So you know that thing where I said I'd post once a week? Well, that was a lie. Lately it's been because I've been having too much fun ripping out a poor man's heart and grinding it into pudding. I exaggerate, of course. But only a little. Anyway, good news is, there are exactly ten chapters to go and most of the end I wrote before the beginning. Once it's done, I will be removing it, redoing it, and putting it up...somewhere else. Because it has gotten extremely far away from me. Alas, enjoy this latest installment of heartbreak and misery.

Chapter 19

We were home in time for the full moon. It was strange returning to Brookshire; we'd been away so long the season had turned. Summer had wilted, so too had our precariously patched up friendship. Ah, but who was I kidding. We hadn't been friends since Paris. Maybe not even then.

Perhaps I should say only this: he talked to me even less, if that were possible.

Imogen, at least, was happy to see me. But then, she was happy to see Luke, too, so I didn't hold out much hope. She seemed to had doubled in size since we last saw her. From the looks of things, she'd been running Parker simply ragged. He too looked please to see us. Exhausted, but pleased. And Luke cheered up when he saw Imogen; there was something quite like affection on his face when she tackled him hello.

Parker and I observed their reunion from the far end of the room, silent and wistful—well, I was wistful. Parker coughed into his hand, a subtle suggestion that we should leave them be. I followed him out.

"All right, Parker, what is it? I left you three vials, there's no chance you're getting more out of me."

He ignored the accusation. "How is he?"

It was a simple question, really, one I'd been expecting even, but I flinched just the same.

"I told you it wouldn't fix anything"

I scowled, tried for that old biting sarcasm—"Since when do I listen to you?"—and failed miserably. I sat in a hurry, the wind seemed to go right out of my lungs and into my head, made me dizzy. "I thought he might . . ."

"Has he said anything?"

I shook my head. "You know him, Parker. Never says a word about anything to anyone. He spoke more words to Rachel in a single hour than he has to me in the last month."

"You went to see her?"

"I . . . made a mistake. Miscalculated. I thought if I told Rachel the truth about me, if I demonstrated to Luke that it could be done, that the world wouldn't collapse, he would see there was still hope for him."

Something like a sigh escaped him. "It backfired, I take it."

My eyes darted this way and that, to every corner, every crevice, just to avoid looking at Parker. Because if I looked at Parker somehow my words would become real. Somehow, it would stop being just this bad dream. "I told her I loved her. I hadn't planned it, it just . . . came out. Luke . . . I don't—He looked as if I had betrayed him."

Parker was quiet a long time. When he spoke again it was as one speaks to a friend, not as a servant to his master. "That's not so strange, I think. Though he may loathe you, you're the closest thing to family he has left. It's not difficult to believe he'd begrudge you if he thought you were abandoning him for someone else."

"That's absurd!"

"Not to him it isn't. You've just taken a very big step toward what I hope is a respectable girl, and, as far as Luke can tell, a step away from him. The boy lost his parents, Malakai!" That patriarchal tone was back. "And rather than help him confront his grief you bury it in the sand of Whore Island and hope the tide doesn't come in!"

"That's not—!"

We both stopped short at the sudden cessation of commotion from the hall. A whimper reached our ears, the sound of an animal in pain; a cry.

We were off our feet and through the door in a moment.

"K-Kai—"

Luke was crouched on the floor, his back to us, obscuring what lay in front of him. He looked over his shoulder as he said the word, fear and horror evident in his eyes. His eyes. His eyes were wrong. A shudder passed through him; I watched it travel down his neck, his shoulders, down hi arm to his hands. His hands. They didn't seem quite right either.

Everything snapped into focus in that moment.

The thing on the floor was Imogen, whining and bleeding. His finger were sporting claws instead of nails. Even as I watched he started sprouting fangs.

"Kai . . . I-I didn't mean— I've killed her."

I was beside him in an instant, cooing, coaxing, cursing myself for not keeping track of the time. "It's all right," I lied, hoisting him to his feet even as his body contorted in pain. "It wasn't all that deep." A lie. "Parker can tend to her. Have her up in no time. Parker!" The old man was already a step ahead of me, tending to the dog as I hurried the werewolf out of the house.

"I've killed her. I've killed her." Luke muttered the mantra over and over until he could no longer form words through the agony of the change. I half-dragged, half-carried the writhing creature across the ground, had nearly made it to the shed, when the snarling beast turned its impressive teeth on me. I flinched away in self-preservation, lost my grip, and the thing took off toward the brook. I recovered a moment later and gave chase; we were so close to the cellar. So close to keeping Luke safe.

"Luke! Lucas! Come here!"

A shot rang out.

I whirled toward the house. "Parker!" I shouted, changing course. "Parker!" I nearly collided with him on the verandah. He had a pistol in his hand.

"There was no use," he explained. "It had already taken hold."

I looked over his shoulder through to the hall and sure enough there was Imogen, still and unbreathing. "This will kill him."

Parker's face was hard. "We have to catch him before he kills something else."

"Without getting killed ourselves, you mean."

He burnished the pistol in his hand. "You're his natural prey. Let him chase you back to the cellar. I'll be waiting."

As much as I liked putting Parker in danger, and as much as I hated the thought of potentially hurting Luke, I could find no other alternative and time was of the essence. I ran, guided only by the moonlight and his smell as it zigzagged through the dense wood. I made all sorts of noise tearing through the undergrowth. I came upon him sooner than I anticipated; he'd caught a stag.

It was eerily hypnotic watching this impossibly large, hulking creature, its pale coat practically glowing in the dappled moonlight, its teeth teeth tearing greedily at innocent flesh the only sound.

When it caught wind of me, which didn't take long, the single most terrifying snarl I have ever heard ripped from its throat. Snarl isn't even the right word. It was a war cry. It was blood thirsty, savage. It wanted my blood.

I didn't look to see if he was chasing me, I turned and ran. I was so thoroughly scared out of my wits I ran right past the shed and had to double back. I crashed through the open door, the wolf on my heel; a shot rang out; a howl of pain; I whirled to see the wolf stagger sideways, stunned by a flesh wound. I don't know how (sheer dumb luck, no doubt) but I managed to stuff it down into the cellar.

"What happens in the morning?" I looked at Parker. He was panting hard, his face unreadable.

"Nothing good."

Dawn found us huddled together on the shed floor. It was Parker's snoring that woke me. And then the unmistakeable sound of a man weeping reached my ears. I slid out from under Parker and slipped into the cellar. He'd never looked so small, naked and trembling as he was. I covered him with the same old robe, watched him jerk at my touch. He turned his head, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He opened his mouth as if to speak but I beat him to it:

"It was my fault," I told him. "Not yours."

He held out his arms to me, silent and pleading. I liked him best when he was sleeping. It was as close to peaceful as he was capable in those days. He was nearly himself again. He looked like he did the night I first left him in Oxford. Soft. Warm. Human.

The nightmares got worse after that. When he wasn't drinking he was waking up screaming. Some nights he would call for me. Some nights he would hurl abuse when I opened the door. If it was possible he talked even less. And what he did say worried me.

"I have ruined everything, Kai. I always ruin everything." "Why couldn't they have just killed me?" "I was nearly dead, you know, the doctor told me they almost lost me. Twice. But they wouldn't let me die." "I never asked for this." "I never wanted to hurt anyone." "Why won't it stop?"

But every time I tried to offer help, to turn his tearful mumblings into a conversation he shut down. Parker had marginally better luck, got a few more words out of him, and by the time the first snow fell he was just as worried as I was.

"I fear for him. I fear he may be thinking—"

"What can we do?"

He should his head. "Suicidal werewolves are out of my area of expertise."

I called Rachel frequently. Her advice wasn't much better but I liked the sound of her voice. It reassured me somehow. "It sounds to me," she said as the conversation once again turned to Luke. I could barely thing of anything else in those days. I felt as if we'd beat the issue to death time and again, talked it into the ground mulling over every minute detail; Rachel liked to know everything about everything and I couldn't stop talking so it went on for days. Today we were going in circles round Luke's alcoholism. I could kid myself no longer; he drank too much and for the wrong reasons. I was sure she would grow tired of it and leave, tell me 'Shut up! I don't care! I'm sick of hear it!' But she never did. She was kind and patient. She stifled a yawn. "It sounds to me like he needs professional help. Rehab or AA or whatever they have in England."

She'd hinted at this before but never said it outright. I didn't dare tell her I thought it would be admitting defeat.

"Think about it," she pressed, as if she knew my thoughts. "It sounds like you've done all you can do. And really, what more can you do? You're just a friend helping a friend in crisis. She's he's clearly not talking to you maybe you ought to find someone he will talk to."

"I suppose . . ." I didn't bother mentioning it wasn't that simple, that we weren't just friends, that we were a werewolf and a vampire (however convincing our facade might be), that because of me Luke had lost his humanity, his friends, his parents, and ultimately his will to go on. I didn't bother mentioning it because she knew all that already. I didn't bother because part of me knew she was right. "Can't we talk of something else?"

"You brought it up," she reminded me gently. Because I had. I always did.

"And I always regret it."

Luke was more than usually pissed that night. The full moon was that weekend and, well, that was an excuse for everything, wasn't it?

I met him on the road walking back from he couldn't remember. (at least they'd taken his keys to the Rover) I slowed, rolled down the window of the BMW, and pulled up beside him.

"Need a lift?"

"Fuck off."

"Come on, it's another three miles at least."

"Why? Don't want me out alone on a deserted road? Think something might try to attack me? Thanks, but you're about six years too late." He was feeling a little meaner than usual, it seemed.

"Get in the car."

"Fuck you."

"You'll be another hour to Brookshire," I tried to reason.

He stumbled over his own shoelaces. "I'm not going to Brookshire."

I nearly laughed. "No? Where will you go, then? You've nowhere else. No money, no transport, no—"

"Just the way you want it, isn't it!" He was shouting now. "So completely cut off from everyone but you. Dependent entirely on you. Kept waiting for you."

"The hell are you on about?" I slammed the BMW in park, stalked across the road toward him.

He motioned sloppily. "Don't pretend you don't know what you're doing. Don't touch me!" He shoved me. "Don't you fucking dare touch me!"

"Let's get out of the street. We can talk about this at home."

He barked with laughter, threw his hands up. He'd gone quite mad. "Where's home? I have no home!"

I tried to guide him into the car, but again he evaded my touch.

"No," he was saying as he swayed unsteadily on the edge of the asphalt. "No, I know what you're doing."

"Do you?" I was getting angry now. "Please, enlighten me."

"It's been your plan all along, you see, to get me all to yourself. You followed me to University, let those damn animals attack me because you knew, you knew, I could never go home after that—"

I stared. I knew it was the alcohol talking. I knew it, and yet it didn't make the words sting any less. "Luke, that was an accident. A horrible, horrible accident which no one could have foreseen. You must know that."

He went on as though he hadn't heard. "And in Paris you made yourself out to be such a hero, such a benevolent vampire extending your pity to a lowly half-breed. And I fucking bought it." He was trembling all over, his voice rising to a frenzied pitch. "And then, if that weren't enough you go and—kill my parents." He gasped the last words and staggered toward me—I thought he was going to strike me—but he only balled his fists in my shirt and wept like a child. His next words were hardly a whisper. "Why can't you just leave me alone? Why couldn't you just kill me like the others?"

He fell asleep in the car. And thus November passed into December.

I think he frightened me a little. What had happened to the Lucas I had known before? The kind oblivious boy from Oxford? His eyes had held such light, such warmth in those days. Now they were just . . . dark. Dark like a moonless night and bitter like licorice. The Luke I saw now was a far cry from the skeptical one I had found in Paris or even the nervous one I had brought back to Brookshire. Had something happened? Was I somehow to blame for the change in him? Had it, as they say, been too much to soon? Meeting me, learning what I really was, coming to live with me despite it all. Had it nudged him over the edge? After all, he had nowhere left to run. Was I crazy to have hope that the Luke I had known was still somewhere buried inside this person who looked like Luke and talked like Luke but wasn't Luke? Was I crazy to hope I could coax him out, the Luke I had known, and make him come back to me?

Because how—how—had it come to this? How had we come here?