He slipped into the lobby, just as he had several times already. The only difference now was the time of day. The sun had set, and the night had only just begun. All three graves might as well have been freshly dug, the earth dark and rich around them. Michael settled in his customary seat at the fountain and focused his attention on them.
"I guess this is it," he said quietly, "I'm not coming back after this."
"Michael." He could practically hear David's voice, like a spirit haunting him from beyond death, from beneath that mound of soft earth.
He started, eyes drawn to David's grave. Michael's skin prickled, an eerie sense of déjà vous creeping over him.
"You're dead," he said aloud, clasping his hands together and looking away, "they're dead," he repeated to himself. He was just imagining it.
"Do you really believe that? Did you think we would turn on you the way you turned on us?" It sounded so real! This couldn't be happening. He had to be dreaming. He must have fallen asleep on the couch.
Michael stood up from his perch at the fountain, pressing his palms to his temples, "I didn't turn on anyone," he told himself, "I was protecting Sam." It was ridiculous to argue with his own conscience, but he was beyond simple logic right now. Otherwise he never would have come back here so many times.
Their laughter echoed through his mind but it was David's voice that cut through the cacophony of sound. "We are your brothers, we are your family, and you turned on us for a fleeting chance at humanity. You're so much better than that, Michael, you can still make it right."
A part of him, albeit a small part, almost believed what the phantom in his mind was telling him. "You're—" he paused, correcting himself, "you were killers," he continued, "I wasn't one of you. I'm not."
"You're one of us Michael, just like us. There's no difference between you and I except I'm honest and you're content to lie to yourself. Face it, you still feel it, don't you?"
Michael clenched his fists at his side, the gesture pointless and half-hearted, "I don't know what I feel," he admitted, "but I'm not…" he trailed off. Just finishing the sentence seemed pointless. What good would it do him to argue with himself? David was dead. Marko. Paul. Dwayne. The voice was right. He had turned on them. Even if it was the right thing to do, nothing changed that plain fact.
"I can't make anything right," Michael said, looking back towards the exit, "I just need to let you go."
"You can't escape this, it won't just go away, make it right, take that last step and have a bite to eat."
Breathing slowly, Michael closed his eyes and tried to focus on calming himself. Images of the night at the beach flooded his mind, so strong he could almost smell the blood in the air and hear the mingled screams and laughter.
"Never," Michael spat out. His gums itched. This was all in his head.
"Do it and we can be a family again." David's voice was almost sweet, cajoling.
He hated how tempting it sounded. Hated the twisting, wrenching feeling in his gut at the thought. "There's nobody here to hurt," he pointed out, satisfied with himself for outsmarting—himself. He really needed to get some help.
"Are you sure?" He could practically see that smirk.
The question provoked a deeper sense of unease, and Michael's eyes darted around the room. Suddenly everything seemed so much darker. "No one besides me," he whispered.
David could feel the uncertainty in Michael as he waited for just the right moment to reveal himself. The earth was soft and cool around him, he had re-buried himself after getting a good meal and calling to Michael through their bond. He and Marko had also acquired a meal for Michael, stashing the unconscious girl in the back where Michael wouldn't notice her. She would be waking up soon. David was excited, he had been imagining Michael's first meal for what felt like forever. She would stumble out, unsure of where she was and what was happening. Michael wouldn't even notice her until she saw him, he would be too wrapped up in his own disparaging thoughts to smell the blood that was so very close.
Marko waited and watched from a safe distance. He'd been doing a lot the past few weeks to help David recover, providing extra blood for the painstaking process of bringing Dwayne and Paul back to a functioning state. He was prepared to jump in if their plan for any reason didn't turn out the way they wanted.
Images frantically rushed through the halfling's mind, thoughts and panicked promises to himself.
"He's thinking of going back to Phoenix," Marko remarked, his tone amused and disbelieving.
David barely held back a snort, "Marko, check the girl, is she up yet?" It was still too difficult to feel multiple things at once, keeping track of Michael and pushing him where he wanted was taking up most of his energy.
"She's getting there," Marko replied, "want me to give her a push?" The younger blonde was all too happy to oblige, his attempted staking still fresh in his mind. Marko's vicious humor was almost as sharp as Paul's. A push for their human prey could be fatal if he wasn't careful.
"A small one, be careful, Michael's close but he's also ready to bolt. I can keep him here when she comes out."
Marko slipped away briefly, while Michael stood hovering between the fountain and the exit. Keeping him there was taking a bit of mental force. All too quickly, a scream echoed through the hotel and the girl must have darted into the lobby.
"Help me," she pleaded. The hammering of her heart was loud and fast. A tempting melody. The scent of her blood in the air was so sweet and thick, it permeated the soil surrounding David. Mixed with Michael's immediate confusion, fear, and warring hunger — it was intoxicating.
That infuriatingly human part of him still clinging to life drew this out far longer than it should.
"No!" Michael snapped, the dawning realization that this was all too real breaking through his denial. The girl screamed again. Then silence.
"We'll be family again." The moment he felt Michael snap and grab the girl he pushed his way out of the dirt and laid his hands on Michael's shoulders, "welcome home."
Marko vaguely remembered his first kill. He couldn't remember any remorse, nor could he really identify with the human he had been that night, but he remembered it. Fear. Pain. The sensation of something breaking free from his chest—then sheer euphoria. Freedom from every doubt or burden he'd ever had. All of it washed away by something far more powerful.
Blood.
In the dark, he saw the same feelings reflected in Michael's eyes now, drenched from face to chest in dark red. Marko envied that. He should have brought back a few more bites tonight. He'd been eating more lately to provide blood for David's healing, as well as the others. They had a longer way to go.
"Can I come out now?" He joked with a grin.
"Come on out, Marko, say hi to your brother." David's hands still rested on Michael's shoulders.
Marko slipped into the lobby, grinning wide, his fangs dripping. He'd had a tiny nip of the girl, just to get her nice and scared before she became Michael's main course.
Michael, for his part, still looked a little dazed, breathing deep and closing his eyes to steady himself.
"That was fun," Marko remarked, directing his attention to their leader, "how're the wounds?"
"Better, almost fully healed, so I'll be able to help with the others soon." He leaned forward, nipping Michael's ear lightly.
Unhindered by his human side any longer, Michael allowed himself to enjoy his pack leader's attention, not shrugging him off as he might have done previously, all the more docile from his feeding.
"They're alive?" Michael asked, confused.
Marko shrugged, "something like that," he replied. "Between you and me, though, they look like death. Getting fried or boiled will do that to a guy." It sounded like a joke, and in some ways was Marko's attempt at humor in their situation.
"Think about it like this," Marko went on, just getting warmed up, "they'd all be dead for good if you hadn't brought them back here, and if Davey's heart got pulverized. You'd be human, and about a week ago you'd have really been dead. So in retrospect, they look great." It was all only a theory, anyway. Michael may have been stupid by bringing his little brother there and nearly getting the whole pack offed, but even half-turned, he was still one of them. Maybe even before then, when he was just a new face on the boardwalk and something fun for them to latch onto. Otherwise Michael never would have saved David or even had the chance to. He'd have been a snack on day one.
Michael looked guiltily in the direction of their former sleeping area, "are they up there?"
"Deeper," David told him, glancing at Marko, "we moved them somewhere humans can't reach."
"Without tools," Marko added. He was filled with giddy energy now, ready to move on and deal with their little problems on the boardwalk. They couldn't make plans yet until Dwayne and Paul were able to move. With Michael's help, David would be back to his full strength within the week.
"I'm…" Michael trailed off, unsure what to say. "I'm not sorry, but I'm sorry. I guess both. I didn't want you dead."
"Thanks, Mikey," Marko replied, "you're not a dick, but you're a dick," he added with a grin.
David grasped his shoulder, giving it a squeeze, "I'll chalk it up to that pesky human part of you and let bygones be bygones."
A strange echo filtered into the lobby. Distant, but not entirely unexpected.
"Paul's awake," Marko said, growing giddier by the second. "First time he's been able to start the stereo on his own."
If they listened closely, the sound in question was 'Don't Fear the Reaper", somewhat ironically. Paul had even managed to flip the tape to side b.
Grandpa Emerson sat outside on the front porch rocker, root beer in one hand and a stuffed rat on a pedestal in the other. It had been a good hour since he'd gotten home from his visit with the widow Johnson. A man deserved a break from work every now and again, and he was proud of the first real project he'd managed to finish since fixing and renovating the workshop. Samuel would be in for a real treat. The kid had been peeping at him from the kitchen window all night since he got back. Something was on his mind.
He took a gulp of root beer and let out a deep sigh of satisfaction, settling back on the swing. "You can watch me till dawn or you can get your fanny out here and talk to me," he called out loud enough for the boy to hear.
The old man didn't pay much attention to Sam after that. He just enjoyed the summer evening warmth and his root beer. "Must be about midnight," he mumbled to himself. Maybe the kid was having nightmares. Nothing some good yard work tomorrow wouldn't fix. Maybe he could show Sam a few of his tools, help the boy learn how to stuff his own squirrel.
The screen door whispered as Sam pushed it open, finishing with a gentle squeak. "Grandpa?"
"Up a bit late, aren't ya?" The old man asked without expecting an answer. "C'mon, pop a squat." He sidled over and gestured to one side of the swing, holding out his latest gift, "gotcha something."
Sam stared at the stuffed animal, slowly reaching out to take it from his grandfather.
"Thanks," the teenager said with a raised eyebrow as he sat down on the vacant spot at the swing. "Grandpa, Mike's gone."
"Hm," the old man grunted in response. "That so?"
"Yeah, he hasn't come back since I let him go earlier." He mumbled, looking down at his feet.
Grandpa Emerson nodded thoughtfully. It was a good minute before he finally spoke again, "quite the predicament. So he's staying out late tonight, and you're worried?"
"Something's wrong with him. He doesn't eat or sleep and I didn't see his reflection in the window when he left!"
"The window," The old man repeated, nodding, "he was standing right in front of it? You're sure?" He took another sip of root beer, focused on Sam in his half-interested manner. It wasn't always easy to tell what was going on in the taxidermist and amateur hunter's mind.
"He walked past it, I know he wasn't there, he didn't get better like Star did." Sam said firmly.
The crickets in the yard seemed to grow a little louder, wind rattling the trees as if to join them in some sort of undefinable melody. Grandpa Emerson smirked.
"Can't see as I think there's much we can do. If you're right." He was never the type to offer advice. Couldn't see how telling someone they should do something was any better than letting them figure it out on their own. Either Michael was still infected, or he wasn't. If the boy didn't ask for any help, it was out of their hands. Just as stubborn as his mother. Telling her not to marry her ex was the last time the old man ever tried to give any advice to anyone, and what good did that do?
"What are we going to do? What if he tries to eat one of us?"
Grandpa Emerson pursed his lips, a drop of root beer clinging to the bristles on his chin, appearing to be deep in thought. "Well," he began, wiping at his chin, "I guess we will deal with it then." He looked at Sam, "but if he doesn't, and he's not, I don't want you trying to kill your brother just cause he's a late sleeper. So just give it time, Samuel. In case you're wrong."
Sam huffed, abruptly catching the swing with his feet on the porch to halt its sway.
"Grandpa, if I'm right and we wait, it might be too late. Why won't you help me? Help Mike?" The boy's frustration drove his voice up nearly an octave.
The old man raised his eyebrows, "half my house got near demolished, boy, and you're telling me I ain't helped you?" He tossed back the last of his root beer and set it down on the porch beside him. The glass clinked sharply. "You're still living under my roof, and I ain't helped you. Tore up my fence posts to stake that bastard going after your ma, and I ain't helped you?"
"Yeah, but–"
"But what, Samuel?" Grandpa Emerson demanded, standing up from the swing. "You think I ain't scared something could be wrong every damn day that sun sets out there, and I know next time I swing by the grocer or the boardwalk that there's gonna be another dozen new faces slung up on cork boards?"
"No," Sam replied quietly, "I just…" He seemed to shrink inward now, unconsciously gripping the stuffed rat a little tighter on his lap.
The old man stared back at Sam, a dozen regrets surfacing in his mind for things he could never fix. This was just the same. He let out a deep breath he hadn't even known he was holding, exasperated with both his grandson and himself for snapping.
"I can't fix what's broke," he went on, "I can't tell you anything as I can see will help you or Michael. He went through something we can't figure. Plenty of people do. I'm not just talking about vampires or the hell your ma's boyfriend did to us. I seen people come back from war and never came back from it. Not really. I seen friends sink into the bottom of a bottle just cause they hurt too much to wake up. I'm old enough to know when I can't save someone. He has to do it himself or he'll let whatever's bothering him win."
Sam and his grandfather let the silence hang between them. The wind in the trees stopped rattling all at once. Then the old man went inside. From behind the screen door, he gestured at Sam, "when the wind stops, you're gonna have to learn to get in the house. Only real advice I can give ya. Go to bed, Samuel."
Sam lingered on the porch swing, looking out across the lawn. Nanook was inside now, whining in the kitchen. "Come home, Mike," he pleaded with the dead night. "Please."
They looked like death. Thin, bony death. Paul more than Dwayne, but not by much. Nestled together in earth and clothing that hung off them like blankets, if they were human – they'd have expired days ago. Weeks.
Hollow faces with sharpened fangs peered at David, Marko, and Michael from the dark. Bright yellow eyes rimmed with red.
"You look like shit," Marko sing-songed, skipping towards Paul and kneeling down beside him. The other vampire peered back at him, something like recognition plastered on his face in the manner of a wild animal familiar with a routine visitor to its territory. Only a few feet away was the boombox, blaring out the final stanza of Blue Oyster Cult.
"They can't think much right now," David explained to Michael, an arm casually thrown around the newly-turned vampire's shoulder. Something Michael was distinctly aware felt a little tighter than necessary. Not quite friendly, more like he was prepared just in case the fledgling had a sudden change of heart and decided to flee. He leaned in close to Michael's ear as if he was whispering a secret, "running off instinct."
"Instinct?" Michael repeated, glancing towards the boombox. "Didn't Paul put the music on?"
Marko snickered, bringing one of his wrists to his mouth and biting down. Michael inhaled sharply at the fresh scent of blood, his newly-formed senses going into overdrive. The weeks of self-control and fighting that desire had worn him down. Now that the floodgates had finally burst open, it was so much worse. He wanted more; couldn't tear his eyes from Marko's wrist, even as it was pressed against Paul's mouth.
"Don't worry," David's voice ghosted through Michael's mind, startling him from his daze. "You'll get used to it."
"C'mon, Mikey," Marko nodded in Dwayne's direction, all the while nestling himself against Paul as the other vampire drank from him, "your turn."
Dwayne rested beside Paul. Even rendered weak and insensate, he seemed to have an awareness Michael didn't quite understand. He didn't lunge towards Marko as Paul drank, but waited. He didn't breathe. Didn't need to. He simply watched, eyes trained on the wrist pressed against his packmate's mouth.
"You–" Michael began, starting when Dwayne's eyes snapped towards him. David's hand gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You've been feeding them?" Michael continued, voice barely above a whisper. "From your own wrist?"
"We take care of our own," David explained, slowly stepping forward to pull Michael closer towards Dwayne. Michael tensed. He didn't fight it, but he didn't welcome the feral glare of the decrepit packmate on the ground. Dwayne's bony hand reached towards him, grasped at the air.
"David," Michael whispered, fearful.
"Just relax," David assured him, "Michael…"
His own name sounded like a mantra in his mind, soothing him. Forced to his knees, he watched a claw draw a path along his wrist. David guided Michael's arm towards Dwayne. Cold lips latched onto his wrist, and Michael bit back a hiss. He could feel it. The life he'd taken flowing freely from his veins into Dwayne. Life pumping from Michael, taken from him. Maybe everything up until now had just been a trick. He was just another meal. It was easier to lead him here than drag an unwilling victim.
Then it was all over, and David was pulling him back. Michael's wrist, ragged and stained with drying blood. Dwayne settled back on the ground, a spark of awareness in his eyes as the blood settled and infused his system with new life.
"There," David reassured him, pulling Michael's wrist to his mouth, "it's over."
He felt tired. Hollow. The kill he'd made tonight was pointless, and all he was left with was the distinct feeling that he'd lost something very special. No turning back. No escape.
David lapped at the dried blood on Michael's wrist, cleaning it, erasing the damage done. The gesture soothed his fears, pulled him back from the void of emptiness he very nearly drowned in. Marko was already beside them again, while Dwayne and Paul fell into a restless slumber. They looked better, but nowhere near alive. They needed more.
"Another week," Marko called out, observing the pair on the ground, "you think?" He directed his attention to their leader, and it suddenly dawned on Michael how fragile they both looked. Marko, David, they were half there. Starved of blood, not much better than the pair on the ground. Holding on desperately to their strength while they did what they could to share it with each other.
"Another week," David repeated, eyes focused on Michael. He was still alive, or something like that. Too tired to make sense of anything. Too hungry to really regret his first kill.
Marko grinned, clapping hands on both Michael and David's shoulders, eyes glowing with excitement, "let's have a party tomorrow night, huh? Celebrate."
David grinned, pulling Michael closer. A part of him was comforted by the intimacy, soothed. He didn't understand it, but was too tired to keep fighting his fears and doubts of whatever this was.
"Sounds like a plan," David agreed. "Paint the town red."