Incest warning, you know the drill. Pretty much flagrantly embracing it now.


"One…two…" Brigitte mouthed quietly. "…thr-"

"You alright in there, B?" Ginger called from outside the bathroom, slapping her hand on the door.

Brigitte jumped, dropping the knife into the sink. She cursed under her breath.

"Fine." She replied, impatiently.

She picked it up again and carefully held the blade partway up her arm. A series of other scars, progressively more faded started from her wrist.

"One…two…th-" She counted again.

"Finished with your science project yet?" Ginger hit the door again.

Brigitte dropped the knife a second time, it clattered into the sink.

She closed her eyes, silently screaming.

"I'll tell you when I'm done." She muttered, punctuating each word, frustrated.

She picked up the knife again and lowered it over the bare skin on her left arm, just above the last cut.

"One…"

She cast an eye warily to the bathroom door.

"…two…"

She pressed the knife to her skin.

"…three…"

She glanced again at the door. Silence.

"…fo-"

"I'm hungry B, you want anything?" The door shook again.

Brigitte flinched, throwing the knife upwards and lodging it in one of the cheap, plywood roof panels.

"-for fucks sake." She snapped, grabbing the sink with both hands and glaring at the bathroom door.

"I'll take that as a no." Ginger replied, from the other side. "Back in a bit!" Her sister called from further away, then she heard the front door open and close.

Brigitte let her head slump forward, letting out her stress in a long, drawn out rattling groan.

Ginger did it on purpose, she knew that. She also knew she was just trying to…be…affectionate…or something, in her own confusing, irritating way.

She looked warily at the ceiling, the knife still stuck firmly in the soft wood.

Brigitte glanced at the toilet. She climbed, cautiously, on top of it, and tried half-heartedly to reach the handle of the knife a few times, but it was out of reach.

She muttered irritably to herself, grudgingly accepting that she was too short, and that she'd need Ginger's help to get it.

Brigitte made her way back to the sink, looking one last time at her wrist, before rolling down the sleeve of the grey cardigan she had on. She pointedly tried to avoid looking in the mirror.

You could only really trust a mirror to show you what was in front of it, and that was the problem, as far as Brigitte was concerned. Because what was in front of it wasn't always what you wanted to see.

Most of the time, anyway.

Whether out of some kind of desire to fulfil her quota of self-loathing, or pure temptation, her eyes were drawn to the glass surface.

Brigitte stared back.

It was almost a relief.

She had a growing fear of looking into a mirror, and one day seeing something else looking back. A face that wasn't hers. Someone she didn't recognise.

Next to that, plain, awkward, lanky Brigitte was an acceptable cost. Stunted, moody, dour, flat, weird, dark little Brigitte Fitzgerald.

Ginger had always been taller. Her eyes went again to the knife in the ceiling.

Ginger was prettier. Brigitte poked at her pale cheeks, lingering on her dark, sunken eyes and longish, thin face.

Ginger had nicer, colourful hair. Brigitte toyed with the long, dark, thick locks of hair framing her own face.

Ginger had a body that was indisputably of female origin.

Brigitte stopped short of probing at her chest. What there was of it. Her miniscule self-esteem could only take so much in one sitting.

Late bloomers, Pamela had called them. Brigitte couldn't help but feel she'd jumped the gun in her case.

Maybe the lycanthropy, or the monkshood had screwed up her growth. Or maybe she was just hoping for some kind of reason or explanation, no matter how crazy, that this was as good as it was going to get.

Brigitte left the bathroom, pausing in the middle of the motel room. She glanced at the bed, but couldn't find the desire to sleep. She looked toward the desk against the far wall, but couldn't summon the will to go through her notes.

She crossed her arms and huffed to herself, eyes shifting to the door.

She didn't want to go out. Chasing after Ginger wasn't like some kind of hobby of hers. It wasn't as if she'd ever intended to make her sister her responsibility.

Brigitte sighed, rolled her eyes and grabbed her coat.

Mooseville didn't have a lot of bars. It wasn't hard to narrow down where Ginger had wound up.

A light frost was settling over everything, in the cold night air. Her breath fogged up the window as she tried to peer inside, but it was too murky.

She couldn't feel the chill as much. Time was getting on, as always.

Brigitte pulled off her beanie as she pushed through the sticky old door, stepping inside. She was hit instantly by the smoky, thick air and the odour of old alcohol. It made her itch. Every instinct urged her to get back outside for air.

Somebody hadn't got the memo about smoking indoors, it seemed. Quite a few somebodies, Brigitte noted, looking around as she unbuttoned her coat. For a number of years.

She moved further in, looking for Ginger. Small tables were spread around without a lot of apparent thought. An old fashioned wooden bar ran across half the inside. Solid, heavy looking thing.

It felt like everyone was looking at her. Hard to tell nowadays whether that was just her own neuroses or some part of her instincts, heightened by the curse.

Someone suddenly grabbed her wrist and she yanked away on impulse, bumping into somebody else behind her and getting…something…poured all over her feet for her trouble.

"Hey." The man grumbled.

She turned around, imagining some large, hairy trucker from an American horror movie and was surprised…and mildly disappointed, when she came face to face with a balding, jumpy-looking man in a suit. Sort of skinny, not very tall.

The word "banker" asserted itself.

"Sorry about that." Ginger appeared at her shoulder, handing over couple of dollars. "My sister is such a klutz." She gave her a look as the man mumbled something and wandered back to the bar.

Ginger steered her toward the table she'd been sitting at. The one right beside where she'd been standing when Ginger had reached for her hand.

"I can't take you anywhere." Ginger smirked, once they'd sat down.

"You don't take me anywhere." Brigitte retorted, resting her arms on the table and glancing around.

Still felt like she was being watched. Like an itch, or something prodding at the back of her head she couldn't explain.

"Maybe I'll have to start." Her sister leaned back in her chair, taking a mouthful of whatever frothy, brown shit she was drinking.

"I-…what?" Brigitte turned back, in surprise.

Ginger only flashed a grin, and pushed over a dark bottle of something. Brigitte was vaguely familiar with the logo and deemed it mostly safe.

"Ever heard of just saying "hello"?" She asked, after taking a sip.

"Not everyone freaks out like that when somebody touches them, B."

"Not everybody…" She stopped short of going into detail about Tyler, and wasn't in the mood to discuss at length her particular issues with her body. "…is like us." She finished.

"Speak for yourself, sis." Ginger grinned, downing the last of her drink. "I swear about a week after each full moon I get this itch that I just can't scratch myself."

"Ginger." Brigitte glared. "Tell me you haven't spent the last three years-"

"-siring horny werewolf dudes like Jason?" Ginger cut in. She shook her heard. "Nah. Chance'd be a fine thing." She sighed.

"Ginger!" Brigitte growled.

"I'm kidding, B." She slapped the table, trying not to laugh. "I'd like to think I learned some things from all this, at least."

"Jesus…" Brigitte dropped her head in her hands, muttering.

"What about you? You gonna tell me that after all this time you managed to stay a virgin?" Ginger asked, casually, starting on what must have been her third bottle.

Brigitte lowered her hands, a look of sheer mortification on her face.

Ginger's brows rose.

"What, really?" She said, lowering the drink, sounding surprised.

"I had other things to fucking worry about, Ginger." Brigitte hissed, hoping for something to end this conversation. Like a comet. Mass extinction of all life in the local area. "Like the desire to sprout hair in all the wrong places, grow claws and teeth that'd make a shark blush and a slightly…frustrating…hunger…for the flesh of living things." She finished, through gritted teeth.

Ginger appeared to be in thought. She was looking at her curiously.

"Are you into girls?" She asked, finally.

Only one so far, she thought, bleakly.

"Don't really know." Brigitte replied, half-heartedly.

"That's not a 'no', though, is it?" Ginger leaned closer, sounding interested. "We used to talk about this sort of thing." She went on, a hint of sadness in her voice.

"We used to talk about you." Brigitte mumbled under her breath.

Ginger didn't reply to that, but her expression faltered briefly. With hurt, or guilt, or something else, Brigitte couldn't say.

Brigitte grabbed her bottle and took a swig. She was probably going to need it.

"You must have wanted to though, right?" Ginger went on, suddenly, gleefully ignoring her sister's discomfort. "I mean three years, the pressure in there must be like a volcano. You at least mastur-"

Brigitte spat her mouthful of beer over the table, glaring at Ginger.

What had she done to deserve this.

"I swear to god, Ginge, I really will kill you if you finish that sentence." She muttered, darkly, looking up at her sister, trying not to think about just how she had been relieving that 'pressure' in her own, twisted, private way.

How she still was.

And now she was thinking about it. And Ginger was being quiet. Oh fu-

"…uh…" Brigitte managed.

Ginger was looking back at her with an amused expression. An old expression of Pamela's came to mind. Something about a cat and a canary.

Brigitte felt like the canary.

"What?" She asked, with some trepidation.

"You called me Ginge." Ginger practically beamed.

Brigitte replayed her words briefly, realising she had.

"Huh." Brigitte shrugged. "Your fault. What did you expect with this schoolgirl crap?"

"Harsh, B." Ginger grinned. "I don't know how you coped. Repressing that and the curse each month?"

"Wasn't so hard." Brigitte shrugged. "They never looked at me like they looked at you."

They might have both been social outcasts, the freaky Fitzgeralds, but they weren't the same. Brigitte could see that, back then. The boys looked at Ginger. The girls were threatened by her. She was the 'hot' one.

Brigitte was the 'other' one.

Most of the time, that suited her.

…most of the time.

"Bull." Ginger waved her bottle, dismissively. "You're my sister, you share my genes, therefore, you must be as devilishly attractive as me."

"I don't think it works that way, Ginger."

"You must have at least thought about puttin' the moves on some guy. At some point. I know sometimes I just get so…" Ginger started.

"…hungry?" Brigitte interrupted. "That's just it. Course' I want to, but is it me or the curse? Is that need mine, or the beast's? If I give in, am I feeding it? I couldn't. Can't. Won't."

She thought back to Tyler again. Their meeting in the bathroom stall. And again in Ghost's house. Each time, she thought she'd wanted it, somewhere, but…each time, it had felt like something else was pushing or pulling her. Feeding her desire.

"Sure you're not just makin' excuses?" Her sister grinned.

"Yeah." Brigitte downed another mouthful from her bottle. "Like I said anyway, I'm not the one they looked at." She picked at the label, distractedly.

"Oh yeah?" Ginger leaned over, conspiratorially. "Well that guy's been lookin' at you since you stumbled in." She nodded across the room.

Brigitte looked over.

On a table in the corner, with a group of other men, a youngish looking guy with short dark hair was looking back at them. He grinned, raising his glass to his mouth when he saw her looking over.

He was good-looking, no doubt funny and charming. Roguish-type. Dressed nice. Neat casual. Probably friendly too. All smiles. In a minute, he or one of his 'friends' would be over, offering them a drink, or something to 'take the edge off'.

She knew the type.

She had to get the tools for extracting and dosing the monkshood somewhere, after all. Wasn't something you picked up at the local store.

"He's a dealer." Brigitte muttered, turning back sharply.

For a moment, she thought guiltily of Sam. Hadn't he been doing the same thing? Selling to the kids at her school?

"What?" Ginger blinked.

"Look at me." Brigitte glowered. "I look like a fucking user. He thinks I'm a 'potential customer'. He's not checking me out."

"Aw, c'mon, B-" Ginger started, but Brigitte shook her head.

"Let's go." Brigitte started to move, but Ginger placed her hand over hers.

"Let's get something."

"No."

"C'mon, you must have tried right? I bet drinking or a bit of weed totally smoothed that monkshood shit out." Ginger pressed.

"Oh, I tried." Brigitte nodded. "And yeah, didn't feel as much pain. Didn't feel much anything, in fact. At all."

"So where's the downside?" Ginger sniggered.

"It's all fucking downside when you're trying to cling onto some small shred of yourself and you've just turned your brain into fucking jelly." Brigitte snapped. "Like dangling from a ledge over a pit after you've just greased your palms."

She had tried it once. A year and a half after she left Bailey Downs. It was too much. The crushing isolation, the beast clawing to get out, the monkshood poisoning her body. The possibility that each day might have been the last Brigitte would ever see, before what was inside her took over, and made her obsolete.

She'd tried drinking, but it took more than she could stand to make it worthwhile. So one evening, a bad one, she tried it out. Bought a bit from the guy she'd got the gear she had back then from.

It wasn't as if it was new to her. She and Ginger had smoked it in the past. When the suffocation of suburban purgatory got that little bit too much.

It had been fine at first. The feeling of the monkshood burning through her veins had faded away slowly. She remembered it still, the sensation of floating on nothing. No pain, no hurt…not a thing.

She'd woken up the next morning in a heap by the door. One of her feet had started to become a paw, her ears stretched unnaturally, sharp fangs too big for her mouth and her hands were claws. The door was raked by great, jagged, splintered gashes, where she'd tried to get out.

Brigitte had left town that day.

"Earth to Brigitte." Ginger snapped her fingers in front of her face.

"Not doing it." Brigitte managed, pushing down the memory.

"Bet you tried it near a full moon." Her sister shot her a knowing look.

"My luck being what it is," Brigitte shrugged. ", probably."

"So let's get something now. We'll chill the fuck out tonight, you and me."

Ginger still had her palm pressed firmly over Brigitte's hand.

Brigitte frowned at the table.

"You need some kind of vice, B." Ginger chuckled. "Our lives fucking suck. Gotta find something you can do that makes you feel better."

Brigitte was fully aware she had a pretty serious vice of her own. She wasn't sure that smoking weed was going to top the fact she'd got off thinking about her own sister, for the last few years, and still did, even though she wasn't exactly as dead as she'd thought. Or that her feelings were becoming more complex and murky toward her in general.

She watched as Ginger looked across the bar, flashing a smile at the dealer, who'd be over in a minute. No doubt happily assured in his estimation of Brigitte as a hopeless addict.

"Evening ladies." She could hear the smile before she could see it. "What brings you all the way out here?"

"We're travelling across the country to see relatives." Ginger replied, smooth as anything. "Taking the long route. Working our way there, you could say."

"I'm sure I've seen your friend there in Hoskin's place." Brigitte heard him pull up a chair. She tried to put on an expression that wasn't outright disgust.

"Need the money." She replied, turning to face him.

"We're kinda short, for the trip." Ginger added.

"But not that short, right?" He grinned, running a hand through his hair. "Name's Mike."

"I'm Ginger, this is my sister Brigitte."

"Sisters, huh?" Mike smiled.

Brigitte fought the urge to scowl. Surely he wasn't…

Mike grinned.

Of course he fucking was.

"You look like the guy to talk to for getting something to…take the edge off?" Ginger smiled.

Brigitte shot her a dark look, but Ginger either didn't notice or ignored it.

"I think I can help you out." He rummaged through his jacket pocket, producing what looked like a packet of cigarettes.

Brigitte stared. This guy was either the dumbest fucking dealer on the planet or…

She glanced toward the bar. The barman looked their way briefly, before going back to serving another customer.

…or he knew the owner.

"Let's call it thirty." Mike smiled again. "Since you're new in town, and I guess I like you."

"Too kind." Ginger passed over a couple of notes and took the pack.

"Pleasure." Mike nodded. He dug around in his pocket again and produced a card. Brigitte was surprised when he waved it toward her, instead of Ginger. "My number, in case you want to get in touch with me or anything. I hope we'll see a bit more of each other."

Brigitte forced a smile and took it.

"Great. Thanks." She replied, wanting to put her head through the table. "We'll look you up if we need…anything."

"Good." Mike grinned. "Night ladies." He nodded and slipped away again.

Ginger was trying not to laugh.

"That...look on your face…" She started.

"Trying to smile." Brigitte dropped the act and scowled.

"Impressive." Ginger went on, nodding thoughtfully. "You looked like you were in real pain, there."

"Shut up." Brigitte glared.

"Oh man, B. He likes you."

"Think I'm going to be sick."

"Can I get a 'You were right, Ginge. That guy does want to get in my pants.'?"

Brigitte crossed her arms and glowered, but Ginger only grinned back.

She slumped back in her chair with a sigh.

"Let's just g-" She glanced across the bar again, when something caught her eye.

Flash of pale, blonde hair. Staring eyes. Roundish, child-like face.

But…

Brigitte stood up. She looked around, searchingly, but there was nothing now.

But…

She'd felt like she was being watched. What if it wasn't just that dealer, Mike, what if…

"Brigitte, what's wrong?" Ginger was beside her, passing her coat over.

Brigitte looked back at her, confused, troubled.

"I thought I saw…" But what had she seen? She'd seen Ginger for three years, in her head. "…nothing. Let's go." She finished, taking her coat.

Ghost was gone. Just another ghost.

"This is good." Ginger yawned.

They were lying side by side on the bed in their motel room, staring up at the ceiling. A cloud of smoke was steadily filling the small space.

"Not bad." Brigitte conceded, taking a toke.

She was halfway through counting the shitty tiles on the roof.

"So, you're really telling me you didn't want to get it on with that guy at all? Not even a little."

Brigitte shook her head, blowing out a mouthful of hazy smoke. The motion made her dizzy, but in a good way.

"I didn't." Brigitte replied, still counting the tiles. "But in about a week the other one'll gagging for it."

"Ever thought about letting it win?"

Brigitte passed over the joint. Ginger took it.

She nodded. Of course she'd thought about it.

Beside her, Ginger blew a smoke ring. It floated up between them.

"Ever actually considered letting it win?" Ginger asked.

"No." Brigitte replied. "One time was one too many."

"The world didn't end, B."

Brigitte turned her head on its side, to face her sister.

"I thought it was." Brigitte said, slowly. "That's…the point. I thought I'd lost. Game over. Like when I killed you. That was it. No second chance. No more Brigitte. No more Ginger."

Ginger turned her head on its side too, meeting her eyes.

She inhaled the joint and slowly blew out a stream of smoke. Brigitte breathed in, felt it working its way through her. She felt relaxed.

"I wouldn't have liked that." Ginger frowned, serious. "No more Brigitte." She passed the joint back.

"Wasn't fond of it either." Brigitte took a hit.

"No more Brigitte." Ginger repeated, apparently hung up on the idea. "Don't know what I'd have done if I couldn't find you, B."

Brigitte lost count of the tiles. She sighed.

Ginger suddenly shuffled closer to her, closing the gap between them.

"Did you think about me?" She asked.

"Hard to forget." Brigitte rolled her eyes, smiling wryly. "Y'know? With the killing thing, and the hallucinations, delusions and shit."

Ginger was looking at her like she wanted a different answer. Brigitte took another toke, enjoying the sensation of calm that washed over her and passed it back to Ginger.

"All the time." Brigitte said, glancing at Ginger briefly. "Thought about you all the time."

Ginger seemed satisfied. She blew another smoke ring. And another.

"Even when…" Ginger began, trailing off.

"When what?" Brigitte faced her again.

Ginger had a curious expression on her face. This normally set off warning lights for Brigitte, but she was feeling pretty chilled at this point.

"What do you think about when you get off, B?"

Brigitte held her sister's probing gaze for a moment, before plucking the joint out of her fingers and looking back at the ceiling. She inhaled deeply.

Not answering wasn't great, but any answer she could give wasn't going to be very good anyway. She couldn't sum up the will to care.

"Stuff." Brigitte exhaled, lazily, closing her eyes.

"How much did you think about me?"

Brigitte felt the air still around her.

"All the time." She repeated.

She felt Ginger move again. Her sister was pressed close against her side now. She could feel her breasts push against her chest, slightly. Ginger's legs bump into hers.

"All grown up." Ginger whispered in her ear.

Then she felt Ginger's hand fiddling with the clasp on her jeans.

She opened her eyes and faced Ginger, confused. Perplexed. Her thoughts and reactions were dulled, and she knew it, but this was…

"What are you doing?"

"Helping." Ginger replied.

Brigitte moved to stop her, clumsily, but Ginger's other hand stopped her. Ginger intertwined their fingers, clasping their hands together, while she finished undoing Brigitte's jeans with the other.

"Ginger."

"Just relax." Ginger's hand slipped beneath her jeans.

Her eyes never left Brigitte's.

Brigitte stared. She felt lost. Found. Confused. Certain. Wanting. Scared. All at the same time. And she didn't care.

Ginger's hand was in her underwear.

"You shave." Ginger giggled. Actually giggled. It was such an alien noise.

"Werewolf." She gasped, by way of an answer. Ginger's hand was cold.

They'd been closer than most siblings. But this…this was…

"Ginger." She repeated, for lack of anything else to say.

Her head lolled back and she closed her eyes again, inhaling from the joint. She felt good. How long had it been since she'd last felt good?

There was a line, wasn't there? There had to be. Brigitte was pretty sure they'd crossed it somewhere. Or maybe she had on her own, weeks ago? Months? Years?

"Remember, B?" Ginger breathed, gripping her hand tighter. "Fireworks." She said, her fingers curling inside her.

"Supernovas." Brigitte managed, her breath hitching. She bit her lip.

"I know…every move." Ginger grinned. "Yours too." Brigitte felt Ginger let go of her hand as she took the joint back.

"This isn't…" Brigitte opened her eyes and faced her sister. "We can't do this." Some small part of her brain was struggling to cling onto her splintering concept of reality, through the confused, conflicted, doped core of her brain.

"Who fuckin' says." Ginger inhaled again, but held it in.

Brigitte was having trouble focusing, as Ginger's fingers brought her closer to the edge. She writhed slightly, but Ginger's legs tangled up in hers kept her close.

Fuck. Fuck. What the…

"Breathe, B." Ginger said quickly.

"Wh-"

Ginger leaned forward and their mouths locked. Brigitte stiffened in surprise, breathing in quickly, rapidly inhaling the smoke Ginger had been holding. It went straight to her head.

"Woah." She mumbled, weakly, when Ginger pulled back. "What the-"

Her body practically shook when Ginger probed once more with her fingers, sending a jolt down her spine so…

"Fuck!" She gasped, hitting her peak.

Brigitte rolled onto her back, moaning to herself, her body caught between hyper-sensitivity and complete numbness.

She could feel Ginger watching her out of the corner of her eye, smoking the last of the joint.

"Better?" She asked, surprisingly tentative.

"I'm so…so fucked up." Brigitte mumbled, closing her eyes.

Ginger edged closer to her, nudging their head together.

"You're not so bad." Ginger yawned.

Brigitte felt her sister's hand settle over her stomach.

"Compared to what?" Brigitte balked. Then yawned too.

Ginger snorted.

"You think too much." Her older sister started running her hand in a slow, circular motion over the flat of her stomach.

Brigitte felt herself drifting. Slipping. Her eyes heavy, like they were weighted or something. Easier to let go. Sleep sounded good.

"Love you, Brigitte." She heard Ginger murmur, before everything faded.