Lucy tried to be strong. She tried to push aside the worst, and make room to always have a smile for her boys when it seemed like there was no end to all the awful things life threw at her. The day she and John had told the boys about the divorce, Lucy had treated Michael and Sam to ice cream. You were never too old for a treat. The day her father had died, shortly before the move she'd been planning anyway, Lucy had promised the boys they would see a movie when everything settled.
What could she do, though, now, when Michael was slipping away? It was only a couple of days, but he'd never disappeared like this before. Even after she'd read his note, and Sam told her he was coming home, Lucy couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong. The later it got, the worse she felt. Her third cup of coffee wasn't helping to soothe her nerves as she waited on the porch, either, wrapped tightly in her knit blanket as summer heat gave way to chilly night.
"Mom," Sam called out from the screen door, and Lucy turned to squint at him with her false smile.
"Yes?"
"There's a phone call for you." He paused, "it's that freaky old lady."
She worried at her bottom lip, tugging at the knit blanket to dislodge herself from a self-made cocoon of yarn, "what did you tell her?"
"I said you were outside."
Lucy bit back a sigh. Then there was nothing for it. She couldn't tell him to pretend she was at work. Not that it was in her nature to lie, but from the little contact she'd had with Mrs. Johnson, Lucy knew even a phone call would be draining.
"Okay. I'll be there in a minute." She saw no signs of Michael, still. They'd have to have a very serious talk tonight, and Lucy didn't look forward to calling out of work tomorrow if he still didn't show.
By the time she'd prepared herself, and taken the phone from Sam, he looked absolutely miserable. It was no wonder, too, as Hattie was so loud even through the phone that Lucy had to hold the receiver a good three inches from her ear just to understand her.
"Hello, Mrs. Johnson."
"Honey, I know I told you to call me Hattie, so don't you be afraid of saying it."
"Hello, Hattie."
"Listen, sweetheart, I just wanted to call and check up on you three. I got a bad feeling this morning, and when I dropped my chicken bones, I just knew-"
"I'm sorry, what?" Lucy straightened up, shifting the receiver to her shoulder, "chicken bones?"
"Yes, just a hobby of mine. Gotta do something with all those extra parts, you understand?"
No. She didn't.
"Hattie, I'm a little busy," Lucy lied.
"All I wanted to say was you keep an eye on everything at home, you hear? Don't be shy now, either. I got a little taxidermy shop I'd just love for you to visit. Maybe I can teach you how to drop the bones, too. I got a few extra bags-"
"Hattie," Lucy repeated the old woman's name, clearing her throat, "now isn't the best time."
"Oh, I know. Still waiting for Michael to come home, aren't you? It's gonna be awhile, so I think maybe you'd best get a little sleep, honey."
Lucy gave her youngest a look, putting her hand over the speaker to muffle her voice, "Sam, did you tell her about Michael?"
"No," he replied, and she knew he wasn't lying. Maybe Hattie was spying on them. Dear god, that was all she needed. Her dead father's girlfriend snooping on her children.
"Good night, Hattie," Lucy stated firmly.
"Good night!" The old woman squawked back, hanging up before Lucy could even react.
David's amused smile he wore in sleep that day, bolstered by his little game with Michael, disappeared shortly before the sun. Something was wrong. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, because the temporary link he'd forged with the human was fading, but they didn't linger in the cave tonight. No words were exchanged. They could all feel it, just like David.
Grasping at their link, and letting the scent of Michael's blood he had come to know so well guide him, David combed through the crowds on the boardwalk. The rides. The concert. None of the boys were in a playful mood tonight, all focused on their leader's singular goal. It wasn't just the mental link that was fading now, David realized, once he'd managed to finally catch Michael's scent on the ocean air. Blood. Too much blood. Michael was dying.
It didn't take a genius to know who was probably responsible, either. Revenge would have to wait until another night, though, because they were running out of time.
Far from the glittering lights of the boardwalk, but close enough to still hear the screams of ecstasy as the concert wound up, they found him. A crumpled shape under the pier, leaning against his fallen bike, just beyond the reach of the incoming tide. Curling veins of pink and red threaded around him in the sand. Broken. One arm twisted at an odd angle.
Not a sight any of them was unfamiliar with, but even Dwayne was shaken by the burning rage roaring through David's mind. There was little finesse to it, as David tore viciously into his own wrist and dropped down beside Michael, gripping his hair to jerk his head to the side. The dying teen's breath rattled, shortened, and was cut off altogether once the bleeding wound was forced against his lips.
This wasn't how David wanted to do this. There was no skill involved. No clever trick. No Faustian jump into the abyss. It was just cold, brutal reality, and he had nothing to say. Not even when Michael's eyes opened, stared up at him, confused, and agonised. The balm of life seeped into the human's bones as he struggled to swallow it. Coughing, choking, and at last drinking.
Marko, Dwayne, and Paul faded into the background. Silently watching, feeling every raw thought burning through Michael's mind, just as David was. The same fears they'd heard thousands of times before, regrets, worries, crumbling under the raw force of a newborn hunger.
It had been so long since David shared this much of his blood, he had forgotten how good it could feel. Better than just feeding. Almost better than fucking. Made him wonder if Max got off on keeping them plied with his own blood all the time, and why he even forced it on the brat.
Once the flesh on his torn wrist had puckered, healed, David was reluctant to pull it away. Not just for the pleasure of it, but because he wasn't sure if he'd given enough. Neither he, nor the boys, or anyone Max had ever turned was this close to death before. What would happen, he wondered? Would Michael live, or simply have one great high before giving up the ghost?
He stroked his gloved fingers through blood-crusted curls.
This attempt to kill Michael was a message for them all. Mice trying to strike the cat. Oh how David would love to catch them each tonight, one-by-one, cut off their tails and strip away their shit-eating grins. There were so many clever little tricks David knew to keep a man alive for days if he wanted.
"Hey," David whispered against Michael's ear, pressing himself close as he eased the newly-made halfling's twisted arm back into a more natural position, "how about we take you home, huh?"
If it was possible to be strung through an old laundry wringer and come out the other side alive, Michael had a pretty good idea what it felt like. Everything hurt. His whole body, top to bottom. Hell, even his teeth. Clawing his way into consciousness made it all worse, but at least he was alive. Somehow.
Maybe everything had just been a bad dream, and he'd be in his own bed when he woke up. The unfamiliar touch of a coarse blanket brushing against his fingers as he sat up betrayed itself, though. That, and the sound of fire popping and hissing, while gentle whispers echoed around him. He reluctantly cracked his eyes open, taking in the world around him.
The whispering stopped almost immediately.
Then his memories of the night hit him hard, and if he wasn't in so much pain, Michael would have leapt out of bed and never turned back. Moth-eaten curtains protected the bed, but there was no mistaking the silhouettes of rusted furniture in the lobby, or the orange haze of light hovering around the oil barrels.
"Awake?"
David. Ice water pouring over Michael's spine, because he sure as fuck hadn't heard that rasping voice out loud. It was brushing through his mind as if the word was his own thought. He held his breath.
"Guess that's a yes." A match striking. At first, Michael saw no one beyond the curtain of the bed, and then David was simply there, drawing a cigarette to his lips, watching him. Michael couldn't make out the finer details blonde's face in the darkness, but he didn't doubt David was smirking.
Michael looked down at his shirt, crusted with his own blood and still dampened in some spots. No sign of his jacket. "How long have I been out?" Probably best to start with the simple questions. The ones that didn't make him question his sanity.
"A few hours," David's fingers drew the curtain aside, and he peered down at Michael intently, his free hand grasping the cigarette now, "didn't think you were gonna wake up at all."
"Well," Michael floundered for something to say, "I guess I did."
David sat down on the edge of the bed, kicking up a booted heel and proffering his cigarette, "yeah, we are."
"What?"
"You were going to ask if we're vampires. We are."
"I wasn't going to-"
"Michael," David tapped his own temple as Michael finally took the cigarette from him with a shaking hand. Maybe from nerves. Maybe from the deep weariness he felt in every screaming muscle right now.
"What's that mean?" Michael asked him, slowly taking a pull. He wasn't much of a smoker, but anything to distract himself right now from the sudden gnawing pain in his gut was a godsend. Or something else.
"I know what's in your head. All your questions. Your thoughts. Everything." The way David said it, you'd think he was giving the weekly weather report. It was enough to make Michael's blood run cold, but somehow didn't. Despite logic, and common sense, and every fucking thought that should be running through Michael's mind right now, all he could think was-
Thank god I'm not dead.
"Not yet," David admitted, "mostly. You're sort of half there. Think of it like a day pass right now. For a couple of hours, you're alive, and then sort of, well-" he seemed to stumble for the right word, "-not."
Michael must have made a face, because he hardly managed to utter a sound before David pressed on, "you got lucky, though. Could've been six feet under tomorrow morning if I wasn't there." He slapped a hand on Michael's shoulder, "but I like you. We take care of our own."
He had a hazy image of David staring down at him, a bloodied wrist pressed to his lips, and eyes like the fucking devil urging him to drink. The stuff of nightmares.
"Your own?" Michael asked, letting out a rough little laugh, and immediately regretting it as his ribs seemed to scream in protest.
"Take it easy," David advised, dropping his amused facade, "you've got a long way to go."
The vampire took his cigarette back, burnt down to the last dying ember, "you look like shit."
Michael didn't have the strength to tell him to fuck off, so he just settled himself back on mildewed pillows and drew in a couple of labored breaths, "I need to go home."
"Don't worry about it," David shrugged off his worries, and Michael resented the way those gloves fingers pressing at his head seemed to soothe the worst of the pain, "don't worry about it."
He resented how good David's hand felt on his head, and the way he wanted to press his face into the vampire's palm, seeking out all the comfort he could get. This was ten levels of fucked up.
"Not one of you," Michael mumbled, struggling to make that thought known as exhaustion clawed at him, dragging him under, "not a monster."
He didn't hear much after that. Laughter, maybe, but it was hard to tell.
Sam poked at his soggy wheaties, keeping his eyes trained on the little flakes dispersing into the room temperature milk. This would be one of those days back home in Phoenix where he'd have to turn on MTV to drown out the awkward silence or arguments with his parents. For now, though, Wheaties would have to do.
"I spoke to your brother," Lucy told him, scooping up her clutch purse from the kitchen table, "he got home when we were both sleeping last night." She shook her head, placing a hand to her temple, "said he had bike trouble. Listen, sweetie, I need you to just keep an eye on Michael today. I'm worried about him. He looks sick. Can you do that for me?"
Sam let out a deep breath, lowering his spoon. The mouthful of cereal he'd been preparing to eat for the last three minutes would have to wait just a little longer, "he say anything else?"
She shook her head, "no." Her voice was soft, and just a little hurt. Mike had screwed up big time. "He didn't. My work number is on the refrigerator. If you need anything, just call. There's some cough medicine in the cupboard by the sink," she paused, "give some to him if he wakes up before I get home, okay?"
Sam frowned, "you're coming back at like six, right?"
"Yes, but I already told you Michael doesn't look good. Honestly, Sam, it was like pulling teeth trying to get more than a sentence out of him this morning." She leaned over and kissed his forehead, "take care. If you invite your friends over, just make sure you aren't too loud."
He couldn't believe it. Just like that, man of the house while Mike was upstairs probably recovering from a stupid hangover. Sam bit back his intense desire to give a shout of victory. Probably wouldn't make mom feel any better.
By the time Lucy was gone, Sam had hopped on the phone and immediately punched in the Frog brothers' number. They were supposed to start doing 'field work' this week, whatever the hell that meant. Probably swiping crucifixes from the Catholic church for weapons, or jamming stakes in all the graves at a cemetery somewhere. They wouldn't tell him anything.
No answer. Figured. They were probably at the comic shop, and he had no way to get there. Sam made a mental note to get that phone number too, just in case an emergency happened. Like bloodsuckers in his house or something.
Sam reluctantly went back to his breakfast and finished what he could. Would've been better off with toast this morning.
So, what were his choices? Studying the extra comics Edgar and Alan forced on him? Brainstorming attack plans? Carving stakes?
Nah. He'd rather just bug Mike. Teach him not to act like a jerk and disappear two nights in a row for no reason. Maybe if he gave his brother a hard time, he could keep him safe. The way Sam saw it, he was doing something truly noble when he filled a frying pan with cold water and tiptoed upstairs. Okay, not really noble, but it wasn't like this wouldn't be the best freaking prank ever.
By the time he'd finally made it upstairs into his brother's darkened bedroom, Sam already had an escape plan just in case his brother was ready for his attack. Dodge, twist, maybe be ready to jump on the bed if he had to.
Nanook was reclining in the hall, peering after Sam hopelessly, and letting out a soft whine.
"Shhh!" Sam looked back at his dog, "quiet, Nanook!"
The husky huffed and gave a squeaky bark, before settling down again. Alright, Mike was still sleeping. Cool.
Sam crept closer to the bed, peering down at his brother with a wicked grin. He stopped short, leaning over to turn on the bedside lamp. Mom wasn't kidding. He looked bad. Like, really bad. He was pale. Under the lamplight, it was worse. Sam knelt to the ground to put the pan on the carpet without spilling it.
"Mike?" He nudged his brother's shoulder, going from devilish plotting to outright fear. He wasn't moving.
"Hey! Wake up!" Sam shook him harder, gripping Michael's shoulder with both hands this time.
Michael groaned, batting at Sam's hands and trying to shove him off, "go away, Sam."
"Shit, I thought you were dead!" Sam exclaimed, infinitely relieved.
"Mmmh." Michael turned his head into his pillow, mumbling something against it, and Sam couldn't tell what he said, but it probably wasn't nice.
"Do you want some soup?" Sam asked dumbly, not wanting to leave the room without some sort of offer to help his brother. An answer wasn't forthcoming, and oddly enough it seemed like Michael had already fallen back asleep.
"No?" He prompted, "extra blanket?" Still nothing. Sam took a deep breath and let it out, eyeing Michael's hand curiously. Weird, wasn't that the one he cut? "Christ, Mike, when's the last time you trimmed your nails?" A few more inches and he'd think his brother was turning into Freddy Krueger.
Eventually Sam did finally give up, taking the pan with him and heading out to the hall.
Nanook gave him a funny look, or at least that's how Sam decided to interpret it, "hey, wanna help me browse through the yellow pages, boy?" That comic shop number had to be listed somewhere.
"Alan!" Ed shouted from across the store, "get the phone!"
Alan glared over at his brother, half-wishing the price gun in his hand was loaded with beebees or paintballs, remind the only slightly older Frog that he wasn't the quiet Renfield lurking in the background like Ed seemed to think. He let the phone ring a good three or four more times before he finally rushed to catch it. For all they knew, there could actually be a customer on the line. It'd be nice to sell a few comics this afternoon. Their advertising tactics lately had sort of begun to put them in the red, and the 'rents were starting to actually notice. Yesterday, their mom had even been sober enough to make a comment in passing. Somehow she thought they should change their business model over to ear cones and patchouli.
"Frog Comics and Monster Bashers Inc, how can I help you?"
"Dude. That's what you're calling it now?"
Alan frowned, "why're you calling the store phone? It's dangerous. The place could be tapped."
"You just called yourselves 'Monster Bashers'." There was a long silence on the other end, "why would vampires tap a phone line? In the middle of the day?"
"Servants. Henchman at the police station. I dunno," Alan got a little defensive, not too keen on having holes poked in his flimsy theories.
"I really don't think the police around here can tap-listen, I just wanted to see if you guys could come over tonight. Today. Whenever. We can talk about that fieldwork stuff Ed was going on about."
Alan leaned against the counter, propping the phone against an elbow while he watched his brother try to entice new customers into the building. It wasn't a bad idea. They'd probably even be able to get some snacks out of it if they swung by.
"Alright," Alan agreed, "sounds good. We got a bunch of driftwood we need to carve, too, so I'll bring a bag by. Teach you how to make a stake."
"Theres-" Sam hesitated, "-is there something special about it I can't figure out on my own?"
"Yeah," Alan lied, "if you don't carve it right, it doesn't work. Gotta shape it like a cross at the point."
"None of the comics said-"
"The comics don't know everything, trust me," Alan interrupted, affecting his most cryptic tone. Sam didn't need to know they were both just happy to have a new sidekick to do that work for them. Alan's palms were a road map of splinters past.
"Okay, just don't make a lotta noise when you come over. Mike's got some kinda bug and I don't wanna wake him."
"It's three in the afternoon."
"Yeah, well, sick people sleep a lot."
Alan waited until he'd hung up to voice his concerns to his brother. "Hey, Ed," he called out from the counter, "keep your gear on you tonight. We might need it." Not that either of the Frog brothers ever went without.
He couldn't just spend the whole day in bed. Michael knew that. He also couldn't just bury his head in his pillows and pretend last night didn't happen. The details were fuzzy, tempered by the fact that he'd been semi-conscious most of the time, but he remembered with startling clarity being cornered by that burger shack, having the shit kicked out of him, and getting dumped with his bike under the pier. He remembered the taunts as the fuckers took his wallet and jacket. The taste of his own blood in his mouth, and the feeling of dying. He'd been dying.
In the midst of hazy prayers, something awful and wonderful had happened. Michael didn't want to remember it, rolling over in his bed and trying to block out the world with an extra pillow. Closing his eyes couldn't cover his thoughts, though, nor could it muffle the memory of the blurry vision he recalled. His brother's wild imagination come to life with stark, cold reality. David.
David. Feeding him hot blood from cold flesh. Forcing Michael not to die by sheer will. Michael's stomach turned at the memory. He didn't know whether the disgust or desire for more was stronger. None of this made any fucking sense.
It didn't escape his notice, either, that his shirt wasn't crusted with blood. So he'd either changed it in the middle of the night without remembering it, or someone had changed it for him. If he wasn't a little more concerned about the fact that he'd been inducted into a bloodsucking gang of freaks, it would probably be at the top of his priority list. At least he didn't have to explain the other shirt to his mom, so maybe it was for the best.
Michael shoved the pillows away and very reluctantly sat up, scowling into the semi-darkness of his room. It was still day. Barely. A little voice inside was needling at him to lay back down and rest, but he ignored it. He was starving.
Even with his lights off, the sun peeking through his shades was still just way too much for him to handle. His senses were waking up and going on overdrive, so he compromised with himself by clumsily reaching for his sunglasses on his bedside stand to shove them onto his face. Stupid jokes from Sam or not, Michael had to get out of his bedroom, and this was the only way he saw himself being able to manage.
His brother was in the kitchen pouring over comics with his friends, the angry smelly guys from that comic book store. Michael drew to a halt in the doorway, crossing his arms and sizing them up. He didn't think it was possible, but somehow without even exchanging a word he liked them even less than he had the first time.
"So shit-suckers like cold, dark places. Walk-in freezers. Castles. Basements. Crypts. You name it, any place you can fit a coffin. I was thinking we could explore some Chinese joints tomorrow, check if they've got more than take-out noodles in the back," Sam's friend with the serious case of laryngitis enthused, tapping on a two-page spread of one comic with an army of bats jettisoning out of a graveyard.
Sam groaned, rubbing at his temple, "Ed, I don't want to get chased out of China Garden with a meat cleaver."
"Don't worry, you've just gotta be the distraction," the other Frog brother told him, as if that would solve everything.
"Ever heard of social lives? You should try one out sometime," Michael interjected, striding towards the refrigerator and digging through it. There had to be something in there worth eating, Leftover spaghetti. Overcooked bacon in plastic wrap. Lunchmeat. He grazed on bits and pieces, but everything just seemed to taste like ash when it hit his tongue.
They weren't talking anymore, now that he'd made himself known. In fact, once Michael grabbed the milk carton and closed the fridge door, he realized all eyes were trained on him. Even Sam, though he looked a little bit happier than the other two.
"What?" Michael peeled open the top of the carton and took a gulp. God, it was like he could taste the fact that it only had a week left before going sour. Milk was not a good idea.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked, scooping up several comics and closing them like he had a dirty secret to hide. As if he hadn't been going nuts about vampires the other day. Hard to really say whether Michael regretted ignoring him or not. On the one hand, he was still alive because of those bloodsucking nutjobs. On the other, well, they killed people. He just didn't want to think about it.
"Peachy," Michael sneered, putting the milk back in the fridge. He wasn't in a good mood. He didn't want to act like a jerk, but that was just how the word came out. Irritated and dismissive.
"What a dick-head," the Frog brother with the shorter hair whispered into the other's ear, leaning across the table. Michael could hear him clear as day, and glared at them both in turn.
"Are you still obsessed with those stupid vampire stories?" Michael demanded, deciding to take the defensive. He didn't really like the idea of Sam doing stupid shit, whether he ended up running into real monsters like David and the boys or not. Jesus Christ, they were talking about being chased with meat cleavers and sneaking into restaurant kitchens.
"They're real," the Frog brother with the long hair insisted.
"It's true!" Sam finally blurted out, loud enough to wake Nanook under the kitchen table, "Mike, I saw some, and we staked a couple, and there was like fire, and a shit-sucking crazy dog, and like a dork king mega-vamp-"
"Sam. Stop." Michael held up a hand, "I'm going back to bed, and maybe you three should chill it on the acid trips, huh?" He stalked out of the kitchen, yanking off his sunglasses as he headed upstairs. Sam wasn't going to give up this stuff very easily, that much was obvious. He didn't know what the hell his little brother meant with that disjointed story he'd tried to tell, but none of it sounded good. He'd have to come up with a plan to keep Sam from having his throat torn out, but at the moment Michael had no clue where to even begin. If he couldn't even save himself, how could he save his little brother?
It would be night before mom got home tonight, so that just left Michael and Sam home with the Frog brothers downstairs. For the first time, Michael didn't have a desperate need clawing at him to go to the boardwalk. What he should do was pull out some of those boxes he'd packed in the garage and see if he could board up their windows, or tie some of those antlers into makeshift crosses just in case. Keep David away long enough to get his thoughts together and figure out a plan. It was obvious they knew where he lived, after all. Michael sure as hell hadn't gotten home on his own last night.
The boys decided to make themselves scarce tonight. Let the surfing rats think they'd won and scared the Lost Boys away for good. It would be so much better that way.
They lurked in shadows, and when one or two people cared to notice them, they sent out mental tricks to scare them away. It was a game they often played just to stir up fear. Marko's favorite. Sometimes he liked to hide on the ferris wheel waiting for kids to join him, just to make them think the swinging metal cart was a fire-breathing monster closing sharp teeth over them as it took off into the air. Sometimes he simply liked to dig into people's minds and for short instances, make them think he was the living, rotted corpse of a long dead relative. He was the smallest, and when he was human he had died the youngest, but Marko could easily be described as the most devious when it came to dark games.
"Guess he's not showing," Marko remarked, shoving a chunk of stolen cotton candy in his mouth and spitting it out, just to do it again and again until bits of spun sugar floated about.
Paul's eyes danced with mirth when he watched two girls turn in unison as a phantom hand pinched their rears in unison, "should we play fetch, then? Drag Mikey out?" He was too distracted with his own fun to note how furiously David was stubbing out his cigarette against his glove.
Dwayne rolled his eyes at Paul's little trick, preferring the more mundane game of keeping a mirror on his shoe to watch other women pass by in dangerously unprotected skirts. "I don't think he's going to make it easy."
David's lip curled up at the corner, "neither am I."
Max was gone. They couldn't afford to waste time now. The Surf Nazis were nothing but a future meal, no threat at all. There were other vampires in Santa Carla, however, on the fringe. Like cockroaches, they would skitter away when Max noticed them, only feeding on the dregs the boys wouldn't even touch. Without him, the cockroaches would come out. Hunting would be even worse now than when Star went on her all-you-can-eat binge on the beach. David couldn't afford to show weakness, and right now that was exactly what a disobedient halfling was. It wouldn't matter if he'd been Max's creature, but then again, the death of the head vampire would have cured him in that case.
"Dwayne," David directed, "send a message tonight. Take Marko with you. I smelled a rat earlier. Take care of it."
Dwayne nodded, giving David a two-fingered salute before grabbing the back of Marko's jacket and dragging him off.
"Oh, come on!" Marko protested, "I was having fun."
"I'll let you take the first shot, alright?" Dwayne conceded, keeping his grip firmly on Marko as they disappeared into the crowd.
Paul grinned at David, shoving a stick of gum in his mouth and chewing rapidly, "so," he said between the rhythmic smack of his lips and teeth, "we going on a date?"
"Shut up, Paul."
It wasn't difficult to fly to the Emerson house. Windy night. They'd fed well after David fed Michael his blood. Once they'd reached the place, though, David and Paul were immediately on edge as they settled to the ground. There was an all-too-familiar scent in the air. They'd smelled it before, right after Max had been killed. Before their party at the cave, they'd had a much smaller one at his place and torched the fucker. Watched it light up, and danced around the burning grave.
"Hunters," David sighed, "figures." Right here. With Michael. How?
Paul darted over the shadowed lawn, pressing himself up against the wall of the house and edging towards a window to peer through the shades.
"Paul," David hissed in his mind, "don't get your ass staked. Just keep an eye out."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Paul promised, "I'm not that kinky."
Somehow David doubted it, but he wasn't here tonight to discuss Paul's fetishes.
It was a shame they hadn't brought their bikes tonight. Perhaps if Max was still around, they could've all come here, used the lights and engines to draw him out. David would have to settle for a nice little chat and see where it went from there.
He drew a cigarette out from his pack and struck a match to light it, glaring towards the house and stretching out his mind in search of his fledgling's, grabbing onto it. "Michael," he mouthed the words before drawing in a mouthful of rich, satisfying smoke. He could already hear the halfling's heartbeat speeding up. Oh yes, he could hear David just fine.
"C'mon. We'll grab a drink. You'll like it."
Met with nothing but silence, he savored the rush of nicotine, which didn't last quite as long as he'd like, and watched the thin, white rings curl into the night sky. "Who's downstairs, Michael? Your little brother? Others? Mmmmh, I bet they'd taste incredible. You haven't lived until you've tasted fresh adrenaline, cut the skin just right so it's pumping straight out, let the heart do all the real work for you."
"Go away!" Michael snapped in his mind, instinct teaching him already how to talk.
David grinned, "did I hit a nerve? What's wrong with you, huh? We saved your life. The least you could do is come out and play."
"Don't touch my family," Michael warned, and it was so delicious to hear the empty warning. Oh yes, the halfling definitely had a killer in him. David knew he wouldn't be disappointed.
"Alright, alright. For you? I can do that. You're going to have to be a little nicer, though. We're pack, and that's a pretty big deal. You've got two families now, Michael, and sooner or later you're going to want to eat."
"I already ate."
David couldn't help but laugh, covering his mouth with a gloved hand to muffle the sound. He didn't want to get anyone else's attention right now. Not hunters. Not Michael's little brother. Definitely not the dog he could smell scratching at the front door.
"Paul, get your ass over here." David ordered, when the dog began to whine and howl.
"Nanook, stop it! I'll take you outside in a minute!" A human shouted. Michael could hear him too.
"Don't touch him," this time, Michael's voice was a little more pleading. The tough guy act was cracking just enough for David to know he had the upper hand.
"So, what did you eat, huh? A sandwich? Drink a glass of orange juice, straight from the can? Nice little cozy human life you've got here, Michael. Really, it is. Here's the thing, though: you aren't human anymore. Maybe a part of you is, but it's dying. Each little ticking second, each minute you try to hide from us, that heart you've got beating in your chest is getting weaker and weaker. Maybe it'd be different if you'd taken the fucking flask when I'd offered, but you didn't. I fed you when you' were already half-dead. My blood works miracles, but it can't turn back the clock. I can feel your fear. I can smell it. No one is ever ready to die, but that's what humans do. They die. Take your little brother for example, squawking his head off in the house. Even if we leave him alone, he could die tomorrow, or he could die in fifty years. The point is that he will. I know you're going to feed, because eventually your body is going to make the choice for you if you don't. You're like us, Michael. You'll never grow old, and you'll never die," David took another pull from his cigarette just as Paul hopped away from the window and skittered up the wall to freeze in the shadows beneath the porch roof, just as the front door swung open and the husky came tearing outside with a skinny human desperately clutching at his leash.
"Nanook!" The human shouted, trying to restrain him. Paul took the opportunity to hop onto the roof, well away from view, and David rose into the sky to hide in the shade of a tree.
"Michael," David pressed on, glaring down at the human, watching his dog sniff around the trunk of the tree, "I'm losing my patience. Come outside. Now."
The older Emerson's blood was racing now, his heart laboring as a window shade on the second floor flew up, and the glass pane slid upwards. David grinned through the shade of the tree, meeting Michael's angry glare in the darkness. Yellow met yellow. Michael's fierce desire to protect his brother warred with his need for blood. David was thrilled at the sight.
"There we go. Looks tasty, doesn't he?"
"Fuck off."
Paul crawled over the roof, swift, snake-like, until he was dangling directly over Michael's window, grinning down at him. The halfling was far too focused on David and his human brother below to care. It wouldn't take much to push him over the edge, and it almost seemed like the perfect way to teach him a lesson about defiance, but that wasn't quite how David wanted this. He wasn't Max. He had some tact.
Eventually, the human managed to drag his dog back inside, slamming the door shut.
"See? I'm not a bad guy," David continued where they left off. "Now, I'll ask you one more time. Nicely. Come out."
Michael hesitated, and David's patience ran out. He flicked his cigarette into the air and nodded to Paul. The wind around them began to pick up, stirring the branches in David's tree until it was violent enough to make the leaves rattle. He rose into the air singularly with Paul. David spread his arms wide in welcoming, Christ-like. A dark, unholy figure in the night waiting to welcome his wayward childe.
"What the hell?!" Michael yelped out loud, as his feet rose into the air, and he found that his hands gripping the windowsill were his only brace now to the house. David and Paul used the call of their blood and pack to pull at him, stirring up the wind so horribly, that a branch in the tree David had roosted in cracked and fell to the ground.
Michael's hands slipped, and he tried to grab at everything he could to keep himself from flying out of the window. A telephone, a lamp, even the windowshade. But, like it or not, he was soon hurtling towards them and straight into David's arms.
"There," David whispered against Michael's ear, putting a gloved hand on his chin and forcing the brunette to meet his gaze, "that wasn't so hard, was it?"
The ferocious glare he received in response was not at all unexpected. It was so tempting to bite his neck then and there, give Michael another reason to glare at him, but he'd wait. Despite the way his fangs ached to cut and claim, David would wait.