Author's Note: This chapter was difficult, but fun to write. But now I just can't wait for the next part. By the way, if you start having vampire withdrawal after this chapter's over, check out my friend's blog. She was the one I watched The Addiction with and she's been watching vampire movies and blogging about them all summer. Check out fangtasticfilm (.dot) blogspot ( .com). So far, I've found her reviews pretty spot on/fun. Enjoy! ~ Tsuki
…
*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!*
…
Chrysalis - A Hemlock Grove Story
…
Chapter Three: New York, New York
.
The whole situation smells funny. In fact, it stinks something rotten. Michael flips through the file one more time, glaring at each page as if to dare it to seem any fishier. There are no police reports. No eyewitness accounts. No indication as to where any of this information came from. Just a list of dates and club sightings—vaguely typed descriptions of likely vampire movements. It's just about the shadiest and sparsest file Michael has ever seen. Just about.
The one describing the death of his sister. That came close.
Michael scowls, looking up from the file and rubbing his eyes. He hears birds chirping. He has been up all night and the dawn is creeping over the horizon. Even without meaning to, it seems he has started to keep a vampire's schedule. Well, so much the better for hunting one.
Michael closes the file. Tomorrow (later today, actually, dear lord it's getting brighter out), he will leave for New York. He doesn't know why Bishop Gray is keeping information from him, but he knows he must keep his faith and press forward. Without his sister, without Clementine, his faith is all he has.
.
.
Peter doesn't know what he was expecting. He didn't really have much of a plan, even as he boarded the dingy Greyhound bus. New York City was a huge place and Roman Godfrey was just one man. Finding him would be like trying to find a black cat in a coal mine.
When he had gotten off of the bus, the sights and sounds of the city had hit him like a tidal wave. It had been almost impossible to concentrate. He breathed for a moment. He took in the lights and crowds. He bought a pretzel. Eventually, he made his way to Central Park. There, the small scratch of nature calmed him again, centered him.
He took the subway. Got off to visit a library. He wrote down the name of every club Roman had been photographed at in the tabloids. There were only six, recurring and patterned. He wrote down the addresses. He went to their locations and took a deep breath, smelling.
There was the hint of a familiar scent, the memory of Roman. Faint. Almost imaginary.
"What are you doing?" Peter hears a voice laugh now. He turns to see a well-dressed man and woman eyeing him with bemusement. Peter realizes he probably looks like a crazy person, smelling around like a dog. He looks away, sheepish.
"I was just… um… I'm kind of lost." It's the only excuse he can come up with. He can't imagine that "smelling the air" would have satisfied the question.
"Okay," the man smirks, "where are you trying to go?"
"I… well, it's not exactly where. I'm actually looking for someone. Roman Godfrey. Do you know him?"
The woman half-coughs and half-laughs and looks away. Peter recognizes that lack of eye-contact, the slight blush at the top of her cheeks. He had seen it all over Hemlock Grove. "A bit," the woman confirms.
"We see him out and about," the man agrees, waving loosely at the closed clubs. "But then, so does everyone. Why?"
"I… I just moved to New York. Roman and I used to know each other in Hemlock Grove. Thought I'd take a chance, try to find him… you know…" Peter knows he sounds suspicious. The story—while mostly true—sounds fishy even to him. The two strangers exchange a look and Peter curses to himself silently, getting ready to move on and come up with a less embarrassing plan.
"He usually rotates what club he goes to," the woman finally smiles. "He never goes to the same one twice in a row."
"I think he was at 52 last weekend, so…" the man starts.
"On Friday," the woman corrects. "But he went to Fuse on Saturday."
"Ah, that's right. I think I heard Sal say he saw him there. I'd forgotten. So, yes, that means your best bets tonight are Pearl and Trinity. I'd start there."
Peter blinks for a moment, stunned. "Um… thanks."
"No problem," the man says, his voice shifting to preoccupation as he checks his phone.
"You're not going dressed like that, right?" the woman laughs. Peter hesitates, looking down at his old striped button-up and ripped jeans.
"Uh, I was planning on it. Not good?"
"Not good," the woman agrees. Her smile is flirty, but mildly disapproving. "You've got a few hours. Go make yourself presentable. Nothing less than a good name-brand. Otherwise, you'll never get in."
Peter mutters a thanks again as the pair walk away. He puts his hands in his pockets and curses. He doesn't have much money—he'll have to get some clothes the old fashioned gypsy way. But, even if he does, who knows if this is a complete waste of time? Who knows what he will do if he even finds Roman?
Who knows if Roman even wants to be 'found'?
.
.
For Roman, it's been a difficult week—a paper due for his sociology class and too much time forcing a smile and pretending to care about normalcy. He used up the last of his Tupperware blood yesterday; it had been in the fridge a day too long again and had developed a sour, almost fermented flavor.
He's on edge tonight, his neck tense. He doesn't know if it is going to be one of those evenings where he stays out until dawn and drowns his frustrations in alcohol and noise, or one of those nights when he hooks the first acceptable woman he sees and uses his gaze to force her to leave with him. He doesn't know what his tolerance is for humanity right now… it doesn't feel very high.
As he enters Trinity, the music is a roar of electronic hums and drum beats. He sees a group he vaguely recognizes in the VIP section; one is a pop star he knows casually, who buys coke from the same dealer Roman does. He heads over, gives greetings all around, orders a drink. It's routine. It's familiar.
He sits next to a woman who claims to be an up-and-coming clothing designer. She immediately puts her hand on Roman's leg.
He closes his eyes. He listens to the music. He tries to decide how much he hates this.
His drink is empty quickly. There's no server around the VIP section at the moment, so he stands up to make his way to the bar and… freezes.
He blinks, wonders if he's seeing things.
When the vision in the crowd before him doesn't change, he feels his body go numb, like a limb that has fallen asleep. This, Roman realizes, seems to be a different type of night all together.
.
.
Peter had thankfully found a thrift shop not too far out of walking distance. He stole an overpriced-for-used button-up Versace shirt, which mostly fit, and then paid for a leather cuff bracelet to avoid seeming suspicious. He knew his jeans were still not quite fashionable, but he hoped this was at least acceptable enough to get into the club.
When the bouncer hesitates at the door of Trinity, Peter's heart leaps into his throat. "I'm looking for someone," he blurts out. "A friend."
The bouncer gives him a skeptical look and then smirks. "Aren't we all?" He checks behind him, looking for a signal of some sort, and then waves Peter in.
Peter has never been to a club before. Certainly not a big city club. Heck, he hasn't stayed in one place long enough to go to many school dances.
The music makes his head hurt and the lights are blinding in some areas, while the lack of light makes other sections pitch dark. The bar is crowded, the dance floor more sparsely occupied by either serious dancers or people who seem to be more posing than dancing, just waiting for someone to notice them. The whole room smells of sweat and alcohol and anxiety. People wanting to be desired. People wanting to be loved. People afraid of death. People afraid of being alone.
Peter feels incredibly uncomfortable. He tries to look around the room, tries to wander a bit through the crowd. But the club is so full of crannies and pockets, areas for people to get lost, that he starts to feel the familiar pang of frustration and hopelessness.
Then he turns and falls into cold blue eyes.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Roman asks. He has to yell to be heard over the music, but the tone still comes off as cold and impassive. It makes Peter almost flinch.
"I heard you might be here," Peter yells back. "I was… I was in town."
Roman is silent now, his cold eyes looking Peter up and down a moment, as if considering. Then he jerks his head sideways, signaling to the exit.
As they walked into the cooling night air, Peter watches Roman's stride. It is tense but elegant. Roman had always been graceful, but his movements now are something else—almost otherworldly. Roman walks over to a man in a black suit and gestures, handing him something. A few moments later, a sleek silver sports-car is driven up to the curb.
"Get in," Roman says flatly.
Peter raises an eyebrow. "What happened to the jag?"
Roman half-flinches as he opens the driver's side door. The pained expression breaks—just for a moment—the cold mask he's been wearing. "Would you believe I totaled it?"
"What? You loved that car!"
"Yeah, well…" the mask is back now and the temperature inside the vehicle feels like it is dropping rapidly, "…I wasn't exactly in the best mindset."
Peter bets that he knows around when that was—bets that he was sporting a pained expression and a shaved head himself around the same time.
They drive in silence for a moment before Peter finally asks, "Where are we going?"
"My place," Roman responds flatly. "I figured you didn't come all the way out here to yell over the music of some club."
"No," Peter agrees. More silence. There is ambient electronic music coming through the car's speakers. Peter looks out the window at the city lights for a while before saying, "Does this song have a fucking harpsichord in it?"
Roman hesitates for a moment. "Sounds like it."
Peter chuckles. "Seriously?"
"What's wrong with it?" Roman asks, his brow wrinkling slightly. "You hate harpsichord?"
"No, it sounds great. That's what's weird. I can't believe this is your music. Last I heard, you were a gansta' rap aficionado." Peter's voice is light and teasing. He searches Roman's marble white face. Finally, the young man smiles a bitter smile.
"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I've gone through some… changes. Lately."
"I've noticed," Peter whispers. Roman nods in response.
"Yeah, well, my hearing's better. You wouldn't believe how terrible that stuff sounds with super-hearing."
Peter grins, his teeth flashing and wolfish. "I hate to break it to you, Godfrey, but people with normal hearing thought it was shit too."
Roman seems to try to flash him a glare, but a small smirk breaks through. "Fuck you, Rumancek."
For just a moment, Peter sees the sun. It flashes across Roman's face for just an instant, warm and familiar. But then the smirk fades and the coldness is back again. Roman's face shifts into its marble mask, so reminiscent of Olivia that it makes Peter's skin crawl.
The wolf is freaking out under his skin. It's growling warnings, all instincts screaming that this situation is unsafe. There's nowhere to run. There's a large predator close. Peter should bite his neck, tear at his arms, and then run.
But Peter ignores the wolf's instincts. This is Roman—the one who he set out to find. His friend at one time. Sure, he and Roman didn't always understand each other or have everything in common, but Roman was always a good person. Peter takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down and get the wolf to relax.
"We're here," Roman finally says, pulling into a garage. They're away from the noise and the lights now. It's a nice, mostly residential district, all arch-windowed lofts, condos, and town-houses. Peter follows Roman inside a white building and into an elevator. They take the lift to the top floor.
When they get to Roman's apartment, Peter can't help but gasp. Just the main room is larger than most spaces he and his mother have lived.
"Shit… nice place," Peter half-laughs.
Roman is silent. He walks over to the kitchen. Peter hears him unhook his watch and place it and what sounds like a ring in a small glass bowl. There is a rustle of cotton as he rolls up his sleeves.
Peter turns away and surveys what he can see of the loft. The lines of the room are clean and modern—metal and glass—with just a hint of an art deco aesthetic. A light from an espresso maker on the kitchen counter gives the room a blue glow, the wide windows reflecting the city lights in the distance.
"You know I found out you had moved from a teenage girl and her tabloids," Peter chuckles. "Crazy, right?"
"Not that crazy." Roman's voice is hushed and inexpressive. "It's not like we were pen-pals, Rumancek."
"Yeah…" Peter breaths. "You know, Roman, I—"
"Peter," Roman interrupts. At the sound of his name, Peter turns.
The punch to the nose is unexpected, as is the full weight of Roman coming down on top of him. The breath escapes from Peter's lungs as he's knocked back into the carpet, and he doesn't even have a moment to draw it back before Roman's hands are around his throat, Roman's fingers digging against his windpipe. Peter gasps, chokes, tries to throw Roman off. But the young man is stronger than Peter could have imagined and his eyes are practically glowing ice silver. Peter's vision blurs, starts to fade, and all he can see now is Roman's mouth, snarling and open, white fangs gleaming in the night.
…
To be continued…
