SUMMARY:

The Battle for Santa Carla has come to an end and the gang rises from the ruins beaten, battered, yet all around triumphant. But with the death of one vampire, the floodgates are suddenly reopened. What if David had met the Frog Brothers many years prior to the movie? It's a small world, after all. With a big boardwalk to boot.

Rated T for Language and Future Violence

Disclaimer: I do not own the Lost Boys (but a girl can dream, right?)

.


PROLOGUE

Santa Carla, 1987.


...


Pushing aside the remnants of a collapsed ceiling, Sam Emerson grabbed the reaching arms of his two friends and yanked them out of the rubble, back on their feet.

The movement was jarring—quick, sharp—and the youngest member of their ragtag crusade hissed as his right knee buckled beneath his weight. His older brother Alan immediately stepped forward to lend a shoulder for support. But despite the pain, Edgar grinned, and with the way he looked— his blond hair covered in soot and the blue bandana lopsided in front of his eyes— Alan could not help but smile back. It was over. The Battle for Santa Carla had been bloody, brutal, and downright savage but the boys had risen from the ruins just as any serious vampire hunter would have done.

Victorious.

And alive. They were all alive

Sam clapped their shoulders as the three teenagers basked in the afterglow of their victory. They had done it! The war between humans, halflings, and vampires was finally over, and it was damn-near dumb luck that they had all managed to make it out with breath in their lungs and blood in their veins.

"We did it!" Sam cried out as he pulled his companions in for a group hug. "Holy shit, guys! We actually did it!"

The Frog brothers grinned and puffed out their chests like proud peacocks. "'Course we did," Edgar boasted, despite his obvious injuries. "Like I told you, we're professionals."

"The meanest!" Alan added as Sam laughed.

"The baddest!"

Edgar snapped his fist forward and it was quickly topped with their palms as each boy held up a 'rock-on' sign at the end of their chant. Their bond was solidified; they were all professionals.

Experienced vampire hunters.

For truth, justice, and the American way.

But the glory was short-lived. Three heads snapped to the right as movement from across the room held their attention. Their collective heart rates revived. Oh shit, they all thought. Were there more of them? Had that blond bloodsucker actually managed to call in reinforcements before he bit it? What if...what if he was still...?

But a cough followed by a familiar grumble had their shoulders instantly relaxing. Grandpa Emerson cursed as he kicked open the door to his battered pickup truck and practically rolled out of the front seat. The brothers turned to Sam with raised eyebrows. Not even ten minutes ago, the old man had made his dramatic appearance — the subtle entrance of ramming his truck into the side of the house and practically parking it in the living room.

And now he was making his way over to the kitchen as if to get a beer for his troubles.

"Uh...Grandpa?" Sam called out, not knowing what else to say.

The senior in question ignored him as he shifted his way through the debris—the chaos that had once been his home for thirty years with an eerie amount of indifference. Lucy, after hearing her son's inquiry, rose from her fallen position on the ground and slowly began making her way back towards the kitchen to check on her father. Michael, Star, and Laddie followed closely behind, and, after a moment of hesitation, Edgar nudged Sam in the direction of his family, motioning for him to go with them.

When they were gone, Alan maneuvered his brother to a nearby chair and knelt down to take a look at his ankle. A quick inspection and the older brother sighed before sitting back on his heels. He clicked his tongue in thought. "I don't know, man. It could be sprained but honestly, I can't tell." He poked at it. "I mean, does it feel broken?"

If it were broken, Blondie, you'd be knee-deep in tears by now.

Edgar's head snapped up, his posture suddenly turning rigid. The hell?

"Luckily if it is broken," Alan continued on, unaware that his brother's diverted attention, "at least we still have your crutches from sixth grade. I think mom put them in the basement..."

Edgar's eyes rapidly scanned the perimeter. No other forms of life (or unlife) were within the decrepit household. The foyer was empty. What was left of the living room was deserted, save for them. The Emersons had still not returned from the kitchen and Alan was too preoccupied with cutting off his brother's circulation with a strip of burnt curtain to pay attention to anything else. So then who just...?

A sudden jab to his bone had the blonde snapping his eyes back down to the mop of brown hair in front of him.

"Watch it, would ya? That hurts."

"Sorry," Alan bit back, not looking up. He made to tie off two broken floorboards that sandwiched Edgar's leg. "My bedside manner must have died along with the bloodsuckers. Now would you hold still so I can..." A sharp yank and another tug later, Edgar's patience snapped.

One more word and I'll hang you upside down under the bridge by your shoelaces. Now quit bitchin'.

"Hey!" Alan cried out as his shoulder was suddenly jostled, and the double knot he'd been working on fell apart from the movement. The brunet growled as he grabbed the ends of the cloth to start over. "Dammit Edgar! What the fuck was tha—" But the rest of the words died in the back of his throat as Alan registered the expression on his brother's face. He knew that look and, like a switch, the teen reacted.

One second he was kneeling on the ground playing nurse, the next he was up and clutching a wooden stake in one hand and silver-edged cross in the other.

"Where?" he hissed as his eyes scanned the room with its dark corners. But Edgar shook his head.

"I...don't know."

"What?" Alan glanced back at the blonde. "What do you mean 'you don't know'? Where'd you see it?"

"I didn't see it. I thought I..." Edgar trailed off as he began searching the area for any signs of movement. While the Emersons were still held up in the back of the house, the two brothers had stationed themselves in what was left of the foyer, giving them the perfect opportunity to keep an eye on all of the open areas around them. They could even see into the antler-room — not that they wanted to. The bottled-blond bloodsucker was still in there, skewered like a goddamn shishkabob, and steaming as if just taken off the grill.

Alan slowly lowered the stake in his hand and turned to face his brother. The battle had taken its toll on everyone, and faced with the glaring evidence of fatigue and weariness, the oldest Frog could not bring himself to blame his younger sibling for seeing things. Alan clipped the stake back to his belt and knelt down on one knee. The fact that the ceiling had also collapsed on top of them probably didn't help either.

"Hey man. You alright?" Alan nudged the blonde's shoulder expecting the usual gruff response. Edgar opened his mouth to tell Alan off but winced as sharp claws suddenly carved new paths through his skull. Agony. Sudden, unforeseen agony. The pain was white-hot, and the blonde slammed a hand against his temple in an effort to relieve the pressure.

"What the fuck...!"

It doesn't get any better. But it certainly can't get any worse.

"Edgar!" Alan launched forward as the teen began to fall off the chair. "Edgar! What's wrong?!"

"Guys?" Sam called out from the kitchen. A moment later, the youngest Emerson appeared by their side, equally concerned and frantic. "Alan? What's going on?!"

"I don't know! One second he was sitting here and the next he just doubled over!" The boy shook his brother's shoulders, trying to get his attention. "Edgar! What the hell is going on?!"

Eyes glazed over, the blond was lost to the commotion around him. His head rolled back as a sharp, involuntary cry escaped his lips. Sooty fingers clawed at the skin beneath long bangs. The blue bandana was ripped away, discarded to the floor like a piece of trash despite its personal value. Hearing the cry, Michael, Star, and Lucy ran into the room followed by a hesitant Laddie and an undisturbed Grandpa Emerson.

"What happened?!" Star asked as she knelt down by the boys. "Where's he hurt?"

Alan shook his head. "I don't know! He won't tell me."

"Is he bit?" All heads turned to the old man as he stood back sipping on a bottle of root beer with an insulting amount of composure. Alan glared wanting nothing more than to throttle the old geezer within an inch from his life. How fucking dare he!

"Of course not!" The boy practically spat. "He's clean!"

Another cry from Edgar had the old man raising a grey eyebrow. He gestured forward with his drink. "You sure about that, son?"

Michael chose that moment to stand in front of his grandfather as the younger teen leaped from the ground. The oldest Frog ran into Michael's outstretched palms. He growled like a savage animal as the senior behind them barely flinched at the show of aggression. Michael clenched the front of Alan's shirt to prevent the teen from moving around him. "Alan, man! Calm down!"

"HE'S FUCKING CLEAN, YOU GODDAMN BASTARD!" Alan screamed over Michael's shoulder. Sam left the floor to grab the brunette's arm, but the boy shoved him away. "YOU HEAR ME?! HE AIN'T BIT!"

Still crouched, Star ran her fingers over the blonde's shirt collar, gently shifting it away to look at the skin underneath. When there was no evidence of a bite wound, the woman focused her attention on his half-splinted leg.

"Edgar? Can you hear me?" She probed. "Edgar, I need you to tell me where you're hurt."

Suck it up, kid. You won't make it very long in this lifetime if you keep fucking up.

The blonde moaned as the voice in his head rose to a piercing volume. "My head..." he sobbed. "It's..."

—agony. It'll never stops hurting...

"Stop...please!"

On a whim, Star pulled back his eyelids to look at his pupils. She gasped. "Guys! There's something wrong with his eyes!"

"Are they yellow?" Grandpa Emerson drawled after taking another sip of his drink. Lucy smacked his shoulder and ran over to help the others leaving him to grumble obscenities under his breath.

"What's wrong with him, Star?" Michael asked as he knelt down next to her.

She shook her head. "I don't know. There's no bite mark or scratches but his eyes are completely blown out."

Alan nudged her aside to grab his brother's arm. "What does that mean?!"

It means you're dying, Blondie. And now you have two choices.

Edgar gasped as another spike of pain shot through his brain. That voice. It sounded so...familiar. He screamed, clutching his ears in order to block it out. No! It couldn't be. The blond turned his gaze towards the antler room. The tip of black boots remained unmoving and visible from their position on the taxidermist table. It was...impossible! That bastard was

Alan's face suddenly filled his vision. "Dammit Edgar! Talk to me, bro!"

Talk to me, kid.

The blond blinked, trying to separate the many faces above him as they spoke at once.

Alan, his older brother, who grasped at his shoulders and shook him like a Raggedy Anne doll. Were those tears? Of course not. Badass vampire hunters didn't cry. They never displayed weakness.

Sam, his best friend, who clutched at his hand and looked up to Michael for guidance. Or was that doubt? The older Emerson knew much more about the turning process than the others.

Michael, the root cause that started it all, who shook his head while scanning the blonde's seizing form. These weren't the signs of a vampire transformation. This was something else. Something new.

Star, who stroked his hair with unwarranted kindness, despite the fact that the blonde had tried to kill her friend.

Laddie, who hid behind the woman just as equally scared and confused as the rest of them. Lucy, who sobbed into her hand, unsure of how to mother her way through this one. And Grandpa Emerson, who stood off to the side, indifferent as a stone wall.

They all began to distort and flicker in Edgar's eyes until their faces morphed into one, malicious apparition.

Blonde hair.

Where you going, Eddie? I thought you wanted answers.

Black clothes.

You look a bit pale. Was it something I said?

Yellow eyes.

What's the matter, kid? You look like you've seen a ghost.

Teeth bathed in red.

Or should I say…

Fangs covered in blood.

A vampire.

Edgar screamed as the barrier within his mind finally shattered, the scene around him ripped away. He was falling, falling into a void of spinning images and rapid dialogue. The abyss grasped at his mind with cold, undead fingers. They were coming back. Every memory he had lost years ago was coming back. And the worst part was…

Not all of them belonged to him.


...


.

I'd like to give a huge shoutout to the wonderful and amazing group of beta readers that took time out of their days and weeks to help me out with this story. From grammar checks to in-depth review, I am eternally grateful for all the help you have given me.

Thank you:

SetFiresJust2WatchThemBurn for all the grammar and sentence reviews you made.

IncognitoMe for the amazing in-depth review of my characters' actions and the overall story as a whole.

silverhexes for your grammar and dialogue tag suggestions! (Also for telling me that there was a difference between "blonde/blond" and "brunette/brunet"!)

YupThatsMeToo for your alternate word choices and sentence rearrangements, as well as your wonderful commentary.

.

Updates may be sporadic, but please let me know what you think!

- P.R.