Author's Note: I know many people have been writing "what happened?" and fix-it fics for Hemlock Grove. I guess now it's my turn. However, my imagination found itself too big for a one-shot, so look forward to this being a series, somewhere between five and ten chapters. Essentially, this is my Season Two of Hemlock Grove, with full references and spoilers for Netflix's Season One. I am really looking forward to exploring Peter's Romani heritage, vampire lore, and what could possibly bring Peter and Roman back together after all the pain in HG. Series will eventually be heavily Peter/Roman and M-rated. I'm really looking forward to writing this craziness and I hope you have fun joining me on this journey. Happy Travels, Tsuki

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*I do not own Hemlock Grove. All characters are the property of Brian McGreevy, Eli Roth, and Netflix. No infringement intended; just a bit of fun!*

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Chrysalis - A Hemlock Grove Story

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Chapter One: Alone

Her name is Anna and she is 22 years old. It's Thursday night and she can call in 'sick' on Friday, so she is taking advantage of 321 Club's tequila shot special. She is dressed in her favorite black dress with red pumps and matching red lipstick. She is planning on staying up late and dancing all night.

But then she turns and falls into the stare of two gorgeous blue eyes.

"Hello." The voice sounds like it's all around her, surrounding her, weaving its way inside her head. "You want to come home with me." It's a command, not a question. Her brain feels fuzzy. She is confused—isn't it only nine o'clock? Who leaves anywhere at nine 'clock? "Now."

Suddenly, all her concerns feel like they are being pushed away by an ocean wind. "Yes," she says. "Take me home with you."

The man smiles a satisfied smile, his lips full and red. "Of course. Right this way..."

Tomorrow morning, when she wakes up in the New York City penthouse of the infamous Roman Godfrey, she'll think herself incredibly lucky. When she brags to her friends about the loft's great view, about the fabulous wine, and how passionate the Godfrey heir was—seriously, the tabloids have it all wrong!—she will never admit, to herself or anyone else, that she doesn't remember a thing.

.

.

Peter sighs as he pulls another newsprint wrapped glass out of the worn cardboard box. Three moves in two years. He hadn't even finished unpacking some of his books at their old place, and yet here they are again. It isn't a record for them, that's for sure, but it is still notable. Especially given the tone of the past two moves.

The move to Hemlock Grove—that had seemed so simple and calm at first. A new start. A chance for them to be closer to family and to honor Nicolae. Then the murders and the suspicion and those strange government agents. And, oh God, Letha. The decision to leave hadn't just been prudent—it had been necessary. A cleansing. A call. They had backtracked west after that, moving inland and back toward West Virginia. The state had a healthy list of state forests, areas for them to get lost and for Peter to run away his grief. The land there spoke of freedom, had once been hunted by the Shawnee and Cherokee. After the pain of Hemlock Grove, this rural area not far outside of Greenbrier had seemed like another fresh beginning.

Okay, yes, maybe shaving his head hadn't been the smartest or the most stylish idea on Peter's part, but he had been sick with grief. It was a reaction, something he could control. What Peter hadn't predicted was a whole new wave of backlash and distrust. Those at his new school who didn't already suspect and hate him for being a gypsy had thought he was some sort of crazy neo-Nazi. Peter half-heartedly tried to explain to a few people the idiocy of a Romani being a Nazi given the history of discrimination and otherness, but he hadn't put much heart into it, hadn't really connected with or met anyone who he felt like making such an effort with. He mostly sat in the back of classroom after classroom, counting the minutes until the end of his senior year, counting the seconds until the weekend—the only time when his mother would let him run.

It is all he lives for now—the run. The wolf is always clawing underneath his skin. Now that he can change at will, his whole life feels like the day of a full-moon—his sense of smell is heightened, his craving for meat and blood constant, his temper just a bit shorter. His whole body feels an urge for escape, to be alone in the woods. He felt that way all the time in West Virginia and it was likely telegraphed in his every word and move. He couldn't help but think that those sacks of meat sitting around him in class could go fuck themselves. He had the wolf—that was all he needed. He was alone.

They had moved again after Peter had flunked out of his last math class. It wasn't the concepts—it was the homework. He just couldn't concentrate, couldn't view it as important. Not when he still dreamed of Letha and blood, not when there were sounds and smells in the woods. His mother had been furious. Passing his GED had helped temper some of the fury, but West Virginia had been spoiled now. They packed their bags once again.

They drove eastward and north, barely talking until they reached Mohawk Valley. They had never lived in New York before. Peter had always envisioned New York as one big city, the whole state awash of light and flash and mechanical noise. He had never imagined the smell of pine and running water, the sound of wild birds rustling in lush leaves.

"Let's make this one work," his mother sighs now, staring somberly at the cloudy kissed sky. Peter mumbles an agreement, turning to lug the chaotically packed boxes into their new trailer.

"It's Friday tomorrow," Peter mentions casually, slipping a stack of plates into a cabinet. "I thought I could check out that woodsy area to the north. Get the lay of the land…"

"We already talked about this," Lynda interrupts, setting down a pile of books a bit harder than necessary. "There's a community here. I don't want to step on any toes. You get permission, you can run—but I don't want to make any waves here, Peter. We've had enough trouble in our lives. If you need to be out there, you need to tell the elders. There's a protocol."

"What happens if they don't give me permission?"

Lynda hesitates, staring at the books she had set on the table. "Maybe we should stop unpacking for now… want some Mac and Cheese, baby?"

Peter feels the wolf's hair rise under his skin, a tension growing in his neck. He lets her get away with her lack of an answer, knowing that there is no other choice for staying here in New York. Tomorrow, Peter will do his best to be the best gypsy he can be. He'll be respectful and remember the old ways.

Lydia pours the plastic-like cheese mixture into two bowls, and Peter forces a smile. They are silent as they eat together, pretending that the boy sitting at the table is the same one his mother knew as a boy. That they are still a family, whole and together—that neither of them are alone.

.
.

"I want him gone."

Dr. Pryce holds back a grimace as he finishes adjusting a test-tube. When Bishop Gray had invested so heavily last year, Pryce had thought he was earning freedom from the kind of meddling the Godfreys had inflicted upon him. However, Gray has proven himself to be far worse—it isn't just his interest and attempt at control over Pryce's experiments, although that is also infuriating. No, it is his obsession with the young Godfrey heir.

"He is gone. At college. He has shown very little interest in coming back to Hemlock Grove or in taking up the reigns of this business. I fail to see how he could be much more absent, really. So he is, for all intense and purposes, 'gone.'"

The old priest grimaces and his jaw clenches in stress. "The controlling share in this company is still controlled by that… ahem, him. Which means all expansion project votes need his presence. And he has spent most of the year, as you noted, avoiding any semblance of responsibility. We can't move forward."

Pryce smiles to himself over the Bishop's disgust. The religious man clearly knows what the boy really is—he hasn't said as much, but his animosity melded with fear still telegraphs it. The doctor wonders what else the man knows. So many possibilities. "We can move forward just fine. The young Godfrey has approved every project I've brought before him. You just mean you can't move forward without his knowledge. Isn't that right?"

The older man scowls, the shadows around his eyes dark. "Is there a way to force him off of the board?"

Pryce sighs dramatically, pausing a moment to take a sample from one of his new plant hybrids. He does this with exceeding slowness, savoring the impatient shifting of the Bishop's feet. "No—Olivia's will was quite clear. The only way Roman Godfrey loses majority control of Godfrey Enterprises is if he gives it up willingly. Or…" He pauses, letting the silence reel the older man in. "…if he goes missing or dies. But god forbid anything like that happens."

"Oh yes," the voice behind Dr. Pryce whispers. "God forbid."

Pryce smiles to himself as Gray leaves abruptly, barely muttering an excuse under his breath. Pryce couldn't care less who runs the company. All he needs is his lab and quiet and time. If Gray wants to take steps against the young Godfrey, so be it. That left Pryce more time on his own. Let the priest and the boy war it out. Pryce would, as always, keep his head down—focused on the miracles of science.

He watches intently as he pricks one of his plant's leaves. His eyes widen in delight as the leaf splits, cracks, and drips a drop of brilliant red blood.

.
.

Roman pours carefully from the tupperwear into a ceramic mug. The contents are a day and a half old and taste bitter now. His jaw aches and his nerves feel aflame as he gulps down the girl's blood in great mouthfuls. There's not enough, really—there never is, but it's the most he is willing to take. Anything more would be too risky, would be dangerous.

After a few moments, the hunger pangs recede. After a few more moments, the voices quiet. Finally, Roman breathes a sigh of relief. It's a brief respite, but it will do.

The sun reflects off of the metal and glass of the surrounding skyline and Roman basks in the silence and the light. The serenity won't last—soon, the sun will start to make his skin itch and it won't be long before the voices return. But for now, he is content. Well… mostly. A part of him knows that—despite the fact that he's had a new, nameless woman in his bed each night of the weekend for months now, despite the fact that he is constantly surrounded by crowds at the hottest clubs, despite the fact that people want to know him and be known by him at college—he has never been more alone in his life. He has no way to change that. He only has routine and silence and survival.

When he is finished draining the mug, he leaves the window and turns back to the kitchen. There, he hesitates for only a moment before picking up the tupperwear and licking it clean. Roman wonders to himself if it will always be like this...

.

.

Peter waits at a stained kitchen table, a now nearly empty mug of tea resting before him. The house looks cheap—an old track home, worn with age. It doesn't have the warmth of memories the way he always felt Nicolae's trailer did. To him, this house doesn't feel like Romani live here—at least, not his kind.

But the old man who enters the room does have the same worn and wise look that Peter remembers from childhood campfires. The man's aura is warm and Peter relaxes slightly.

"Devlesa avilan," the elder says in greeting. "It is God who brought you." His voice is heavy and sounds like gravel.

"Devlesa araklam tume," Peter responds. "It is with God that I found you."

The man nods, pleased with the answer. "Si'n Rom? Ande save vitsa?"

Peter shakes his head, tries not to hesitate. "I don't have a community or tribe. My kin was an outsider. My mother and I are also—we travel."

"Really? Your kin was pikie?"

"Yes, sir. Expelled from his community quite some time ago. He… he's passed since."

The older man snorts and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a silver cigarette case. He offers one to Peter—practically forcing one on him—before lighting his own. "You said you are here with your mother, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you are both welcome to our community. My sons, they are not much older than you. They can help you find a job—we have cousins in scrap metal if nothing else. It is good, honest work. You are welcome here—no need to stay out on the edge of town alone, my boy. These are not the old times. Some old ways do not have to always be followed. Prikaza and bad providence is not passed through blood—this nonsense of the kin of pikie being outsiders as well is ridiculous. Romani should stick together. No need to ask further—you should come to dinner tomorrow. Alana's daughter is turning sixteen and there will be so much food, I'm not sure what we will do with it all! Baba Siena has been marinating lamb all day. It will be a grand Romani welcome!"

"That's not… sir, with all due respect, I didn't come here to ask to join your community."

The elder is silent, the smoke billowing around his face as his expression hardens into seriousness. "I see. What did you come here to ask then?"

Peter licks his lips and mentally reaches into the heart of the wolf for comfort and strength. "I… I am a runner. I came here, out of respect, to ask your permission to run the woods on the north of town."

The room is silent now. Peter breaths slowly, feeling the tension surrounding him. He can smell the sweat on the elder's neck. Can hear the old man's hand tighten on his chair's wooden arm. "You are vârcolac." The old man speaks this as a statement rather than a question, but Peter still nods in agreement. The elder bites out a curse under his breath and then takes a long drag off of his cigarette. His fingers shake ever so slightly. "On the full moon?"

"Actually, sir, I made the red sacrifice. I have no constraints by the moon."

"I see. Well…" The elder stubs out his cigarette and stares intently at his hands for a moment. When he meets Peter's gaze again, his brown eyes are sharp. "This country has not always been kind to our people. You know that, don't you boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not far from here," the man's graveled voice continues, "there were strict laws saying where our people could live, what businesses they could own, what they could sell. Limitations, legalized discriminations. Do you know when those laws were lifted?" Peter shakes his head silently. "1998. My grandchildren were born into a country which had professed for hundreds of years to be the land of the free—where hard working men could have success and fortune—and yet they kept laws which essentially forbid Romani from sharing that dream. It's been barely a decade since those laws were rescinded. There are still people who hate us. They have no cause to, but they do."

"I know, sir."

"Of course you know. You're Romani. But you're not of our people. You are right—you are an outsider. Both cursed men and dogs are unclean and cannot be accepted into a gypsie home. And yet, here you are at my table. I hope you do not think me rude for my concern, but history is not so long past. I cannot have suspicion raised against my people."

"There will be none," Peter insists. "I have control. I'm careful. I promise."

"Even the most careful man can chips a glass. Your promise means little. However… I will give you my blessing to use the woods. Just know that my community is at risk by you being here."

"Yes. I know. Sorry."

"Do not be sorry. Be careful." The elder hesitates. "About tomorrow's dinner…"

"Don't worry, uncle. I will not attend. I'll stay away from the community, your treasures, and your women."

The elder nods. "Thank you for understanding. If you were anything else, we would welcome you with open arms…"

"I know, sir."

Peter bows his head slightly in thanks. He knows better than to offer to shake the elder's hand now that he has been revealed as unclean. As a dog. As a runner. As a vârcolac.

The sun is low in the sky by the time Peter leaves. He feels the familiar sense of his other self stretching inside him, silently begging to be released, to run. Peter nods, finding solace in the comfort of the wolf. At least with it he feels a little less alone.

...

TO BE CONTINUED…