Author's Note: So, I'm a big fan of Lili Taylor who plays Lynda, Peter's mom, in Hemlock Grove. I think she's just a gem of an actress and her roles are often fascinating. Well, if you agree with me and want to see one of the strangest vampire films ever, I just recently watched The Addiction from 1995. It's an art/philosophy film where Lili Taylor is turned into a vampire. Also, Christopher Walken briefly shows up. It's wonderful and confusing and weird—highly recommended, folks! (#themoreyouknow)

~ 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 Two: Their Eyes

Two months have passed—so far, New York has been quiet, nice, and mostly uneventful. Lynda has found a job at a local herb and new age shop, a connection from a friend of a friend of a fellow gypsy. To Peter, she seems happy. She has become friendly with her coworkers and occasionally meets them for tea on weekends or after work.

Peter hasn't had the same luck. He's talked to auto shops and local grocery stores—he's willing to work hard, knows his way around a car, and has always been good with lifting grocery boxes and other sorts of manual labor—but every business that he visits tells him that there is no need for more help, they're all filled up, no need to hire someone else on. People are apologetic, but also guarded. Some community members seem to be wary of him because he is Romani. The Romani themselves, however, give him more obvious sideways glances and talk in hushed tones. They seem tense and cautious, sometimes even frightened of walking near him on the street. Peter is not sure he blames them, but it stings just a little.

In town, he feels more alone than ever.

The woods, however, are like nowhere else. The smells are amazing and the greenery is lush. He and the wolf both love it—his feet (paws) in the river or his hair (fur) being blown by the breeze. Sometimes, Peter has the urge to go there during the day, to shift and run and maybe never turn back into his normal form. Things just make sense in the woods. His life as a human feels empty in comparison. There's nothing for him in town, no one who seems to want to know him.

Well, except for Alice Waller. Alice is fifteen or sixteen, with dark brown hair and large hazel eyes, which she sometimes covers with purple hued contacts. She wears black bracelets and clunky boots. She doesn't quite own enough accessories—or have enough courage—to be truly gothic, but she seems to be trying to invoke the aesthetic as she wears cut-off black and grey striped knee-high socks as arm warmers and layers plain silver necklaces over an old thrift store rosary. Her best friend Samantha (who prefers to be called Sammy) is an interesting contrast to her friend. She has fiery red hair and wears yellow and pink sundresses. Peter sees them often outside the town's lone coffeeshop, Alice braiding bracelets or sketching in a journal, Sammy laughing over magazine personality quizzes or sharing celebrity gossip—the sunnier girl has an affection for tabloids, just as her gloomier friend seems to have an affection for teasing her about it.

Alice and Sammy are two of the only people in town who Peter can always count on to give him a wave and a smile. Sammy seems to like him mostly because she loves to tease Alice about her stammering and near blushing at Peter's presence. It's fairly obvious the pseudo-goth has a youthful crush on the Romani man, which flatters Peter and saddens him at the same time. Her bashful looks remind him of Christina, of white fur and teeth and blood. But he tries not to let that show on his face.

Today, Alice is wearing red and has—from the looks of it—tried to color her lipstick darker with a black eye-pencil. The result is uneven and splotchy. Sammy is chattering away about something she is reading, her arms gesturing dramatically as she tries to make a point. Alice gives a small chuckle, then startles when she sees Peter, pausing to give him a bashful wave as her cheeks blush. Sammy looks his way and grins. "Hey! Peter! Get over here!"

Peter raises an eyebrow, not sure whether to be amused or annoyed at how confident the girl seems that he has nowhere else to be.

"You have to settle a debate for us," Sammy continues.

"Saaaaaammy," Alice's low tone is tense and embarrassed. "I'm sure Peter doesn't care about celebrities."

"I don't know much," Peter admits, unable to keep the grin from his face, "but I'll do my best. What's the debate?"

"Okay, the topic at hand." Sammy clears her throat and rests her hand dramatically on her copy of US Weekly. "Is Roman Godfrey the male Paris Hilton? Yes or no?"

Peter's blood turns to ice and the smile falls from his face in shock. "What?"

"See," Alice groans. "I told you he wouldn't know who Roman Godfrey was. God, Sammy you're so—"

"I know who he is," Peter interrupts. "I mean, yes, sort of. We went to school together. Briefly. But how—how do you know who he is?"

"Oh. My. God," Sammy practically squeals. "You went to school with him!? When? Where? In Hemlock Grove, right? Oh my god, you lived there? I want details. Did you meet the creepy killer sister? Is Roman as cute in real life? Is he a snob? Oh God, he's a snob, isn't he?"

"Uh, no, he was… he was always trying to be nice. His sister too. She always seemed like a nice person."

Sammy sighs and shakes her head. "They always do, don't they? Every serial killer story, like, ever says that—they always seemed so nice and normal! Ugh, it gives me chills."

"It seems like, from the stories, that they teased her a lot for being different," Alice says quietly. "I can understand how she might want to get back at them. I mean, it's not right, but I can understand."

"Oh sure, sure," Sammy spurts dismissively. "But still, talk about an over-reaction!"

"How," Peter asks again, "do you know any of this? And what's that about Paris Hilton?"

Sammy flips through her magazine, clearly looking for a specific picture. "Between the murders and the guy becoming, like, the youngest, richest, and hottest CEO ever, Roman Godfrey was big news for a moment. But then it just became tabloid fun to follow him around the club scene. He's been photographed with models, singers, other people mostly known just for being famous and rich. Thus the Paris Hilton comparison."

"He's not like Paris Hilton," Alice insists. "He's probably trying to forget about all that horrible stuff that happened to him. He's had a lot of tragedy in his life. He's more like… well, Batman. Rich playboy, parents killed…"

"Why do you know anything about Batman?" Sammy interrupts.

Alice shrugs. "I like Tim Burton. I've seen all his movies."

"Wait, parents plural?" Peter turns, his chest feeling tighter by the moment. "Olivia is dead?"

"His mom?" Sammy responds. "Yeah. She was found in her house with her throat, like, torn all open. The police think maybe the sister came back and, like, murdered her mom before skipping town. It wasn't as bloody as the other murders but it was, like, still pretty gruesome apparently." Peter took a deep breath, trying to process the information in between the scattered "likes."

"You said he's been at clubs with famous people? There are no clubs around Hemlock Grove."

"Uh, no duh," Sammy laughs. "You obviously aren't facebook friends with the guy or anything. He went away to college. Princeton. But he seems to spend most of his downtime in the city. Ah, here it is!" Sammy hands the open magazine to Peter.

Peter tries not to gasp. The picture is of a group at a fashionable New York club. On the far left is a model-looking girl with too-white teeth and too-tanned skin. Her cheeks are flushed by alcohol and she is wearing a page-boy hat slightly askew. Next to her is a child actress who Peter recognizes and vaguely remembers some magazine in a grocery store having the glaring headline that the actress had been on a 'downward spiral' and arrested more than once for drunk driving and cocaine use. She is also over tanned, but her tone is more orange, like she used a fake spray-tan, and her hair is bleached an unnatural blond. Next to both of these women, Roman Godfrey looks almost unearthly. In contrast to the women's skin tones, Roman's skin is pale marble white. His clothes are rich and dark, tailored to his body but also slightly wrinkled—giving the impression that the wearer is rich enough not to care about taking care of his expensive clothes. His pink lips are turned half-upward in a smirk, but the smile does not reach his lips. In fact, that is the most striking detail in the whole picture. Roman Godrefy's eyes.

Peter has a clear memory of Roman's eyes. They lit up when he laughed or smiled. They became round and watery when he felt hurt. Roman was always terrible at hiding his emotions—his eyes told everything. But the eyes in the photograph are not those eyes. The eyes of this Roman Godfrey are cold, like glass and stone. They look like Olivia's eyes. The sight makes Peter's heart sink and his stomach tighten.

"I… I have to go," Peter says, turning away. Sammy clears her throat and Peter realizes he is still holding the magazine, his hand clenched tight, wrinkling several pages. He mutters out an apology and gives the magazine back, ignoring the girls' confused looks following him as he makes his way home.

.

.

When one gets a summons from Bishop Gray, it is a good idea to be on one's guard. Gray is the Vatican's head of SCD, the Supernatural Control Division, and therefore the boss of exorcists and hunters alike. He has a kind exterior, but his kindness never touches his eyes. He is unwavering in his mission, determined and ruthless.

The last time Michael Chasseur had seen Bishop Gray, it was at a meeting about Clementine's death. Clementine… his poor sister. Michael winces at the memory before stealing himself as Gray comes to stand before him.

"Welcome, my son," the older man says, his voice warm yet somehow still steely. "God smiles upon you. You have a new task to serve him."

"Thank you, sir," Michael bows his head, his hand on his heart. "What would best serve the Lord?"

The Bishop nods. "There are signs of a vampire in New York. He or she is using the nightlife there for hunting."

"How many deaths?" Michael asks.

"Deaths? None definitive so far. Just early signs of trouble."

Michael frowns at the response. "Sir?"

The Bishop's eyes grow colder, darker—his face half hidden by a shadow. "Is something the matter, my child?"

Michael hesitates. "We just don't often go after vampires, sir. They are usually discreet, and if this one hasn't killed anyone…"

"Are you questioning the will of the Lord, my son?"

"No, Father!" Michael insists. "It's just…"

It's just that this doesn't feel right. This isn't a typical mission. He is used to folders containing photos of blood-soaked bodies and faces fixed forever in silent screams. As far as Michael knows, in recent history they have never acted preemptively against a creature, especially a vampire. Typically, they left vampires well enough alone, unless there were several obvious linked deaths. Vampires were frequently found in positions of strength and power—it was practical to go after the much bloodier and out of control targets, like werewolves and demons.

Bishop Gray shakes his head, as if reading Michael's thoughts. "They are all children of Satan, Michael, and must be stopped. Just because we have no clear proof of deaths, also, does not mean the monster hasn't killed." Gray places his hand on Michael's shoulder. "Steel thyself. And go with God."

"Yes, sir." Michael bows his head and takes the thin file-folder from the Bishop's hand. As he leaves, he tries to feel determined, tries to feel God's will. But all he can see in his heart is the Bishop's cold and cunning eyes.

.

.

Lynda is worried about Peter. She has been ever since Hemlock Grove.

In Pennsylvania, she hadn't felt like she needed to worry. Peter had been her little boy all grown up. Jovial, capable, independent, and kind. But then that town had torn her baby to pieces. She's still not sure what caused the most damage—Letha's death or the confrontation with the vargolf. But either way, she can't help but feel that something tore at her child's soul. He isn't the same young man he once was. His smile is sadder, his eyes distant. She catches him staring at the forest more than she would like.

He has been running every weekend. And that scares her. The transformation is rough on the human body—there is extreme pain, tearing of tendon and shifting of bone. The flesh ripping open. Jaw cracking and changing. She remembers when Peter first shifted as a child—he cried for days, asking why, never wanting it to happen again. But now he can hardly wait for it—like he's trying to escape something. Like he is more comfortable in the flesh of the wolf than he is in his own as a man.

She's tried to give him space. Tried not to argue. But every shift seems to pull him deeper out to the woods. Seems to make his eyes just a bit less human. It makes Lynda want to cry and scream. But she doesn't. Instead, she just watches.

She is making baked chicken when Peter comes home. His brow is furrowed in thought.

"Hey, baby. Everything okay?"

Peter looks over at her and then hesitates for half of a moment. "Yeah, mom. Everything's fine."

Lynda has always been able to tell when Peter is lying. It's in his eyes. There's no question that he's keeping something from her now, something worrying and preoccupying. But she lets it go. She cannot force Peter to tell her any more than she can force him to stop changing. She can only be patient and calm.

Peter is silent as she pops the chicken in the oven and sets a timer. He is silent as she pours some frozen peas in a container and places them in the microwave. He is silent as she coats the peas with salt and butter. Then he suddenly says, "I realized today that I haven't seen the city."

Lynda raises an eyebrow and looks over at her son. He isn't looking at her, is keeping his eyes fixed across the room. "Oh?" she says.

"Yeah. And it's so close. I thought maybe I'd take a bus there. Check it out. Maybe this weekend."

Now Lynda's breath catches in her throat. She knows Peter's keeping something from her, that she should be skeptical and worried. But… "That would mean you'd miss a chance to run," she reminds him.

Peter shrugs. "I know. But I've been shifting too much anyway. It's probably good to take a break. Maybe seeing the city would be good for me—get me out of the woods, you know?"

Lynda is silent, her eyes searching Peter's face. He is nervous about something, but there is a glint of excitement and anticipation in his eyes. He wants her to say yes. He wants to go, for some mysterious reason. He wants to go and be a young man in the city. Human.

"I think that's a good idea," she finally responds. Peter smiles, the nervousness fading as the excitement in his expression grows. He tries to push down a smile, but it still peaks through, lighting up his face in a way that Lynda hasn't seen for a long time.

She's not quite sure what venture she has supported. She's not quite sure what Peter is seeking in New York. But for the first time in over a year, Lynda sees her son's smile reach his eyes. It is only for a moment, but it's enough for now. It's something. It's hope.

…

To be continued…