Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they are the property of their creators, nor am I seeking to make a profit from this.

Chapter 10

Mitchell was beyond furious. He resisted the urge to throw his phone across the room, and sat down on his bed with a yell that was full of rage.

He'd just received news from Herrick that six of his recruits had been at a werewolf cage fight the night before that went wrong. It was a small one, without more than fifteen vampires watching. The idiot who closed the cage didn't lock it properly, or something, Mitchell really didn't know, and the wolves got out and went after the audience instead of each other. No vampires survived, and when the mangy dogs woke up in their human forms that morning they'd set the place on fire. Siobhan had been there.

Mitchell knew that Herrick played a big part in making the cage fights happen, and though he'd never really approved of them before Mitchell was now extremely thankful, because it meant he knew exactly who those wolves were, and where to find them and their pack so that Mitchell could go rip their heads off.

He was about to storm out the door to go break the news to the others when he remembered that Anders was expecting him. He realized with a pang of regret and anger that he would have to cancel on him again, and he loathed it.

"Hey," Anders said as he answered the phone. He wasn't as enthusiastic as he could have been in greeting Mitchell, but he only called around this time of night if he was going to cancel.

"Hi," Mitchell replied. He sounded off, Anders couldn't quite put his finger on it. "I'm so sorry, but I can't come tonight, something very serious has come up and I have to take care of it."

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, but I have to go. But tomorrow's Saturday so you don't have to work. I'll make it up to you. We can go to Pete's, we haven't been in a while." A while meaning three days.

"Damn right you'll make it up to me." Anders felt a bit put out. He'd been looking forward to going to Pete's tonight, and then to the cinema. Mitchell had been badgering him to go see Casablanca at the old film theater across town because he was in it – "Well, you can't see me of course, but I knocked over a chair."

"Alright, go do your thing. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'm sorry Anders, I'll call you tomorrow, I promise."

"Yeah, whatever," he said, trying to sound unaffected. He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket.

"Now what?" he muttered, but before he could think too hard about what he could do he went for his vodka.

Three hours later he was passed out, drunk, face down on his bed, the TV still on in the living room, and his clothes littering the floor around his room.

After Mitchell hung up with Anders, feeling distinctly miserable about everything, he went to the funeral parlor, their HQ, and broke the news to everyone there.

"I'm going to get them. Who's coming with me?"

Soon Mitchell and about fifteen other vampires were on their way to wipe out the werewolves responsible for the death of their brothers and sisters.

Two hours later, Mitchell stood in the middle of the carnage of what once was a pack of werewolves. There had been six of them, but Mitchell and the vampires with them had both surprise and numbers on their side. Not to mention the fact that in their human forms the bastards were practically defenseless. It was almost too easy to kill them all, but nevertheless Mitchell felt better – though only marginally. He hadn't killed anyone in over two months, but these were werewolves. They barely counted.

He looked down at himself in disdain. He was covered in werewolf blood, and all he wanted was to go home and shower all the filth off.

"What are we going to do with the bodies?" someone asked from behind him. "Burn 'em?"

"No," he said, turning and facing the group. Most were bloodied, but all survived with minimal damage. "Leave them. It'll send a message to any other pack." Any pack this big had to know the other wolves in the city and around it, there was no way they could all stay hidden. He started to leave and everyone fell into step behind him.

The next morning Mitchell sat at the table in the kitchen, the newspaper spread out in front of him. There was a story on the front page about a group of six who were slaughtered in their home. His face was grim, and he wished he hadn't had to do what he did. But the werewolves needed to know who was in charge, and Mitchell was fairly certain he'd gotten his point across.

Anders paced the length of his living room. It was seven forty-five, and Mitchell was due to arrive any minute.

He had just finished watching the news, bored, and not expecting to see anything good. He was surprised to see, however, that the top story was the murder of six people that had happened the night before. Four men and two women – all in their twenties and thirties – were practically torn apart.

At first he thought that it was just some horrible thing that happened, he could just move on and not give it much thought.

But then a thought occurred to him and his heart sank, the weight of the thought settling around him and suffocating him. What was Mitchell doing last night? He said he had 'work' but Anders really had no clue what work was for him.

And it wouldn't be the first time he'd lied to Anders about not killing anymore.

Anders stopped pacing, and a pang of disappointment mingled with sadness went through him. I trusted him.

Suddenly it was the only plausible thing that could have happened. Of course if six people were so brutally killed the only suspects could be vampires. It couldn't have been only Mitchell, but Anders had no doubt that he'd been there.

Roiling anger built in his gut. What if every time he's canceled on me he's been out killing people? Has he been lying to me this entire time?

Anders turned sharply when he heard the door open.

"Hey," Mitchell said. He looked happy, and it only made Anders angrier. Mitchell crossed over to him and kissed him, but Anders stayed stiff and didn't reciprocate. Mitchell pulled back, immediately sensing something wrong. "Is everything okay?" he asked warily.

"Why'd you do it?" Anders asked.

"Do what?"

"Kill all those people last night. I know that was you and your vampires."

"Anders, no I-"

"Stop talking." His anger amplified his power and Mitchell's mouth snapped shut, his eyes wide in alarm. "I thought that was behind us! I thought you'd stopped, you told me you stopped. How long has this been going on? Ever since London? Did you ever try to stop?" Mitchell, now looking distinctly upset, opened his mouth once again, but Bragi repeated his command. "No, I don't want to hear any more lies from you. We're done, get out of my house." Mitchell's eyes widened, and it seemed like he no longer had control over his limbs as he left Anders' apartment without a word.

Anger still coursing through him, Anders paced furiously around the living room. After about ten minutes he knew Mitchell would be long gone. He put on his shoes and a light jacket and stormed out, heading straight for Pete's. It was March, and still fairly cool outside, but Anders' anger burned hot in him and he didn't feel the cold at all.

He got very drunk, and when a vaguely concerned Pete cut him off, Anders went home and drank some more. He drank so much that he threw it all up for the first time in years. He fell asleep with his cheek on the toilet seat, curled around the bowl.

Mitchell drove around town aimlessly for a while. He was in shock, still trying to process what happened. Not only had Anders used his power on him, but he kicked him out of his house, unintentionally using a very old and very stupid – in Mitchell's opinion – vampire deterrent. Just as they must be invited into a mortal's home, they can be forced to leave; and now Mitchell was prevented from entering Anders' apartment unless he was invited in again.

But why would I want to go back? That asshole! If he'd just let me explain. . . Mitchell thought. He was angry, and hurt, and upset, and he needed a drink. He stopped at the first bar he came across and went inside. It was busy, but he found a seat at the bar and ordered a beer.

Three beers later Mitchell heard his name called behind him. He turned to see a young blonde woman, whom he recognized as one of the young recruits – one of the ones who'd fawned over him. "Hey," she said, taking the, inconveniently, unoccupied seat next to his.

"Hey. . ." he trailed off awkwardly, realizing he didn't know her name.

"Tanya," she supplied with a smile, and Mitchell wanted to laugh when he realized she was putting as much sex appeal into her body language and the look she was giving him. Sex was the last thing Mitchell wanted at that moment.

"Hey Tanya, how are you doing?"

"I'm great, how are you?"

"Pretty shitty, actually."

"Oh no! Is there something I can do to help?" Mitchell couldn't help but think how pathetic she looked; over eager and desperate were not attractive qualities on anyone.

"I don't think so, I just want to get drunk."

"Well I can help with that!" Tanya said, turning from Mitchell to the bartender as he passed. "Shots!" she said enthusiastically, and the bartender looked over at Mitchell and winked, obviously thinking that Tanya was a catch that Mitchell was lucky to have. He wanted to just get up and leave, but as soon as the vodka shot was placed in front of him Mitchell couldn't help himself from throwing it back and not protesting when Tanya ordered more.

An hour later Mitchell was quite drunk. Some of his anger had dissipated, and he was left with the sadness that permeated his core. He absently swatted Tanya's hand away when she started rubbing his thigh. She whined and Mitchell winced at the annoying sound as she pulled her hand back.

"What's wrong with you? Usually I have to fight guys off!"

"My boyfriend just broke up with me," he said, tired of her. He downed the rest of his drink – he'd long ago lost count of how many he'd had – and signaled the bartender for another.

"I'm so sorry!" she cried, putting her hand back on his thigh. Mitchell thought the intent was different this time, but then again he really wasn't thinking straight at all. Why did he tell her about Anders? Was Anders his boyfriend? Well if he was he's not anymore. . . "What happened?"

"A misunderstanding," he said, his words starting to slur a bit.

"That's really shitty." Mitchell noted that she seemed very sober – at least compared to him. He hoped he wouldn't do anything he'd regret; at this point he'd pretty much lost all self-control. She said something else but Mitchell wasn't paying attention.

"What?"

"I said who needs a dumb boy anyway! They're a stupid vampire for breaking up with you."

"He's not a vampire," Mitchell chuckled, thinking that if Anders was a vampire this whole situation could have been avoided, and they could still be happy together.

"Well then that's even worse, stupid humans."

"He's not even human," he blurted without thinking. "He's a Norse god!"

The moment the words left his mouth the blood drained from Mitchell's face, and he realized that he'd fucked up. He looked at Tanya, who looked confused, and hastily excused himself. He paid for his drinks, his hands fumbling and shaking, not caring that he'd handed over way too much money before leaving. Tanya sat on the barstool, her face baffled, for a few seconds before pulling out her phone and sending a text.

He drove home, which he knew was a terrible idea even in his inebriated state, and managed to get home without crashing his car and killing himself. He collapsed on his bed, intending to sleep for at least two days.

Sunday passed in a blur, and as soon as the bar opened for lunch Anders was there, intent on spending the night the same as he had the previous night: too drunk to think. He left his phone at home so that no calls or texts from anyone could bother him and left with only his wallet and keys.

He drank, and when Pete finally cut him off again, his face even more concerned than the last night, Anders started stumbling home. When he passed the alley where he first saw Mitchell he stopped.

He didn't know why, but he missed Mitchell, more than he thought he would. But he shook his head, steeled himself and turned to go home.

But there was someone blocking his path. A blond man about Anders' height. Anders tried to walk around him, but there were more men behind him.

"Look, you can have my wallet, okay? I don't want any trouble," he slurred.

"Oh no, we want something much more valuable than your money." And he pulled out some kind of blunt object and swung it towards Anders' head.

The last thing he remembered before he passed out was a sudden searing pain in his head, and then nothing.

Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy ride... Please let me know what you think! Also as of now there are four chapters left plus the epilogue...