((Song: "Tonight You Belong to Me" by Patience and Prudence, followed by Chopin's "Nocturne No. 1", then "At the Mountains of Madness" by Graham Plowman))

"Tate! Time to get up and have breakfast!"

The 17-year-old stirred beneath the cozy bedding and considered laying there longer but his stomach growled threateningly. After a few seconds of trying without success to convince it to go back to sleep, he pushed himself up and out of bed. He threw on the first shirt and pair of jeans his hands found in his dresser, then he headed downstairs, his socked feet thumping on the polished wood.

The warm smell of pancakes greeted him when he reached the first floor. In the kitchen, Mama was serving up a batch of the sweet hotcakes. She had a Betty Crocker apron on and her hair and makeup were perfect, like June Cleaver's was on that old Leave it to Beaver show. Addie was helping her put the powdered sugar. She looked nice too, all dressed up for her first day working as a teaching assistant down at the special school she used to attend as a student.

"Daddy had to take Beau to his class," Constance told her son as she piled sugar-dusted mini pancakes on his plate.

Tate grunted an acknowledgement, then reported: "School's almost out."

He had mixed feelings about the end of the school year. It was his second-to-last year before graduation. He liked playing baseball and being on the track team, but he wouldn't be sorry to see the end of the math classes. His father warned him there would be even more math in college, but Tate wasn't going to worry about that until he had to.

He wolfed down a whole pancake before thinking of the syrup that sat in the crystal pitcher next to the morning newspaper. Reaching for it, he happened to catch one of the sub-headlines midway down the page: Kurt Cobain Dead at 27. Tate's innards cramped up and his whole body went numb. He let go of the pitcher and grabbed the paper, quickly scanning the story. Cobain, the lead singer of the grunge band Nirvana, was Tate's favorite musician. Stunned, he couldn't understand what had happened. The band had achieved meteoric success over the past couple of years. They were bringing in lots of money. Kurt had purchased a house in Seattle where he, his wife, and baby daughter lived. He was at the top of his game, living the dream! But the newspaper article made it sound like Cobain had committed suicide.

It had to be a joke—a sick and bizarre joke that made no sense. Somehow, someone must have paid the newspaper to run the fake story, to trick Tate. That made about as much sense as anything else did at the moment.

"Tate?" Constance asked, noticing the sudden change in his demeanor. "Honey, are you feelin' all right?"

He forced himself to swallow. The pancake had gone dry in his mouth. "No. I...I don't feel so good."

She put down her spatula and came around the island to press a palm to his forehead in concern. "Maybe you should stay home from school."

"Maybe," he agreed wanly. Things suddenly felt very, very wrong.

"Things would've been very different if you had stayed home that day," another voice said behind him. "At least for the students of Westfield High."

Startled, Tate turned sharply toward the sound and saw a man standing in the doorway to the hall. He was dressed all in black, with pointy-toed shoes and a velvet vest over a billowy black poet's shirt. He wore a dark red cravat tucked into the vest, matched to the velvet ribbon that held back his dark blonde hair. A thin gold chain dripped out of the left hip pocket of his black velvet pants, hooked to a belt loop. The man's outfit put Tate in mind of pirates, but there was an intensity to his presence that curbed the anachronism of his style.

"Who are you?" Tate demanded. "What are you doing here?"

The man favored him a tolerant smile and crossed the checkerboard tile floor at a slow, deliberate pace. His shiny shoes were loud on the tile and Tate suddenly realized they were alone. Mama and Addie were gone.

"Enjoying your pocket fantasy?" the man asked. He looked around the kitchen. Orienting on the platter of pancakes that remained on the island, he lifted one of the floppy treats then dropped it back onto pile, rubbing his fingers together to rid them of powdered sugar residue. "I can't believe this is what you would want your ever-after to be."

The strange comment stained the interaction with a sense of familiarity. He knew this man. He just couldn't remember how he knew him. Fear crept in, curdling instantly to anger. "I don't want you here. Go away."

The man laughed. It was a sharp sound in the hollow kitchen. "That doesn't work on me."

He stepped up close, right inside Tate's personal space, forcing him to either take a step back or tolerate the social discomfort. Tate didn't want to give ground, nor did he want the man that close to him. Pride won out and he glared at the ponytailed man. The guy had a couple of inches on him but he didn't let that sway him.

"Go away!" Tate asserted. He tensed, ready to back his words up with physical force, if necessary.

The man was unfazed. "When I was a child, I was so impressed by you. I used to think you were so worldly. You knew so much for one so young. Then I found out who you really were and I was furious—for a long time. How could you hide who you were from me so deliberately? But now..." He brushed the back of his hand over Tate's cheek in a way Constance had done to them both so many times over the years. "I pity you."

Tate batted his hand away, not liking the touch or its significance. "Don't."

A funny look flickered across the blond man's face, one of fleeting melancholy quickly replaced by a more resolute expression. "It's time to wake up now."

Since nothing else seemed to be working, Tate tried to shove him but the man caught his arms and held him without any visible effort. Then the world shattered.

The room around them disintegrated and flew away in all directions. Darkness rushed in, swallowing Tate before he could begin to sort out what was happening. Suddenly he was freezing cold, inside to outside, then just as suddenly he was standing in bright light. Blinded and dizzy, he stumbled and sat down on solid ground. He shielded his eyes with an arm.

"Welcome back to the real world," Michael said somewhere above him.

Blinking furiously, Tate squinted around and saw he was in the back room of New 'Salem's church. "W-what happened?"

"You were... sleeping."

That made no sense to Tate for too many reasons. He wanted to argue, but he felt nauseous. He wrapped an arm around his middle. "I wasn't asleep. What the fuck happened?"

"The Reverend Keeley bound you to a ring," Michael explained with an air that suggested he didn't expect Tate to understand. "I got you out."

"Reverend..?"

Michael tipped his head, indicating something behind Tate, who turned. Behind him on the floor a man lay stiff as a board.

"Jesus!" Tate yelped, skipping a step away from the body in surprise. Then he gave the man a closer look. "Is he dead?"

Michael smiled again, and this time he looked genuinely amused. "No. Just...sleeping. He has talent. It would be a shame to waste it. When I have time, I'll figure out how best to use it. For now, he's just the way I want him."

"Sleeping," Tate scoffed. "That's just what you're going with for everything now?" He ran both hands through his hair and looked around, finally settling on Michael again. "I remember following that guy here," he said as he sorted through his confused memories. "He said he was going to, um. The bull thing out in the square. We were going to talk about that."

"Why?"

Tate rubbed the spot between his brows. He had a headache and wanted to go home. "Because it's fucking loud. Why do you even have that stupid thing?"

Surprised by the sudden hostility, Michael frowned. "It isn't mine. It's something the townspeople made."

Tate didn't want to believe him but he could sense the guy meant what he said. Which still annoyed him. "That guy on the floor and the one from the square said it's yours. If it isn't, could you tell 'em to take it down? I hate it. Everybody at the house does. Just ask Constance. I bet it's the reason the babies cry all the goddamned time."

Michael didn't appreciate the attitude. If anything, he would have expected some gratitude for what he considered a rather selfless rescue mission. "So says the expert on parenting. You know, you have a really strange way of saying thank you for being rescued."

"Rescued?" Tate exploded. "Rescued!? I didn't ask you for help! I was happy where I was! Why'd you come for me anyway? It's not like you care about what happens to me!"

"Because," Michael said with simple emphasis. "You belong to me."

Tate stared at him, unsure how to take that claim.

"Go home, Tate."

Done with the whole exchange, Michael didn't give him a choice. He simply willed his ghostly sire back to the Montgomery mansion and Tate went. He knew the volatile teen would be livid at the treatment, but that didn't matter. He was where Michael wanted him.

...

Author's Note:

While in stay-at-home lock down, I went a bit stir crazy and decided to restyle my house with a Victorian flair. Inspired by the Rosenheim and Winchester mansions, I've nearly finished the baseboards and doors in a nice dark brown. I found a place that sells affordable millwork to add some embellishments to doorways and such. I probably could find someone now to do the work but I've been enjoying doing it myself. Besides, doing your own home renovations is something folks always do in horror stories. Something about putting a bit of yourself into the place...

Speaking of being put into a place, Tate's been put in his. I was originally planning to have him and Violet reconnect in this chapter but I think it works better as a single scene. Also, Michael was going to tell Tate that Violet asked him to find Tate but then words happened and egos got in the way and stuff. I keep hoping to have a moment between these guys where they'll actually get along again, but this wasn't it.

Coming up: Violet and Tate get together again, while Michael and Troy head off to Pripyat to hunt a fallen angel.