with glee, revealing a large brown bag, sliding it down the counter in Vinnie's direction. It skittered to a halt, inches from toppling over the counter's edge.
Delivery run. Sighing defeat, he snatched up the bag.
"Sure, whatevah."
"Good." said the chef, sparking a lighter, met by a cigarette between Bev's lips. Before she returned to gathering dirty plates, she threw a wink to the unhappy vampire and gave Big Daddy a quick kiss on his cheek.
"Dat dere goes to ze...eh," he said, scanning a yellow order slip. "Crone. An' be sho' you tell ze fly-boy he ain't got no deliveries till four den, yeah?"
Vinnie grimaced as if swallowing bad medicine. But with a sneer and groan, he managed to stomach it, knowing it was either deliveries or dish duty. So choosing the whirlpool over the rocks, he yanked open the door and walked out.
"'n bring back every cent, plus tip by lunch!" Big Daddy harped after him with additional commands. "And easy wit ze bag, I got paid a pretty penny to dispose of dem parts!"
"Yeah yeah..." Vinnie muttered, kicking up the loose pebbles in the parking lot. Cradling the armload against his hip, he dug through the back pocket, of his tight denim jeans for a small skull-shaped remote.
Whispering a single word into the device, the eyes of the skull trinket flickered red. Ten feet away, the engine of a hidden vehicle, roared from behind three cars. Vinnie couldn't help but feel ten feet taller, as he rounded the more boring cars, following that sordid hum.
It was indeed a magnificent bike; A sleek, polished crimson body, against an skeletal, onyx-black frame, gleaming wickedly. The chiseled Gladiator-spokes, from each sparkling hubcap, perfectly accented the bike's centerpiece. A pewter raven, digging it's talons into the single frosty headlight.
The statuette's head cocked to the side, tantalizing onlookers, as if to say:
"Who me? Why, I'm the bike- Scratch that. The 'CHARIOT' Vinnie's parents got him for his birthday. And, I know what you're thinking. The first chance you get, you would knock-off every loved one you've ever had, just for the single, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to ride me ...wouldn't you?"
"Hey Lucy." he cooed, straddling the motorcycle with a teasing sluggishness. His motorcycle. His baby. In short, he was very pleased with his mode of transportation. Vinnie was easily able to fly to school, but where was the fun in that?
With the lunch parcel, safely secured in the compartment below his plushy, black-leather seat, he gently secured his helmet. As much as he despised helmet hair, Vinnie, like most motorists, tolerated it over head trauma.
The time read 7:22 in-between the handlebars. School was about ten minutes thatta-way. Five by flight. Depending on the weather.
Hell, I can make it in two Vinnie challenged himself. Revving the purring engine, no human science or technology could explain, he tightened his grasp on the handlebars.
Just before he could cruise, full throttle, toward the school, he took notice of the fog that had completely covered most of the highway.
Well damn. So much for being early. And he was hoping to loiter and maybe squeeze in a pre-class nap.
Looping the bike around, he slithered onto the road. A lever was flipped, and light erupted from the single headlight, streaming through the swirling mists. Light was followed by a flood of music, which, to passer-byres, would be nothing but a trickle of noise.
Screw safety.
At the velocity that Vinnie pressed, it was a miracle any bystanders would see more detail than a dark red blur. Let alone hear more than a decibel of his be-bop mix tape. His eyes fixed on the road ahead; no time to fall under the trance of the spicy melange of reds, browns and oranges he flew past.
Both music and speed drove him to such a thrill that he almost missed it. The presence of someone's blood, gyrating to a frenzied peak, sailed by.
Caught unawares by this sudden surge of formless vitality, he slowed, pulling over to the side of the road. Just what in the name of the Impaler was that? was the question tugging at him. He'd taken the same route almost every day to school (Or whenever he felt like showing up), and was sure as hell there was barely a soul for miles.
Vampires. The unholy predators of night, who feast on the blood of the innocent- yadda-yadda etc.-were adept at harkening the charge of life-force, coursing through any nearby being. Humans, animals, mimes you name it. Mortals and monsters alike, so long as they had a pulse.
He could distinctly sense the blood chiseling through this particular body system, erratically defiant, almost separate from it's warm pumping heart. Like beaker fluid in some mad chemist's lab, crystalizing and bubbling.
And just as it came, it vanished all together. Whatever it was, it was moving fast. If they were hurt or dying, they'd have be slowin' down. He reasoned, wondering whether or not to track down and go after the phantom enigma.
Like fingerprints, the sounds of heartbeats and the rush of blood coursing through veins were unique to the blood-drinker's ear. (The untrained human ear could not detect these distinct beats. Mortals only needed to hear an even bum-ba-bum, to confirm existence.) In regards to "prey", different DNA patterns, genetics and external environments, meant different body structures. Which meant different heart rates, different ailments, different advantages and disadvantages. Ergo: Signature pulses.
And Reggie thought he wasn't listening during their tutoring sessions.
Vinnie waited for a glimmer to reappear. Fledgling vamps had only so much power at his age, most of which had not even developed. He inhaled. Exhaled. And waited.
There was a Hand and Cheese Sandwich, with a side of Pota-toes Salad below his seat, threatening to go south. With a click of his kick stand, Vinnie sped off before he could linger any longer
Probably some new age wack-job tryin' to find his center or manage his chi, or somethin'. He managed to convince himself. Though, despite unnatural, there was the slightest familiar undertow of the presence, tickling at Vinnie. His mind wandered to the depths of the woods, as he rounded another bend.
***
The vultures didn't stir from their sleep, as Reggie lumbered beneath the branches on which they perched.
Whispers of breath escaped his barely parted lips, exposing trace glints of his canines. Reggie swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, only to find it was dry of any trace sweat.
There was no recovery as there was nothing to recover from. No aching strain, no ice-block piercing his lungs. No clawing towards the second wind, as was in every gym class. The wolf-boy felt as though he had run down the length of the hallway to make class before the bell, rather than blaze through a forest, full speed.
Ambling through the graveyard, it's occupants snoring soundly beneath the loose soil, he realized he had lost track of the time. Reggie's adroit grasp of time rarely failed him, and now that it had, he felt only a disembodied sense of anxiousness. As he approached the school, he shamelessly looked through the slowly dissipating fog toward the clock-tower.
He must have been mistaken, seeing both hands touch over the seven on the clock's face.
I'm THAT early? Reggie wondered, raking a hand through his hair. As he did so, in a flash, his hand suddenly felt morphed and foreign to him. He closed his eyes, finding distraction within the serenity of tangling his claws through his scalp. As if to reach into his mind and reconstruct that dream, that hand, through ruins of memory.
The fantasy, though surreal as it was confusing, had an awfully restful effect on Reggie, warming him comfortably. Leaning into the bricks of Gravedale campus, he breathed in. Breathed out. And waited. His quaking heart had decided to make it's presence known to Reggie, steeping through his thin frame. An intoxicating buzz had fluttered up the rungs of his spine, dully humming against the base of his skull.
These palpitations were too forceful to be driven by his own body, he suddenly rationalized.
Reggie forced his eyes open, as a motorcycle approached. That feeling, drumming within his body, had channeled to the soles of his padded feet, tingling against the dusty path that circled the private High School.
The masked rider's identity, though obscured, was easily deciphered. After all, how many students rode motorcycles to school, sailing on those warm and cool winds of earned nobility and dicey haughtiness? None but Vinnie.
He hurriedly finished pulling at his orange-red mane, hoping it was tamed. Dislodging himself from his slump, he acknowledged the vampire, who curbed his bike to greet Reggie.
From three feet, he could smell the hair pomade and SPF 10,000 sun-lotion, before Vinnie could even take his helmet off.
"Hey Reg, what's-" the vampire's eyes sank downward, squinting onyx irises perplexedly. Reggie panicked at what he imagined caught the vampire teen's attention. "Where'd your shoes go?"
"Oh. OH! Uhh.." Reggie stupidly awed in confusion, mild relief quick to drip away. He tentatively glanced at his bare feet, fluffs of fur poking from the end of each pant-leg. Where did they- "Err well..." Did I kick them off running through the woods? "Myyy feet were somewhat sweaty in this humidity." Yes! Go with that! What happened to my socks?
Vinnie, though not thoroughly convinced, complied with a teasing 'Yeah-right-okay-lets-move-on-shall-we?' raise of an eyebrow. He knew whenever Reggie was feigning the truth, because Reggie always told the truth. He decided not bother him about the shoes whereabouts, if not on his feet.
"Yo, while you get some air, I've got a delivery to make." he said, patting the seat between his legs. Reggie, still in a daze, shifted his footing, trying not to stare at the quickness in Vinnie's hands. "But...uh hey I'll see you before class."
The vampire couldn't help but notice the erratic heart beats, just before slowing within the werewolf. Which reminded him, he needed to get to the bottom of something.
"Reg, you didn't walk all the way to school didja?"
Vinnie sensed the lycan's prodigal pulse drop, then double in speed. He likened the throb to a series of dull and muffled raps on the wall, coming from the room next to his. Always steadily increasing in speed and volume. Every. Night. Pesky neighbors.
"Why yes, b-but-and thats why I took my shoes off as well...also...because they ache-and are sweaty! Yes..." Reggie trailed, thinking quickly on his exposed and clawed toes. "N-not that I'm grieved by them or anything. No, not at all. Nothing of any major concern whatsoever...at all."
Reggie wrung his hands behind his back for a moment, avoiding Vinnie's look of confusion, drawing a breath, deciding how to conclude this tirade. He felt his eyebrows knit tenaciously together, though trying to smile, with as much comfort and control he could collect that morning, remembering he wasn't alone.
With a humbled, exhausted sigh, finding humor in the absurd, he connected sights with Vinnie. Hoping he didn't come off as a complete lunatic, Reggie added "I'm glad you decided to come in early today." relaxing a bit. The vamp's eyebrow, previously suspended high on his forehead, had softly descended. A vorpal fang glinted between his blithe and crescent-moon grin.
"You know, " Vinnie said with a shrug, the adjustment of a sleek chrome mirror, capturing his attention. "I'd be happy to give you a ride..." Reggie could see his reflection, flanked by the warped brick wall, stretched against the polished metal. His tiny visage on Vinnie's bike reminded Reggie of a tattoo. He didn't know whether to receive this offer as a joke or not.
"Thank you." he responded, with a bluntness that would shock any of Vinnie's 'fans' into a section 8 psychiatric ward. "Regardless, there is no way you'd ever get me near that thing." He folded his arms, finalizing his decision. Had Lucy, that motorcycle in question, any personified thought of her own, she would pitch a fit, and scream Do you know, with whom you have the honor of standing before!?! She'd then fidget and pout, waiting for the Prince of Darkness to defend her honor.
Vinnie's response would have sent Lucy into cardiac arrest, as he broadened his grin into a teasing smirk, snorting a laugh, without any sign of jilt or offense.
"We'll see..." the vampire warned, gently bouncing deftly on the toes of his suede leather boots, without toppling his bike. "Yo, unless your scared...then I'd understand..."
"Please, don't manipulate what little teenaged 'thanatos-danger-and-doom-drive' I haven't already quashed from my system." Reggie muttered in a low voice, rolling his eyes.
"Whu-what was that?" Vinnie asked innocently, cupping one pointed ear, faking confusion. "I couldn't hear you over your trembling heart." Twice he twisted the handle bar, revving the motorcycle's fierce engine, shaking his head and shrugging to confirm his point.
Reggie's heart rate fluttered and toes curled at the mere reminder of his friend's Vampiric, pulse-reading powers, feeling a bit exposed.
All the same, the werewolf was safe to assume Vinnie's intention was not to make him uncomfortable. There was only one way he was certain to regain his dignity and counteract. It was a bit of a chance, but...
Cupping his paws around his muzzle, Reggie shouted "I said-WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR HAIR!!?", loud and clear, over the roar of Lucy's engine. A dead silence emitted the air, as Vinnie released the handlebar from his slackening grasp. Revived from terrible shock, he thrust himself towards the tiny mirror, angling his head in every degree. Not a strand out of place.
"It looks nice." the lycan stated cooly. His hands stuffed in his pockets, a tongue-in-cheek grin had grown, suppressing a snort of laughter.
"Tou...che Reg." the vampire teen slumped in relief. "It's nice to know you wouldn'tave let me show my face in public with hair like that old bat Cro-"
"MISTERVINCENTSTOKER!" a disembodied voice bellowed from the abyss, loud enough to launch Vinnie eight feet into the air. Instead, he squeezed the life from his handlebars, like a terrified cat on a tree limb. Reggie rubbed the still tender spots around his ears, throbbing from the amplified banshee screech that was the school's Head Mistress, crackling over the intercom.
"You will cease your juvenile bantering and bring me my lunch BEFORE IT SPOILS!!" Mistress Crone demanded, the loudspeaker cut off with a shrill squeak. Both teens looked up to see Venetian blinds of one of the windows above, wriggle aggressively, then shut with a unified snap.
"...I hate it when she does that..." Reggie moaned, removing his glasses. Before he could so much as stroke the fur of his temples with his free finger-tips, the lycan suddenly felt a sense of distrust in himself. In what he was doing. Frames quickly returned to their place on the bridge of his snout, masking some embarrassment, no one but he could explain.
Vinnie unhinged himself from the strangle-hold on the bike's handlebars, smoothing his shadow-black hair, regaining composure. "I'd better go before she gets Van Helsing on the phone again." he huffed recalling Crone's most recent spoon-fed motivational lecture.
Reggie moved back a step, which felt like a mile of painful cowardice. The desire towards escaping public-view had burst inside him. There was nothing he felt he could do but let the current carry him away. "Ok, see you in class..." the lycan said mid-turn, off to find some solitude to bury his thoughts.
"Yo-wait a sec. Reg!" Vinnie called out, as if remembering something of dire importance. And of course, this drew Reggie back to him, eager to listen, important or not.
"Yes?"
"I'm eh, glad too." the rebel said after a second's deliberation. "-That I got here early, that is." he added, easing interpretation, before securing his sleek black helmet.
Reggie smiled for a moment, stretching his arms, clinging to false boredom. Hands folded behind his head, he asked with a teasingly disinterested yawn, "I don't suppose you'll try to make this a daily habit?".
"Lets not go nuts." was Vinnie's rebuttal, snapping his visor down. Again Reggie could see his reflection, this time imprinted against the helmet shielding the vamp's eyes.
Watching as Vinnie turned the corner, Reggie tried to remember what exactly occupied the entirety of the vampire's night, besides the allure and urge to skulk in the darkness. He doesn't talk about going to parties or clubs...I hope he's not bothering humans, he thought, climbing up the School's front steps, dawdling a moment on his concern. After all, the greatest danger to the monster world was the human one. And because they're primarily fearful by nature, it won't take the humans much rationalizing and tolerance to form an angry mob, Reggie realized grimly. He had to remember, some humans, such as Mr. Schneider, were open minded and kind.
Perhaps, Reggie reconsidered, looking in on himself, that he was the only student at Gravedale High, to never risk perfect attendance, grades or openly relish the thrill and fun of disastrous actions. Draining and sacrificing the abundance of his youth and spirit towards school and structure. Vinnie was all that he was not, and vice versa.
I suppose I'm in need of a break. The lycan thought, yanking the doors open, instantly stubbing his small toe on the door's sharp corner. And my gym shoes... he remembered, gnashing his teeth in pain.
But first he needed to find a clock. He had lost track of time while talking to Vinnie.
***
Mistress Crone flicked a bit of filth found beneath the (thankfully) barren ring finger nail of her living hand. Meanwhile her prosthetic hand, cast metal as it was menacing, busied itself sorting her mail. She sat ridged and annoyed, ignoring the tom-foolery of the school's rotting and constantly fighting mascots outside her door. While reaching into the in-box on her sepulcher office desk, to sign a document of approval, Clawford screeched, colliding into the doorframe. Clearly the game of cat-and-mouse was not in the road-kill cat's favor.
Without standing, let alone looking up from Coach Cadaver's request to allow "Cruel and Unnatural Detention", she waved her gauntlet hand, and the haunted thing shot forth, slamming her door shut.
"I ought to just hunt down and eat those two." she growled, wondering when that delivery punk would arrive with her lunch. Her faithful hand crept back to her, clicking along the cool marble floor. Of course she wasn't hungry at the moment, but just wanted to get the soon-to-be lunch in the fridge, aware how speedily human-crafted food could sour. Or not sour well enough.
Minutes ago, she had stood by her window at approximately 7:37, per usual, awaiting her usual delivery boy and recluse student, the fly-boy, to soar by with a sputtering buzz. Due to a diet primarily consisting of sugar and caffeine, the fly was distressingly fixed on arriving every day of the week, precisely at that exact time. No amount of Crone "persuasion" could fumble his internal and bizarre schedule. When he wasn't fleeing Sal, the School Chef, he held down a job working at Big Daddy's restaurant. Everyone who loved the human's food knew that.
Two minutes passes, and the rotten wood of the window pane had crumbled beneath the impatient grip of her false barbaric hand. Before the Mistress could begin lining her window with sticky, fly-motel strips, a rousing engine from outside caught her attention. Striding to the adjacent window, she peered between the blinds and looked below, to see none other than Vinnie Stoker, the often replacement delivery boy. She should have guessed that this was the explanation as to why her lunch was tardy, and why the delinquent was so early.
He sat on his flashy motor-cycle, most likely an undeserved gift from his father, forever spoiling his only son. Mistress Crone knew very well that the Count had wealth to spare, nearly matching J.P. Ghastly's family fortune.
And, as predictable (Or so she had hoped) as the morning delivery, when threats of expulsion reached Transylvania, due to the boy's behavior, a carrier bat would return with a handsome donation, made out to the school. A grotesque and beneficial sugar-sword indeed. Her reward for disciplining a rule-less unholy-terror, without avail.
Well, every student body generation of Gravedale High had it's own lovable deviant. And on the other hand (No pun intended), in a bizarre turn of events, Vincent's misbehavior had helped the school renovate it's overly-decrepit and crumbling facets.
Of course, these threats of throwing the lad out entirely, had ceased in numbers in the recent seasons. Enrolling the brat in Max Schneider's human course did wonders, somewhat dissuading Mr. Stoker's rebellious streak. Who knew humans, meek and stupid as they were, could be so useful.
Another voice shouted, broken and muffled over the bike's engine. The Head Mistress tugged down on the blinds with one glinting finger, to see it was Reginald Moonshroud, Gravedale's strait-A model student and yet another member of Schneider's potpourri.
What this perfect student was doing, associating himself with a blood-thirsty hoodlum, was beyond her explanation.
Mistress Crone stood watching the werewolf from behind, hands in his pockets, sniggering as a panic look crossed the vampire, who made a beeline for his bike's mirror. Hmmm. He wasn't as naive as he looked.
Oh enough of this! She raged, snatching the microphone from her desk, marching back to the window with it. She was going to enjoy this.
"MISTERVINCENTSTOKER!!" she crowed over the loudspeaker, her voice echoing the near empty halls. She could not help but smirk as a visible wave of shock ran up their arching spines, though her tone held only rage.
"You will cease your juvenile bantering and bring me my lunch BEFORE IT SPOILS!!" she declared. As she pressed the off switch, her icy demeanor turned off as well. Crone instantly let loose a terrible laugh, yanking the blinds shut.
She may have been awful, but enjoyed every moment of it. Mistress Crone was a woman of dominance and a pillar of leadership, with little time for pleasure. The least she deserved was the right to confound and torture a gaggle undisciplined teenagers once in a while.
Her small pleasure began to weather, as her desk clock struck a quarter to eight. Just as she began to feel the second boiling of annoyance, there was a rap on the door. She grinned maliciously, her chiseled cheekbones rising.
"Cooooome in."
Vampires could not enter a place of solitude or sanctuary, without an invitation the first time. Everyone knew this. However this was far from Vinnie's first visit to Mistress Crone's office.
The leather clad vampire entered, brown bag in tow, lips pursed tight over his fangs. He hid his misery well, but not well enough. The school's Head had a nose for adolescent anguish. "Ah, Mr. Stoker." she purred in her deceptive tone, as if she hadn't scared him to post-death five minutes ago.
"The total comes to 8.75...ma'am." Vinnie said all too calmly, all to gently placing the large bundle on her desk. She frowned, hoping she would be able to chastise him for any overt rudeness she had come to expect from him. Instead she paid him exactly what she owed.
"There you are. No more, no less." she said handing him the money with nothing extra. "Your tip covered the precious moments of my life I just wasted, quite nicely." she said with a curling grin.
Knowing Mistress Crone wouldn't go out of her way to complain to Big Daddy himself, Vinnie could care less. Glad to contribute you lovable sadist! Grinning insincerely, he stuffed the money into his back pocket. Four or five bucks ought to cover all the crap he'd gone through, just because he skipped out on the damn tip.
"I couldn't agree with you more Head Mistress Crone." he seethed cheerfully, more than happy to make a break for the exit. Vinnie would rather spend a gym class in the blazing red hot sun, than remain to hear the woman gloat.
"Have a wonderful day!" he sang, turning to make a break for the door.
"By the way," she called after him, her voice reeling Vinnie back around, trapping him in her doorway. Geez, this again!? He cursed his inability to make a clean getaway that morning.
"I couldn't help but wonder what words you were exchanging with Mr. Moonshroud." she queried, her hand disassembling itself to pull the lunch over to a lonesome fridge. "Bartering 'notes' perhaps?" she asked, stressing the word 'notes' as a code for something the interrogator wouldn't say out loud. Cheat codes? Drugs maybe? Extortion money?
Don't go there you bitch. he soundlessly snarled, beneath an unmovable surface. Had he not known how to utilize the gentlemanly manner upon which he was raised, the manner he used voluntarily, he would have said all this out loud. Three or four years ago, without a doubt, he would say exactly what he was thinking, without a second thought...and maybe jump on her desk and do a little dance.
At this point, he almost felt like an idiot for feeling even slightly insulted or angry. He was far from stupid (lazy and often inconsiderate perhaps, but not stupid) and knew why everyone, outside Schneider's class, wondered on Reggie's and his shared phenomenon from every angle.
Presently, as someone not stupid, he learned how to preserve his dignity and his ass. He merely stood his ground, without batting or rolling an eye.
"I wanted to give Reg a ride this morning, and he never got back to me." he half-lied, half-truthed. Hell, he guaranteed Reggie's getting that ride anyway. "We wouldn't be very good friends if we never spoke." he assessed without the need for false innocence, often reserved to explain to Max the absence of his homework or reports.
The Mistress spoke, after an three second absence of sound, save the ticking of the clock on her desk. "No, I suppose not." Another three seconds and a stoical stare-down passed, before she spoke again, pulling a handkerchief from her breast pocket. "He's a good student." she said and nothing else, polishing the metal fingers of her reunited hand. Her word spoken, she looked up, thinking Vinnie had said something.
Nothing. The vampire had taken his form from out her door, and gone.
Without my dismissal? How rude. She thought somewhat slighted, though her moribund-blue face smiled daintily. The Head Mistress began to shuffled a stack of bills, then paused, her pointed harlequin chin resting atop her metal appendage. They are cute though...
***
It was fortunate Reggie's high-tops were black; unnoticeable at first glance, he wasn't wearing his normally conservative shoes. Always economical, he had bought the dark colored sneakers to hide any future signs of staining or fatigue.
Currently he was staring at the pair on his feet, losing interest in Frankentyke's lengthy tale. Gill wisely remembered his headphones, bobbing his head rhythmically. Apparently the short, reanimated monster assumed his aquatic best friend was whole heartedly confirming and agreeing with the story.
"-and this guy's all 'Dahhrr, I'm gonna jump!'. Right Gill-Man? Right? (nod-nod) Yeah! And I kept asking this dweeb how much he weighed an-"
"Uh, Frankentyke," Reggie interjected, interrupting the monster's retelling of a 'confidential' story from his radio-show's crisis hotline. Frankentyke froze in the middle of his pantomiming. "Forgive me, but most humans are not favorable of promoting suici-"
"No way man!" the small green teenager protested, raising a palm of denial. "He made the call, it was HIS choice to take my advice or not."
"Franken-dude did, like, never claim to be a doctor." said Gill playing the logicist and joining the conversation. Through some miracle, the swamp mutant's finned ear managed to pick up parts of the conversation that perked his interest, past the throbs of the hip-hop mix tape.
"But, if I remember correctly," Reggie inquired, "Isn't that segment of the show called 'A sitting with Dr. Frank'? You may be in danger of frau-"
"Man! Authority! It's our radio show, and our ratings rule!" Frankentyke huffed childishly, kicking up a layer of dust with a platform sneaker. "Besides whatever happened to Freedom of Speech?"
7:43 am. Twenty-four seconds. Though a bother to debate with deaf contenders, based on the degree of right to consultation, held by unskilled non-professionals, Reggie still felt much more level headed than he had that morning. Even as he walked into the near empty public setting, still overflowing to the brim with the scent-history of hundreds of other beings, he still managed to soothe his fried nerves.
Minutes ago, while lacing his sneakers, Reggie was approached by the green-skinned duo, asking if he would help them form a few survey questions on Economic Growth and Trade in the Monster Realm. Gill and Frankentyke had originally filled their afternoon slot by pranking the school's "unsuspecting" victims. This backfired, as their patsies knew ahead of time, when and where the DJs would try to humiliate them, once the two discussed the nature of the pranks live on the air.
Reggie politely agreed to help them, despite knowing both would most likely deliver unto him an unholy amount of paperwork and more. The ominous bulge in Frankentyke's long abused backpack was evidence enough.
When he asked about the progress of their show, Reggie could barely get a word in edgewise. Frankentyke had already begun preparing his defense case, numbering (on one hand) the callers who didn't hang up furiously, and the callers who were not "unexplainably disconnected". Reggie just grinned with an uncertain shrug, hoping for their sake, the talk-show slipped beneath the FBI's radar. Or worse the FCC.
As Frankentyke's one-sided discussion continued, without warning, hot-ice chill buzzed behind Reggie's eyes, streaming down to his chest and throat. Deaf to the boy's ranting, Reggie found himself only thinking of that 'Thanatos-Drive" he had mentioned earlier.
A soundless alarm rang in his head, as a harbinger of impeding danger. An urge to confrontation. But what, where and who? His ears perked and eyes narrowed at nothingness.
A threat. A voice from inside him urged. An assertive voice, effortlessly solidifying, clawing at him, driven without a need for logic, assured him 'something wicked this way comes'. Reggie fought the need to look around for any antagonists, not knowing what would come of moving in the slightest. The werewolf's claws, low at his sides, clenched into fists, trying to shake this adrenaline off. Where are you?
"Reg, dude?"
A threat!
"Earth to Reggie! Beam back down from Galaxy High to Gravedale wouldja! REH-GIEE!"
"Uhm-hmm." Reggie mechanically breathed low, only noticing when Frankentyke and Gill exchanged concerned glances. "Oh, erm sorry...Frankentyke." he apologized, somewhat still dazed, still pulling away somewhat. "...I was deep in thought...I didn't...what were you saying?"
Frankentyke sighed arrogantly, as if dealing with a small child, rather than one of the most gifted students at Gravedale High. "I saaaaaaaid, can you meet up with Gill 'n me before four? Cuz the show airs at four-thirty."
"Y-yes of course." he quickly complied to Gill and Frankentyke's relieved surprise. Normally Reggie would gently remind the two, that they should have taken responsibility and prepared much earlier, but at the moment, unbeknownst to them, he needed to convince the two to leave.
"I know! Lets get started immediately." he announced, displaying an odd, yet unsuspicious enthusiasm for the burden, seemingly broken from his trance.
"You two go ahead without me," Reggie said gently forcing both to turn, a hand each of their shoulders, guiding them in the direction of Mr. Schneider's home-room around the corner.
"-aaand I'll meet you in class."
"But, I totally spaced on breakfast this morning." Gill protested as Reggie ushered from behind.
"I don't mind in the least, I'll get you something."
"Oooh! Chocolate-covered mushrooms! And don't worry Sal, like, always leaves some out from the night before."
"Of course."
"Same here, Reg-man." Frankentyke piped in obliviously, his high-tops skidding along the cracking stone floor.
"Certainly! I'll see you in a few minutes." Reggie assured them, shooing the pair around the corner, and out of sight.
35 seconds passed before he was certain that they had reached the classroom door. Unless they decided to play hooky. Again.
Following his battle-worn instincts, he scanned the cross-halls, his eyes searching the thick and wet shadows for anyone or anything lurking or waiting. Perpetually asking himself, What am I doing?,without expecting a response or answer.
The catacomb halls had always harbored occupancy. Whether students, teachers or a lost soul, just passing through to the other side. But someone was looking for him. And he could feel it. Oddly enough, despite the fear wrapping itself in knots within Reggie, he didn't feel nauseous or upset. A rare, and good sign.
He didn't have to search too far. The stench of sweaty socks intensified as the lycan walked towards an unlit stairwell. Reggie had found him.
"May I help you Gnardo?" Reggie called out apathetically. From behind the spiraling cobblestone staircase, the gargoyle emerged, his talons wrapped tight along the side.
"Moonshroud, I knew that nose of yours would find me." he grunted with a smile. He hadn't expected the studious werewolf to come alone, but rather cower behind those two rejects Gnardo had spied him talking to. This made it all the more easier.
Reggie noted how different the former jock star looked without the tattered uniform he and all the other players alike, seemed to never remove. He had once heard along the grapevine that the Gargoyle and his team-mates alienated a freshman bench-warmer, who had the audacity to suggest the team wash and change their uniforms. Or perhaps wear something more comfortable during class hours. Coach Cadaver wouldn't have it. His only wish was to inspire his team to "Bury" and "Destroy" the visiting one. The Coach 'insisted' the team members constantly wear their protective gear like a second skin (Or first, considering one or two members of the team didn't have skin to begin with.) a tradition he continued for decades, with no exceptions. If you didn't wear the uniform, you weren't part of his team.
The Gargoyle scratched loose grains from his chin, deciding how to approach achieving his goal at hand. "Ya see, I got a big project coming up this Friday, but I completely forgot what day it was due." The sedimentary beast let himself free-fall, feet landing on the floor with a great shaking thud. Gnardo's wing remained pinned down over his cracked and mossy shoulder, to an hand-down sleeveless jersey, sporting the faded Gravedale High emblem. It's sister wing, now reduced to a stump, was never recovered after the accident that destroyed his athletic career.
"Help me out wouldja?."
After that fateful day, the ex-jock's bitter and aggressive disposition worsened, towards students who studied and worked for their passing grades. As a result, Reggie found it difficult to feel sorry for him. "I apologize," the werewolf began, readying himself "but, I'm fairly busy wi-"
"With what? Your stuck-up 'Human' class with those losers?" Gnardo growled, the gravel in his throat churning. He was quick to conceal his temper, knowing he may need it later in their little chat.
The gargoyle knew he was unable to cope without the 'free ride', the athletes in Coach Cadaver's class rode vicariously. Gnardo needed to finesse his request to support his system, without effort on his own part.
Not giving Reggie the chance to turn and walk away (or run), he slowly stalked around the teen, closing the perimeter between them, hoping to drive him into the same corner he had been in.
"C'mon it's like a twelve, fifteen page paper on Giant Squid attacks. Piece of cake for you." he offered kindly, forcing a lopsided, lazed smile.
Unfortunately, this was not enough to sway and flatter the werewolf. The word 'you' had only lined Reggie's face with a frown. This look of displeasure and silent disinterest that followed his circling, told the granite-skinned teen he was losing the deal while losing patience.
I don't need thi-ANSWER me you stupi- Several frustrated mantras passed through him at once, bewildered as to why the werewolf wasn't already nodding vigorously. Gnardo was hoping to avoid physical violence to get what he wanted. He didn't like to leave any evidence of aggression, which pathetic nerds like Moonshroud could use against him. He couldn't get away with just a slap on the wrist like in the old days. Not anymore. I shouldn't have to-
"I can make it worth your while." he bargained, resorting to formless bribery that he had no intention of honoring. And why should he?
To seal the deal he slung an arm around Reggie's neck, like a friend he knew for years. "You'd have to be stupid to say no." he assured, though the look on his face clearly insisted If your as smart as everybody thinks, you'll say yes.
Gnardo's hold tightened somewhat, but before he could imagine the scrawny wolf-teen into a headlock, Reggie ducked and pulled away.
"I suppose I must be quite ignorant then." the red-headed lycan said with falsely disappointed sentiments. The voice of self-preservation from within was begging him to flee the scene. Immediately.
However he couldn't seem to stop himself. "After all, what 'intelligent' individual does their own work, on time?" he quipped sarcastically, with a role of the eyes and with a voice that wasn't his own. Reggie came back to reality and realized that the ill-tempered bruiser was furious. He stepped back into the side of the squat, stone-block stairs, pressing between his shoulder-blades.
He could have kicked himself for that last remark. What was he thinking?! Gnardo slowly skulked towards him.
"A helpful tip for your paper though. Unless I'm mistaken the levels of mercu-" Reggie was cut off by the clap of a heavy palm against stone, inches from his ear, while a stony beak hovered inches from his snout.
"You got some nerve on ya, 'n I can respect that but..." the gargoyle whispered with an calm, yet shaken fury. "Enough. Bull." He spoke slowly, drawing closer to prove he wasn't joking and neither of them would leave without a yes.
Reggie struggled to think, but found he could not. The still echoing sound of hand against stone made his thoughts bounce and swirl, as did the terrible stench of Gnardo's breath. He felt something break down within him, as his various boundary lines were strained. What was left amidst the ruins was not fear. Only annoyance and disgust. Reggie didn't flinch or blink as a hot snorted blast moistened the fur on his cheek.
The werewolf then realized, his body at a ninety-degree angle against the wall, he had grown a bit taller in the past year. Which was more than anyone could say about Gnardo, whose frame, though crisp in muscle, was permanently arched over.
"Howzabout you write the damn paper, by TOMORROW," Gnardo said through a fixed jaw, jabbing a threatening finger into the center of Reggie's chest. "before you make a big mistake."
Reggie glowered down at him from behind his glasses. "Sorry, no." he answered in a pleasant yet unapologetic tone.
There was a beat of silence before Gnardo chuckled softly, tilting his head to the side with a transparent 'well-alright' expression. Instantly assuming all defenses had dropped like a coffin into the earth, he lunged both talons around Reggie's wrist, ready to twist it behind the wolf-boy's back until he gave in, or until Gnardo felt anything snap or pop.
Ultimately he forgot Reggie excelled at physics. It took the lycan less than a fifth of a second to calculate the scenario.
Both hands occupied with no frontal support- far enough distance from a solid surface to build up momentum for impact- His right hand free, he clenched the back of Gnardo's thick head.
*BAH-THUNK*
The first rational thought that entered Reggie's mind, as the gargoyle's skullcap slammed into the curved stone wall, was the exact time.
7:55 am.
The second was detached shock of his willingness to lash back at another living person.
Ignoring Gnardo's crumpled form, and the ringing of the first bell, he turned to go to class. He walked numbly and swiftly, the sounds of students and lockers slamming filling the halls.
End of Chapter: Bell
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A/N: Please be a love and leave a review dah-ling.