(August 13th, 1986)

Something is different.

Will cannot explain how he knows it, but he can feel it in his bones. Ever since waking, he hasn't been able to shake the sensation. The feeling that one of the first steps has been made by the other side. By Vecna. Henry. One. Whoever.

It isn't the same as before. The cold sense of dread is not present. There is no chill in his veins. No goosebumps racing down the back of his neck. But still, he cannot stop thinking that they should try to rule out what that change might be. That they should attempt to identify its source, before it gains an advantage of its own.

He should tell someone. He knows it. He wants to.

But if he can't even pinpoint what the change is himself, how can he expect to explain it to anyone else?

The steady beep of one of the machines tracking Max's vitals in the hospital room is the only thing keeping Will even somewhat rooted in the present, and it isn't until someone sinks into the chair opposite where he sits that he realizes he has been staring at the threads on the blanket for half an hour at least.

"Hey."

"Hey," Will replies, watching as Sadie lifts a hand to cover a yawn, and discovering that even if she had not made such a gesture, he would be able to read her exhaustion in every last facet of her features. Her skin is pale, her expression almost drawn. Worn down. Spent.

He would be a liar to pretend he doesn't know exactly why she is feeling this way, but still, that knowledge does nothing to erase his concern.

"Not sleeping?"

"It's barely six in the morning and you're here too," Sadie replies, favoring Will with a half-smile that comes nowhere close to reaching her eyes, "I think I could say the same of you."

"Fair point."

"How are—how are you feeling?"

Will hesitates rather than providing an immediate answer, because he knows Sadie already carries enough without his inexplicable suspicions added on. But he also doesn't want to be deliberately deceptive. And whether he wants her to or not, Sadie seems to pick up on his inner turmoil, her attention shifting from Max's motionless frame to him in light of his obvious lack of response.

"Will, what is it?"

"I can't—I don't really know how to explain," He admits, risking a glance at the partially opened doorway of Max's hospital room to ensure there is no one else around to overhear, "It's like—something's changed. With—him. I just can't really tell what that something is."

"Have you—felt him again?" Sadie asks, thinking back to when she first met Will and his family, and how he had seemed to have some manner of insight into the Upside Down without necessarily being pulled into someone else's thoughts, as she had been, thanks to Vecna all those times before. She would be a liar if she said she didn't pity him for it. He had only been twelve years old when his eyes were first opened to that other world. Twelve.

She is seventeen, going on eighteen, and everything she's learned and seen still seems like it is almost too much to bear. And Sadie cannot imagine what it must have been like for someone far younger. Someone that, in spite of everything that has happened, is still remarkably sweet.

Someone who is still capable of moving forward. Pushing ahead, in spite of their youth, while she can't seem to get herself together enough to do anything but remain in stasis, day after day.

"No. No, it's not that. Or at least—it isn't like it was when I first got back to Hawkins. It just feels like—like he's found something. Or—or someone to help him."

"Someone? Someone in Hawkins?"

"They'd have to be in Hawkins," Will confirms, aware of the almost immediate confusion that makes its way into Sadie's expression, and hoping his attempt at providing an explanation will be enough to remove it entirely, "I don't think I can sense things like this from very far away."

"You never picked up on anything in—"

"In California? No."

Sadie frowns and looks to where her hand rests atop Max's own, a knot of worry building at the back of her throat as she ponders Will's ideas, and thinks over how frail the redhead seems to have become over the last months at the same time. Of course, she understands that there would have been some show of decline with Max being in a coma, unable to move. But even with everything the hospital is doing for her, Max seems to be wasting away. Or at least that is how Sadie sees it, the skin of the younger girl's hand stretched so tightly over the bone that it is almost haunting.

A furrow forms between her brows, because it seems as though something is actually making a tangible effort at destroying Max from the inside out. It is a suspicion she cannot fully explain, but she also cannot sway herself from believing it to be true. And although she knows she is not exactly as capable as Eleven seems to be when it comes to venturing into other people's minds, she is starting to wonder if Max might end up being some sort of proof as to what Will is suggesting.

"Sadie?"

"You said that Eleven could—sense if someone was under his influence?" The blonde murmurs, clearly only half-aware of Will's uncertainty in the wake of her distraction and unexpected change in conversation, though he seems to adapt relatively easily, regardless.

"Yeah, I—I did."

"What if—what if he's decided to take Max?"

The question escapes before Sadie can think twice, and she cannot stop herself from wincing as the implications sink in, somehow becoming more dire now that they have been voiced aloud. And she can tell that Will does not even want to consider it. That, having been under Vecna's control before, he is hardly willing to accept that fate for someone he considers a friend.

She doesn't want to consider it, herself, but now that the thought has entered her mind, she cannot seem to make it leave. And as her eyes meet Will's, Sadie starts to wonder if the thought had already been present in his mind before she ever said a word.

"Can you—could you see? Like—like El does?" He inquires, leaning forward a bit, the cautious optimism apparent behind the words causing Sadie to bite her lip, because she doesn't want to get his hopes up if this is something she will only end up unable to do.

"I don't—I'm not sure, but—"

"But?"

"But I think I have to try."

"Is it safe? I mean, if—if he is doing something to Max and you find him, won't—couldn't he come after you?"

"Honestly? It's probably not safe," Sadie admits, somewhat startled at the utter lack of concern she feels over the reality of the confession, though that is not entirely sufficient enough to prevent her from going on, "But nothing is really safe anymore, right?"

"I guess you're right. Should we—I don't know, maybe—get Vincent here first?"

Sadie doesn't understand the almost immediate flash of panic that flares to life in response to the idea. She can't explain why her heart is in her throat, and her lungs are starting to feel as though they are collapsing in on themselves, obstructing her ability to breathe. She doesn't know why the thought of her uncle being here fills her with a startling sense of apprehension. Of revulsion, which doesn't make any sense, because it is certainly not a feeling that comes from her, at all.

One look at Will, though, tells her in no uncertain terms that he is suddenly changing his mind, though, his mouth curling in a rather uncharacteristic smirk before he replies.

"Let's not."

"My opinion, exactly."

A part of her cannot explain the sudden shift. The realization that in spite of her own better judgment, not including Vincent—someone with considerable advantages in skill related to what she is preparing to do—seems to be something even Will wants, now, his previous suggestion notwithstanding.

It is as though something else is urging this decision. Something outside of her own consciousness. Outside of Will's.

It is something Sadie cannot even begin to understand, but still, she turns back to face Max, following the very same path she had used months ago in her failed attempt to protect the younger girl from Vecna, and remaining unaware of Will's intent observation all the while.

She is so intent upon following that path that she does not immediately realize when something else takes control. Something inside of her. Without her conscious awareness, a faint smile curves her lips, almost mirroring the expression Will wears, sitting nearby.

Both of them are unaware of the faint webbing of blackness in the veins of their wrist, and the matching color working its way through Max's hand as Sadie holds it in a tight grip…

Just as both of them are unaware of the flickering of the fluorescent lights above them, pulsing as though in time with the beat of a frail, sickly heart.

…

When Vincent Creel woke that morning, the very last place he thought he would end up was inside Jim Hopper's former office at the police station. In the times he was not with Sadie, or the others, he had been devoting himself to trying to find a way to rid his niece of the connection alluded to by Henry in the first attempt to destroy him, months ago. To rid her of whatever it is that will mean her own death, if Henry is finally taken down. At every turn, he seems to come up empty, and he knows he is running out of time.

Eventually, he will have no choice but to tell Sadie the truth. To tell the others the truth, and admit to his failures head-on.

He's never been particularly concerned with the opinions of others, before, and to say anything other than that pretending he is aloof is a simple task would be a lie. But this time, things are different. They are not so easy to decipher.

Even when Sadie showed up on his doorstep, he hadn't entirely planned to become so invested in her safety. Her future. Niece or not, he had no intention of forming any more attachments when the ones he already lost were a constant memory in the back of his mind. But Sadie had been so unassuming. So very terrified.

In seconds, she had reminded Vincent of his own struggles at the beginning of it all. She had somehow made him actually want to help. And when it had been so long since he could recall actually wanting something—caring about something—it was almost impossible to resist giving in.

He knows he's failed her, now. He's failed her friends. Kids who, with an exception here and there, have taken him in without question. Trusted him over time, and even came to him for advice.

Vincent Creel definitely didn't anticipate falling into their little hodge-podge family, but now that he was there—now that he knows he could lose it all through his secrecy alone?

Now he wants to do anything within his power to make things right, even if it comes at the cost of his own pride.

Telling Jim Hopper honestly had not been Vincent's first choice, but it seems to be the only option he has. And now, he sits in the chair opposite the other man, watching as Hopper takes everything in, allows the information to settle into place in his mind, and then asks the one question Vincent could honestly have seen coming from a mile away.

"This link you're talking about—is it like being flayed?"

"Not at all. It gives him no control over her."

"But if he dies, she dies," Hopper concludes, aware of Vincent's almost immediate nod, even though he wishes he could ignore it altogether, "She's his leverage. And you've known since—"

"Since he almost took Max."

"There's no way to unlink them?"

"Not for lack of trying to find one."

"That why you came to me? For advice?"

"For permission," Vincent clarifies, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees, a glance behind him proving that the door to the office remains closed, prohibiting most from overhearing what he is about to say, though that is not enough to make him entirely at ease, "I need to speak to Jane."

Hopper tenses, at that, his own eyes drifting to the door as footsteps pass just outside. But they do not slow down. Eventually, the sound recedes. And he is able to look back at the man sitting across from him, one hand running down his face to conceal an honestly exhausted sigh before he replies.

"And why is that, exactly?"

"Because, aside from me, she is the one most likely to have significant insight into the way Henry thinks."

Hopper wants to deny that claim. He wants to with all that he has, but he knows it is true. And even though he took great care to ensure no one knew of Eleven's location, given the growing military presence in Hawkins, he also knows if there truly is a link between the Carver girl and Henry Creel, she may be the only one that can sever it, if Vincent has not managed to do so himself.

"Guessing you want to do that sooner, rather than later?"

"That would be preferable, yes."

"I'll talk to her. But she says no, you find your answers somewhere else. Got that?" Jim states, waiting for Vincent to object, and finding that he is more than a little surprised when he receives nothing but an understanding nod, instead. Before recent events, he knew little of Vincent Creel, save for his being a relatively isolated middle-aged man living on the outskirts of Hawkins. A man who preferred to be left alone.

But now, he's become an integral part of their little team, such as it is, and Jim would be a liar to pretend it isn't something of a relief to have another adult aside from Murray along for the ride, when the majority of their group consists of kids.

"Gotta be honest, you don't strike me as the sort to want to take help from teenagers—"

"I'm not," Vincent confesses, unable to fully stifle a laugh, because if he could have seen himself doing this years ago, he probably would have sooner gone insane, "But I'm—"

"You're not doing it for yourself. You're doing it for her."

"I am."

"Believe it or not, I've been there," Hopper informs, leaning back in his chair, and watching as the tension that seemed to reverberate through Vincent's frame ebbs away bit by bit in response, "Just uh—do yourself a favor and don't keep the secret from her for too long, 'kay? Even if you don't find a solution."

"You speak as if you have personal experience in that area."

"With a girl who has powers that shouldn't exist? Yeah, guess I do. And the last thing you want to do is shield them so much that they decide to strike out on their own to learn the truth for themselves."

Vincent catches himself nodding again, because he can already imagine Sadie's reaction to finding out he knew about the connection between her and Henry for as long as he has already. Of course he knows he is only trying to protect her. To keep her from doing anything foolish. Hopper seems to know it too, despite it not having been said in so many words.

He wants to give the man some inkling of his appreciation for his own experience, but before he can, the door to the office slams open, effectively diverting their attention in next to no time at all.

"Sorry to interrupt, Hop. Just got a call. Something's goin' down at Pennhurst Asylum. Thought you might wanna know."

"Powell. Hang on a minute," Jim calls out, stopping the other man from turning on a heel to head back towards the sounds of chaos already echoing down the hall, "You get any kind of an idea what exactly's goin' on there?"

"Orderly who called didn't say much. Sounded like she couldn't really talk too loud and then the line just—went dead."

Hopper nods before Powell turns to head back down the hall once again, and he and Vincent share a look not long after. Both of them are already arriving at the same conclusion. Deciding this has something to do with Henry's next steps at working his way into their world.

Vincent is on his feet in seconds, while Hopper secures a gun belt around his waist, whatever camaraderie that had existed between them moments ago evaporating in light of what they face now.

"Guess there's no way for me to try and stop you from coming along—"

"Not a chance."

"That's what I thought. Just—stay out of the way if the military gets there before we do. Think you can manage that?"

There isn't an audible reply to that request, not that Hopper fully expected one. And together, the two of them head out into the hall, both hoping that when they arrive at Pennhurst, it will not be too late.

…

A figure stands in the center of a circle of bodies, the taste of blood on his tongue hardly enough to tame the burning at the back of his throat. Lights flicker overhead, but he hardly pays them any mind, his attention still fixed on the task at hand. A voice still echoes in his mind, as though it is a part of him, now. As though it is something he will never escape.

"Bring him to me. Do not fail."

The dead already littered around him are nothing. Mere obstacles that got in the way of what he wanted. What he needed, even if he cannot understand why.

He stalks off towards the far end of the block of cells, paying little to no attention to the obstacles along the way. And he can feel it. The rapid pounding of a heart in a cell at the end of that block. The instinctive fear of a man who knows his own end is coming.

The figure almost hopes the old man will fight. Adrenaline is the only sure-fire way to ensure he does not spend any amount of time alone with his own thoughts. But he also knows he cannot kill the one he seeks. That if Victor Creel dies, he will pay dearly.

If that happens, whatever freedoms he has now will be gone, and he knows that is something he will not allow, so long as he has a means of stopping it altogether, his mouth curling into a snarl as he rounds the corner to see the man he seeks firsthand, and finds that the scent of the old man's fear is nearly overpowering.

Victor Creel is shrinking in on himself, his back pressed against the wall at the far end of the cell. He clutches at the edges of a tattered sweater as though he thinks that will save him, and his breath comes in sharp pants.

The sound of his heartbeat seems to reverberate around the room, only accelerating as the figure's boots crunch over littered debris on the floor. But what arrests that motion is not the staccato beat of a terrified heart. It isn't the almost strangling scent of fear.

Rather, it is the hint of defiance in the old man's voice as he straightens a bit, a tremulous breath escaping before he finally manages to speak.

"He sent you. I knew one day, he would."

The figure tilts his head to the side, curious, because the voice that never leaves him always seemed so sure that the old man never once suspected the truth. That he never knew the thing that killed his family was no demon. That it hadn't been a creature of hell that left him alive to take the blame for something he never could have done.

Of course, as soon as the old man speaks again, it becomes abundantly clear that Victor Creel is still every bit as blind to reality as he was, before, and the figure takes some small modicum of pleasure from the renewed spike in heart rate as he steps just a little bit closer once again.

"The demon—I knew he would always return for me. And here you are."

"I told you he was an ignorant fool. His denial of reality has rendered him useless for anything but this."

The words are familiar. In truth, he has heard them many times before, and yet the figure still hesitates. A part of him—a part he honestly had believed to be dead—is reluctant to move forward. To be a willing part of the torture of a man, old or not. But he knows what will happen if he resists. If he fails.

Pushing aside any hint of uncertainty, the figure settles instead for a thin smile, knowing full well that the look will go unseen by the man standing in front of him. The ever-present hunger that plagues him resurfaces, the burn at the back of his throat taking on an almost tangible urgency that demands relief.

He is just to the point of convincing himself that a singular taste will do no harm—that he has developed enough control now to avoid killing unless explicitly ordered to—when the sound of a slamming car door and two racing heartbeats approaching pulls him back to the present, a low growl rumbling through his chest as he whirls to plant himself in front of Victor in next to no time at all.

He is no longer alone, but he is already prepared to fight. To do whatever he needs to avoid earning more pain. More punishment that seems to last for days.

For a moment, his nose wrinkles at the newfound scent of an expensive cologne as the footsteps draw nearer, but that distraction is rather short-lived, his body going rigid as another smell takes over, and the long-dead part of him attempts to gain the upper hand once again.

It seems to respond to the smell. To know it. And as the figure cannot decide on what that might mean, he opts for trying to ignore the scent entirely, in favor of focusing on the task at hand.

Ensuring that these new arrivals suffer the same fate as those who interfered, before, and ignoring the almost alluring scent of coconut shampoo.

…

Of all the things Steve Harrington had in mind for how this day would go, answering the door to a very frantic Sadie demanding he drive her to Pennhurst Asylum had never once made it on the list.

A soft rain was falling as she stood on his porch, already drenched and trembling with a sort of panic he had only seen from her one other time before. And when he had offered her a chance to come inside to dry off, she had almost immediately refused…

During the mostly silent drive to Pennhurst, he hadn't been able to stop thinking of when she had convinced him to drive her to Eddie Munson's trailer. Of when they found Chrissy Cunningham's body, twisted and broken almost beyond recognition.

Now, moving away from his car and towards the very obviously darkened entrance of Pennhurst Asylum, Steve can't help but wonder what they will find here.

And instinct tells him it is not likely to be anything good.

"You uh—still don't want to consider the idea of getting some back-up?"

"You're my back-up, Steve," Sadie murmurs, the slight hitch in her voice betraying her nerves over the utter desolation of the grounds, and the door hanging half-off its hinges, clear evidence of someone entering the building by force, "We'll be—fine."

"Right. You've got an uncle with the same abilities as you, but sure. Take a guy that is only good for swinging a spiked bat around as your back-up. Sounds good to me."

"I told you that you didn't have to come inside—"

"Oh, sure. Yeah, I was totally gonna just let you walk into a potential shit-show—one you still haven't explained how you know about, by the way—on your own."

Steve isn't blind to Sadie's soft sigh, but she says nothing further, and he uses that silence as time to attempt preparing himself for whatever it is they are about to face. He would be lying if he tried to pretend he hadn't wanted to find at least one other person to bring along. Hopper. Vincent. Nancy and her guns. Anyone. But Sadie had been insistent that they did not have the time.

The old Steve would have been flattered by her decision to go to him with this. With her apparent confidence that they can handle this on their own. But the new Steve?

The new Steve is hoping they haven't just made a mistake that will cost them their lives.

Still, he meant what he said. He is not about to allow Sadie to walk into this—whatever this is—on her own. And so he tightens his grip on the bat, and risks a glance towards her as they near the threshold, the flicker of apprehension in her eyes as she looks at him directly lasting for only a second before determination takes its place.

"Steve—"

"Don't even say it. I'm coming with you."

Sadie's lips thin into a line, but she manages a singular nod, and Steve catches himself feeling more than a little surprised when she accepts his move forward to step into the hall beyond the door in front of her, despite the small huff that escapes her as a result.

Together, they maneuver in the semi-darkness, both poignantly aware of the flickering lights hanging from the ceiling above. Aware of what it might mean. But neither of them are prepared for the sight that greets them as they round a nearby corner, Steve's entire body going rigid, and causing Sadie to collide with his back.

"Holy shit—"

"Oh my—oh my God," Sadie breathes, stepping around Steve's taller frame, and peering down the hall, only to be met with at least half a dozen bodies strewn along the way. They aren't broken, as she expected them to be, but the closer she gets, the more her stomach seems to twist in on itself, dark stains at their throats—on their clothes—moving from unrecognizable, to something she wishes she could not identify in seconds, flat.

Blood.

"We need to find Victor."

"Wait—Sadie, wait!" Steve exclaims, jogging to catch up with the blonde, and ignoring the almost frustrated look she gives him as he snags her elbow to prevent her from moving on, "Do you really think we should go charging in there when we don't know—"

"When we don't know what, Steve?"

"When we don't know what did this!"

"Look, I know you can't understand why we're here. I—I really can't either, but whatever did this is—is after Victor. And I can't—Steve, I can't just—"

The words trail off, because Sadie can't bring herself to continue looking Steve in the eye, knowing that she is only giving him half of the information he seems to need so badly. In truth, she is distinctly aware of how she hardly has the full picture, herself, but still a part of her cannot help but feel guilty over how this must look to someone who has done nothing but be there for her since all of this madness began.

"You can't just leave him in here alone, without at least trying to help."

"I can't."

"Okay, then. Let's go," Steve decides, giving the bat in his hands an experimental twirl, and heading off down the hall without another word, the taut line of his shoulders belying the lingering tension he is trying to keep at bay. For a moment, Sadie lingers in place, startled at how readily he seems to accept her decisions even if he doesn't necessarily approve.

Once again, guilt threatens to overwhelm her, but Sadie quickly pushes that to the side, hurrying to catch up with Steve as he weaves his way carefully around the bodies, and they draw nearer to where she remembers Nancy telling them she and Robin had found Victor Creel months before.

The closer they get, the more dread seems to coil around her heart, a chill seeming to race through her veins with every beat of her heart. Something is wrong. Off. As though whatever presence tore through the building prior to their arrival is nothing even remotely close to human.

Sadie barely has a chance to react when a low growl reverberates through the air, and something is bowling out of the cell in a blur, knocking Steve backwards and driving her to the ground beneath him in seconds, flat.

Instinct takes over, and Sadie is scrambling to her feet, a low groan of protest the only noise Steve seems to make as he rolls away from her to attempt to stand, himself. And in the dim, flickering light of the hall, she can just make out a figure, dropping something to the floor from its former position draped over its shoulder. Something that looks suspiciously like a body.

Another flicker of the fluorescent bulb above her head confirms her suspicions, and the man that has been so unceremoniously dumped to the ground seems to cower away, searching desperately for a means of escape. But the other figure is quick to react, reaching down to secure a hand around the man's throat—Victor Creel's throat—and pinning him to the nearby wall in far less time than should be possible.

"Stop!"

The word escapes before Sadie can rethink it, and she is moving forward a step or two in tandem, ignoring the low hiss Steve gives in protest while a familiar redness begins to glow at the surface of her palms. It grants her a fraction of improvement in visibility, but even so, she cannot see clearly.

The only thing she can tell is that figure is tall. Distinctly male. Clad in dark clothing. Dark-haired, with pale skin. And Sadie braces herself as she realizes that, while he continues holding Victor Creel against the wall, clearly heedless of the wizened old hands scrabbling at his wrist for release, he is turning, ever so slowly, to look her way.

Her breath catches in her throat because in the millisecond before the light overhead goes out entirely, Sadie feels as though she recognizes something in the figure's facial features. Something she does not dare to believe.

But then, in the darkness, all she can see is the feral glow of a pair of red eyes. She hears a faint scuffle and a thud, before those eyes move closer. And even with Steve's hushed insistence that they leave, Sadie stands her ground, forcing herself to take what she hopes will be a steadying breath before acting on the offensive. Before a nearly blinding red ball of light aims directly at where she hopes center mass will be on the figure continuing to approach.

Despite her best efforts, it strikes just to the left of center, illuminating a sharp jawline. A scar that rests dead-center, there. And the figure does pause, glancing down at the smoldering black fabric covering his shoulder, but Sadie is given little to no time to feel any sense of victory at all, a startled yelp escaping as a burning pain consumes her own shoulder, and she stumbles to her knees in response.

"Sadie? Jesus, what the hell—"

Instinct drives her movements once again, and Sadie slams a barrier between herself, and Steve to keep him back, the fingers of her free hand practically clawing into the wall to haul herself upright. Her shoulder still burns, but she forces the sensation to the side as best she can, the light that had once illuminated her target fading until nothing but blackness remains before her.

Blackness, broken only by the same hauntingly red eyes that seem to reflect even more strongly given the dim red hue of the barrier at her back.

Steve's shouts of protest echo at the back of her mind, but they are soon drowned out by the resurgence of the low growl that sounded before she had been bowled backward into the hall, and Sadie braces herself for impact. Her palms tingle with the red light again, but she hesitates, not sure if striking out will only end up causing her more pain. If it will render her useless to ward off further attacks, leaving Steve vulnerable in her stead.

The air drives from her lungs as she finds herself suddenly pinned against the wall just as Victor had been mere moments ago, and she can't see anything. Everything is just—black.

Her lungs are burning, and she feels something sharp scrape against her neck, just above where the figure's hand holds her motionless in a surprisingly strong grip. And even as her fingers tighten around his wrist, in spite of how she suspects any attempt at defense will, in fact, cause her pain as well, she knows that she cannot just stay there, without putting up a fight.

Survival instinct is all she has left, and Sadie holds on as tightly as she can as red light sears from her palm into her attacker's skin. As she feels it burning against her own at the same time. She hears a low hiss, but the pressure on her throat does not let up, and panic starts to set in as she starts to wonder if this is the end. Soon, her efforts to harm the figure fade away, her eyes watering as her feet kick out at anything her toes can reach.

It occurs to her that the figure—whoever or whatever he is—seems to almost enjoy this, the same sharp something hovering over her pulse point, and digging in just a bit, causing a white-hot pain to ignite the flare of panic in Sadie's chest as she tries and fails to dredge up a scream. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, and her grip starts to loosen on her assailant's wrist, her ears ringing as she realizes she feels the familiar pull of unconsciousness not far away.

Alarm causes her heart to slam erratically against her ribs, even as everything seems to go fuzzy, her struggles ceasing such that her attacker can pin her to the wall with just his body alone. A flicker of red at the outer edges of her field of vision tell her that the barrier protecting Steve is about to fail. And she hears something not all that far from a satisfied groan coming from the figure holding her in place, a thumb brushing against her jawline as she realizes she is literally being drained alive.

Or at least she is until heavy footsteps register in her mind even with her scrambled senses, the sound of something not all that far from a gunshot and a muffled yell causing the body pinning her to the wall to release her in seconds, her own frame hardly prepared for the jolting impact of its collision with the firm cement floor as a result.

Air comes back into her lungs in heaving gasps, and Sadie lifts a hand to her neck, despite the blurriness still outlining the edges of her vision, the fluorescent light finally coming back to working order above them and allowing her the first real look at the damage recent events have caused.

The skin of her wrist is an angry, still-stinging red, a direct consequence of her attempts at using her abilities to fend for herself. But that isn't what surprises her the most.

Her hand is starting to tremble as she recognizes Steve coming to crouch down by her side, his fingers grazing gently against the throbbing skin of her wrist while her own attention zeroes in on the redness coating her fingertips from where she had touched her neck.

"Steve—"

"Hey—hey, you're—you're okay. Just—just stay with me, okay?" He pleads, barely aware of how Vincent is already disappearing after whatever it was that had attacked Sadie, while Hopper remains nearby, rattling off orders into the small radio tethered to his waist. He can feel Sadie trembling against him, as her head lolls against his chest. But before Steve can make any further attempt at jarring the girl back to the present, Sadie is forcing her eyes open, her voice faint—almost strained—as she forces herself to speak.

"Victor—where—"

"He's still here, kid. Whatever that thing was, it left him behind," Hopper cuts in, the apparently wordless communication that passes between him and Steve before they both move to lift Sadie to her feet between them causing her brow to furrow in spite of the lingering fuzziness that threatens to pull her under, "You got her?"

"Yeah. Yeah, go help Victor."

"Where—where are we going?" Sadie asks, her voice sounding foreign even to her own ears as she realizes Steve is already half-dragging her back out to the main lobby and beyond to the parking lot and his awaiting car. It feels as though she has been bulldozed by a truck, thrown into the middle of a cyclone, and spat back out in the deepest part of the ocean all at once, and for a minute she doubts Steve even heard her question at all.

She's already prepared to repeat it, but finds the effort largely unnecessary, Steve's arm tightening around her waist as they make it through the door and a cold blast of air strikes her squarely in the face.

"We are going to the hospital to get you looked at. And then when we're done with that, you and I are gonna have a little talk about how you aren't going to do anything like what you just did back there again. Got it?"

Sadie can do nothing more than nod as she allows Steve to shuffle her gently into the car without much in the way of protest. And she knows she should be trying to coerce her mind into some degree of functionality again. That she should be trying to think of why she seemed to suffer along with whatever it was that had attacked her and tried to take Victor Creel.

She knows all of these things, but the only thing on her foggy mind at present is the lingering flicker of recognition she felt when the lighting in the hallway momentarily threw that figure's features into sharp relief. And for the first time, she almost doesn't want what she thinks she saw to be true, because if it is, she is not sure she will survive.

The low hum of the car's engine gives Sadie something to cling to as she struggles to push down her foolish thoughts, her hand once again lifting to her neck to allow her fingertips to graze against the two twin wounds her attacker left behind.

As she tries to convince herself that demogorgons and demobats aside, what she has just seen cannot possibly be real, even in spite of the word that echoes on a loop in her mind.

Vampire.

…

You guyssssssss! Aah! I'm so, so very sorry for the little delay between the previous chapter, and this one, because it honestly was not my intent to leave you hanging for so long! I got caught up in finishing the first segment of my Steve/OC story, and posting the sequel, but after I got those rabid muses off of my tail, I was able to slip back to Sadie and Eddie as a result. Because I'm going off on my own here, with no canon events to follow, per se, it may take me a bit longer to get updates out. But I promise I am not going to stop working to come up with ideas! And I sincerely hope you all approve of everything my crazy muses have concocted thus far.

To clarify, in case there is any confusion on what is going on with Sadie, when she is fully 'herself', she is not quite aware yet that something isn't right, and she isn't always acting of her own free will. There's a lot of amnesia-like events that will be going on for her, and because of her own powers, I started wondering if perhaps that would alter the time it took for any signs of trouble to start becoming glaringly obvious, as compared to what happened with Will in season two. And the link Vincent is talking about is an entirely separate issue than the one we are starting to see come to life, here. So hopefully as things progress that will make sense? Our girl is going to be up against quite a bit in the near future, but as I always say, there really is a method to my madness, if you're patient enough to hang around and find out ;).

As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to everyone who has taken the time to give this story a shot thus far! And special thanks to last chapter's reviewers: RoseThorne, mistyagami, and Shuhua08, for leaving such encouraging feedback the last time around! I appreciate your support so very much more than I can ever put into words, and it is my sincerest hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as you appear to have enjoyed the last!

Until next time, angels…

MOMM