Okay, so...

I should NOT be writing this. I have an extremely popular Expendable fiction to complete, or the fans will storm my castle and behead me on the front lawn, over my kiddie pool. I should NOT be entertaining thoughts of Mr. Crepsley, who hits all my 'daddy issues' buttons. Like I need more of that crap-ola.

Repeat: I should NOT be writing this.

But I'm going to anyway. :D

I love taming brusque characters, and perhaps adopting some of their gruffness for my own use. I am too nice for my own good, really, or so I've been told.

Plus, I want to run my fingers through that surprise of orange hair...

Huh, what? Oh, sorry, I'm back now.

If you review and encourage me, I will only spread the blame. If this thing gets some juice, I'll keep it going.

WARNINGS: Occasional swearword, because Crepsley's a badass, and shameless mixing of books and movie elements. Romance, eventually, but only if the story gets some wind under its wings. Even then, it'll be tasteful. Thus, the rating is a high 'T'. Will change to 'M' when romance blooms strong.


"Are you twenty-one?" inquires the strangely accented, tall man with the bulbous head.

Darren and I glance at each other, then back at the towering character that is, apparently, the Cirque du Freak's bouncer. My hand tightens on the brightly colored flyer in my pocket.

"Are you both twenty-one?" he repeats himself, eyes urging. Then, in a whisper, "Say yes!"

Again, my baby brother and I exchange glances. "Close enough," I reply, cocking my head endearingly, speaking for both of us.

"Do you have a heart condition, a tendency for panic attacks, or any allergies?" asks the man.

"Does an allergy to stupidity count?" I ask, grinning at the tall man to let him know I don't mean him.

The giant's smile, to my surprise, goes from politely welcoming to genuinely amused. "Tickets?" he continues.

Darren and I produce the small slips of paper, threading them in the tall man's long, bony fingers. With a flick too fast to follow, the tickets disappear. "Right this way," he says with a wide grin. "The show's about to start."

The decrepit, dusty theater is doing my allergies no good. I sneeze into my arm, garnering 'flu season fugly' looks from my fellow audience members as we take two seats in the front row. I swear, it might as well be the Walking Dead universe when the influenza starts to fly.

"This is gonna be awesome," mutters Darren. "Thanks for the ride, Adrienne."

"You got any other sisters?" I snort. "Who else is gonna aid and abet you?" I ask, pocketing my keys with extra care. Things of value tend to vanish in places like this. If the 'eau de crime' outside didn't make me fear for my VW Bug, then the hideous little wrinkled person that sold us our tickets made me fear for my purse. Not that any of that would stop us, of course. "Mom and dad would shit kittens if they knew we were here."

"That's what makes it awesome," Darren replies, grinning. Sixteen years old, and already a joyous rule breaker. I should be proud of the influence I have.

Tilting my head in reluctant ascent, I say, "I admit, getting out from under their thumbs feels pretty epic. Bucking the system, slipping the noose, sticking it to the man, whatever you like to call it."

"Just awesome works. Why you gotta go all 'higher education' on me? We're in public."

"Sorry, bro. My vocabulary is bulemic: it has to vomit to feel good about itself."

"Remind me never to go to college for law," he groans. "It does things to you."

"Oh, come on, you know mom and dad's mantra," I cajol.

As one, we mockingly reiterate the three words that shape our lives, "College, job, family!"

"What a shitty lineup," Darren moans, digging in his backpack.

"Watch your mouth," I say automatically. Even if he is right.

"Hypocrite," he declares, offering me a piece of gum.

"I've earned my right, between the 'rents and my credit hour load. Here's to twenty years of biting my tongue," I reply, toasting him with my silver-foiled stick.

"And only a few more."

Leaning back in my chair slightly, I regard the high ceiling and chew. I love spending time with Darren. We get to be both the kids and the grown-ups that mom and dad can't (or refuse, in my case) see. The talks we have, which would be so dire and serious and possibly yell-worthy with them, can be spoken plainly and without fear in each other's presence. I love my brother like my best friend.

In a way, we are just that: best friends. Dermot and Angela Shan adopted me when I was five, and Darren was two. Maybe not being blood family makes it easier to get along.

"I may never get out of here," I murmur. Darren doesn't hear me, but that's okay. I should keep my misgivings about my preset life to myself. Dad and mom are... well, I should say that I'm rapidly approaching the age where the meddling of adults is just that - meddling. I still love mom and dad, but I wish they'd get their grubby hands off my life. I am forced to walk a tedious line between placating them with a law degree and following my dreams to be a folklorist. Thus, I major in law and secretly double-major in folklore.

You might be thinking "That bitch be cray-cray!" Not crazy: just non-confrontational. It's a gift. When your parents gripe the 'my roof, my rules' argument, you'll understand. But see, I can't get a job because of 24 credit hours of school. I can't move out without a job. I can't get a decent job without an education. I can't get an education without somewhere to live. I need to placate my parents with a law degree to have somewhere to live. And the cycle continues...

Ugh, it gets my shoulders tense just thinking about it.

"Two minutes," someone whispers behind me. As if in response, the heavy red curtain on the stage flutters slightly.

"Why didn't Steve want to come?" I ask Darren.

He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. "Honestly? I think he doesn't like you."

"Well, he'll just have to get over that," I reply primly, crossing my legs. "You know, before he dies."

"He's been my best friend since second grade," Darren reminds me, ever loyal.

"I'm not hating," I assure. "I'm above that, at this age. I just wish he was."

"I think he thinks you cramp our style."

"The juvenile delinquent style? Bro, look where we are right now." I gesture around at the expansive, rundown theater with its tiny, oddly unmatched audience. "I not only lied for us, but I drove us. Who's the scapegoat if we get busted? I'm the epitome of 'cool.'"

Darren chews his gum and smirks. "Yeah - ... no. It loses something when you say it."

Playfully, I shove him. Someone shushes us: a pretty blonde woman on the other side of me.

People around us start to applaud as the curtain parts and some jazzy horn music starts to play. The same tall man from before strides onto the stage and introduces the Cirque du Freak: the longest operating freak show in the western hemisphere. "I am Mr. Tall, your ringmaster."

"The name fits," I approve the symmetry.

Darren hums in response as the lights dim and change color.

I let go of everything and let myself be transported. The implied continuity of the Cirque tickles the lawyer in me, that part of me that adores antiquities and structures that endure, be they word, place, or traditions. The smell of history steeps the place as the first act comes up: two girls called the Twisting Twins.

"I do that every night before bed," I joke as one of the leotarded girls wraps her leg over her neck.

"Don't ruin this for me," Darren implores, oogling.

I roll my eyes. Boys.

The Wolfman freaks me out, pardon the pun. He seems under the control of Mr. Tall, who clicks his tongue and whistles like he's calling a dog. But as the beast's feet thud closer and closer along the front row, and his repugnant smell penetrates my nostrils, I feel myself start to sweat. "Ho, boy," I whisper, closing my eyes tightly and grabbing the edge of my seat. Please don't eat me, please don't eat me...

Sure enough, the beast passes me by. I breathe and relax marginally. Suddenly, he takes a bite out of the pretty blonde woman next to me, ripping her arm off below the elbow with a roar. She shrieks convincingly and I gape at her bloody stump, my heart utterly still.

"Remain calm," says Mr. Tall, like he was ordering eggs over-easy. And like a boss, he introduces the blonde as the next act!

"Damn!" I say, applauding wildly and relievedly as her freaking arm grows back, from bones to skin to fingers. "Did not see that coming!"

Darren is enthralled, same as me.

"The amazing Corma Limbs, ladies and gentlemen! And next, the lovely Madam Truska!"

Two burly men carry in a beautiful lady on a chaise. She stands, and her rack does not change positions. "Do we have someone brave enough to be my assistant," she addresses the crowd in a thick accent. "Who will volunteer?"

Of course, my idiot brother's hand shoots up, along with every man in the audience. Remind me not to produce testosterone, I think to myself when Darren is chosen and led to the chaise. I am a ball of hysterical snickers muffled by my hand as she massages his face seductively, then brings his hands to her own cheeks. Darren recoils when her beard starts to bristle under his fingertips.

I'm almost crying with laughter when Darren flops back down into his seat and mutters, "I'm scarred for life."

"Ready for more?" queries Mr. Tall, his voice echoing from the balcony. "Larten Crepsley and Madam Octa!"

A crimson blur flys from backstage, terminating in the form of a red-headed man, resplendent and noble in a tophat and red tailcoat. Abruptly, I stop clapping.

"What is it?" mutters Darren, as the redheaded man sweeps a bow.

My textbooks' pages flash before my eyes. "That guy's a vampire!" I say softly. The eyes of the man on stage momentarily rest on me. Oh, shit! Did he hear me?! They're a stunning seagreen color, like a piece of jasper held to the light, and when they narrow suspiciously, they pin me in my seat like a bug on a slide. Double shit, he totally did!

"So?" asks Darren. "He's a freak among freaks here."

Swallowing my nerves, I dig my fingers into the cushion of my seat. Darren's right. The damn Folklore minor is messing with me. My idea of normal and abnormal is being redefined tonight. This real-life vampire is a freak among freaks, like a soda can lined up in a dispenser machine. Why should he elicit this reaction from me, when I just saw a woman grow back her limb and a real, live Wolfman?

Because my textbooks don't mention them: they mention him. Suddenly, my lessons on legends have come to very bright and real light. Only fifteen feet from me stands a living myth. Perhaps the stutter of my heart is due to that.

Crepsley the vampire scans the audience, and his voice projects easily and with sardonic power. "Yes, thank you all for taking the night off from your televisions to come to the Cirque du Freak!"

Everyone claps again, with some polite titters of laughter.

"This is my first time visiting this quaint suburban cess pool," continues the vampire with a distinctly sneering air. "But I can already pinpoint the source of your obesity. Here's a hint: it's on every street corner."

"Snarky bastard, ain't he?" I whisper to Darren.

The vampire's eyes land on me, again. I flush, grateful for the shadow of the stage lights.

"I appreciate you visiting the Cirque in lieu of your fastfood restaurants or one of the many, many antique stores your town seems to be known for," says the vampire breezily. "I had hoped to perform my regular act tonight. But my spider, Madam Octa, has gone missing."

My face goes three shades of pale. "Oh, God."

The audience whispers and starts to carefully look around under their feet.

"Awesome!" whispers Darren, looking under his seat excitedly. Little wierdo loves spiders as much as I fear them.

"Is that your word for everything?" I squeak, drawing my legs into my chair. "Check under mine."

"Nothing there," he says smugly. "That's what you get for laughing at me."

"Hand me my purse, please," I beg him, tightly folding my legs up under me.

He hands me the bag, and I sigh in relief when the zippers are all intact. I feel better with it in my lap, shielding me. That purse and I have been through the ringer together.

"In her absence, I will be performing a variety of stunning illusions," declares the vampire. "First, a rabbit from a hat!" He whips the accessory off his head with a flourish.

I'll withhold judgement of your act on the basis of your stage character, I promise, I think to myself sarcastically. I gasp when the damn spider pops out of his tophat like a jack-in-the-box.

The vampire gasps theatrically. His eyes find me again, this time, with a mischevious gleam.

Oh, hell, no -

The spider goes flying with a flick of his wrist and a faux-startled cry. Seemingly in slow motion, I watch the arachnid sail through the air towards me. I am paralyzed with horror, and turn to veritable stone when Madam Octa lands daintily on my knee.

I can see my own reflection in her eight eyes. All around me, distantly, I hear my fellow audience members shriek and stumble away from me. I swear to God, the spider is looking at me. Sentiently!

"Hello," I say timidly. What else can I say to a knowing gaze like that?

One foreleg is raised, but it might just have been a twitch at the sound waves of my voice.

I am pulled out of my Crocodile Hunter moment by a shadow. I come out of my trance to see the vampire standing over me. Darren is dividing his astonished gaze between the myth and his eight-legged pet.

"May I have my spider back, please?" asks the vampire, kneeling before my seat with an open palm. Madam Octa merrily turns to scuttle down my knee and into the vampire's hand.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding as the vampire stands, cupping the arachnid lovingly. "Now, little girl," he addresses me.

Unconsciously, I straighten in my chair, finally meeting that scary seagreen stare. Gulp. He's spooky and dangerous-looking up close.

"If I were a vampire, would it be wise to shoot your mouth off about it? Are vampires not a secretive bunch?"

"N-no," I stutter, flushing and looking down. He's barefoot in contrast to his impeccable clothes, and his feet look tough as leather. "Not wise."

"Indeed," murmurs the vampire. Then he turns on his shoeless heel and centers the stage.

My heart restarts like a cheap Dell computer and I unwind my fingers from my deathgrip on my purse.

"That was so cool!" gushes Darren as the audience dissolves into applause again at the vampire's bow.

Recovering from one of the biggest shocks of my life, I let my stunned psyche focus on the performing vampire and spider. He works his spider like an extension of his body, her webs spinning in the embrace of his arms, between his fingers, over his lips. When he licks the cobwebs off, though, I swear his eyes roam the audience and land on me, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

This is the fourth time he's looked at me. I'm getting the 'you're gonna get murdered' vibes pretty strongly.

"Cobwebs are a delicacy where I come from!" declares the vampire.

I am momentarily stunned by his ability to so stupendously alienate an audience with his words, only to resuscitate them like the drowned with his act. They go wild for him as he exits the stage.

Mr Tall reappears and introduces someone called Ramus Twobellies. Darren gathers his backpack and rises to a half-stand. "Bathroom," he whispers as he edges away from me.

I nod, shaking off the last of my daze, and return my attention to the fanfare being played. My awe compounds as a man with two enormous stomachs thuds onto the stage, and proceeds to eat an absurd amount of food, and an array of inanimate objects.

Several minutes and wince-worthy culinary miracles later, I clap enthusiastically with the audience as Ramus exits the stage, and Darren takes the opportunity to slither back into his seat, clutching his backpack. "Everything come out alright?" I ask him with a shit-eating grin.

"Super," he replies sarcastically.

"Ladies and gentlemen," says Mr. Tall, opening his arms. "I know the reputation of Evra Von, the Snake Boy, preceeds him. But I am afraid that his snake is sick, and cannot perform."

The audience, including myself and Darren, make disappointed or sympathetic noises.

"And so concludes our Cirque! Thank you for joining us for this night of mysticism, magic, and mayhem!"

"What a show," I marvel as Darren and I stream out of the theater and towards the side street where I parked.

"I thought you were going to wet yourself when the spider landed on you," he teases.

"I thought your boner was going to snap off when that beard started to grow," I shoot back. I'm somewhat tense. The vampire had that rape-y look to him, and went out of his way to get close to me. Dark alley? Not helping.

"Ouch," he laughs, sliding into the passenger seat.

Breathing a sigh of relief when I lock the doors and pull away from the curb, I don't even notice he is clutching his backpack with special care.


How could I have let this happen? (As though I have any say in the workings of fate)

We made it home under curfew without mom and dad being suspicious of our secret fun. All in all, a pleasantly naughty night.

Now I suffer the consequences of my idiotic, senseless deception.

Unbeknownst to me, Darren had stolen the spider belonging to Larten Crepsley. I didn't know Darren had it until after the show, when I had come into his room to wish him goodnight to find him playing with the arachnid.

It had promptly become startled and bitten his face, then disappeared out the open window.

Needless to say, after being rushed to the hospital and thoroughly tested, no positive source of ailment was found for the nasty, puss-filled blister with two fang marks on his cheek. I kept insisting it was a spider, even drew the doctor a picture, but they couldn't find anything that looked remotely like it in a reference book.

My family and I could do nothing but sit on our hands and pray for a miracle.

Now, I am splayed across two uncomfortable, stained chairs in the waiting room: the farthest arm behind my back and the junction of the chairs under my knees. With a Intro to the Crimminal Justice System textbook open before my unseeing eyes, I contemplate telling my parents Dermot and Angela Shan the whole story, but decide that it is not the right time.

My mother is compulsively crocheting in the chair next to my feet, her hands nearly a blur over the vibrant tropical yarn, her eyes similarly sightless. My father paces anxiously over the worn carpet.

My heart fills with worry and grief, not just for my baby bro, but for my poor parents. When Dermot and Angela adopted me at age five, I doubt they had an inkling I might become their only child.

Dad stiffens, turning to face the approaching doctor in his long white coat. "How is he?" he asks, a note of desperation in his voice.

The doctor, whose nametag reads Caraway, is fingering through the results of several tests on an iPad, shaking his head incredulously. "I've never seen anything like it, Mr. Shan. Not in all my years of practice."

"So what are you doing?" says my father tightly.

Doctor Caraway looks up at him with sincerety that comes with daily practice. "We're treating his symptoms, and we've got him on a ventillator, but I'm afraid that's all we can do."

"That can't be it," I murmur incredulously, my brain incapable of wrapping around it. "That can't be all. That's my brother! That's Darren! He's a healthy, happy sixteen-year-old boy!"

"Are you telling me a sheepskin means nothing in this day and age?" asks my mother acidly.

"Mom," I say softly, attempting comfort I don't feel, reaching forward to touch her arm.

"Mrs. Shan - "

"It's not good enough!" she nearly shouts, flinging down her yarn and hook, pointing down the hall where my brother's room is. "My little boy is laying comatose in that bed because - ...because - ..." Her throat closes up with tears, and the offending droplets spill onto her cheeks.

"Oh, mom," I croon, tearing up as well. I move over a chair to embrace her comfortingly, while my dad scrubs his face in anguished worry.

"So you're telling us," my father says hoarsely. "That all we can do is watch our son die?"

Doctor Caraway's lips are thin, and his jaw tense. "Not all. You can pray, if you believe that sort of thing." He steps forward and grips my father's shoulder, eyes fairly bleeding remorse. "I'm so sorry. We'll keep you updated on his condition."

"Can we see him?" whispers my mother.

"Please?" I add, imploring the doctor with my tear-streaked face.

The doctor hesitates, then nods. "For a few minutes. He might be contagious, and he's certainly in a delicate state right now. The less exposed he is to germs - " He stops talking as we dash past him, down the hall.

I backtrack only long enough to grab my textbook, flashing Caraway an apologetic smile tinged with urgent grief.

As I jog down the hall, law book in hand, I can hear my mom and dad talking quietly to my brother. Turning into the room, I try to hold back my gasp and fresh flood of tears. My little brother, my best friend, is laying pale and sick and deflated-looking in the hospital bed, with a tube taped into his mouth and more snaking out of his veins and under the blanket. His chest's undulations are timed by a steadily beating machine.

My mother and father are...

I reel bodily and emotionally, my hand coming up to suffocate my overwhelming sob. I almost succeed in choking it back. My mom and dad are laying on either side of my brother, grasping his hands, talking in his ears.

"Hey, my sweet boy," mom murmurs, stroking Darren's unswollen cheek.

My father is fingering back Darren's hair, carefully avoiding the mini-mountain on his face that threads purple burnt-out veins out like the web of the thing that bit him. "You can't die on us, son," says dad soothingly, voice cracking. "You can't. We haven't done your senior year roadtrip yet."

I stumble a step closer, leaning against the edge of the full bed. My throat aches like there's a softball in it, but I manage to put a hand on my brother's blanketed ankle. "Please come back," I whisper. "Who's gonna walk the neighborhood with me after dinner? Who's gonna crash my dates? Who's gonna go in half for that motorcycle? Who's gonna..." I trail off, and this time can't stop the sob from escaping. "I need you, bro. You're my family. You're my best friend. Please..."

There is a knock on the ajar door, and a fat black nurse eyes our distraught family with sorrow. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but Darren should get some rest. You three go on home: we'll call you if there's a change."

My mom sniffles herself somewhat composed, and my dad dashes the tears from his eyes, surprised to find them there.

We had driven separately to the hospital, following the ambulance, and now our bedraggled and drained family remnant trudges out to the parking lot, keys in hand. I pause with my hand on the door of my car, my tears plinking onto the kelly green paint of the Bug. My brother may never ride shotgun with me again. I can't stand the thought. There has to be something, some way to...

My head jerks up, staring off into space as my mid-collegiate brain sputters and churns.

The vampire! The spider belongs to him: he must have an antidote on hand!

"Mom, dad?"

"Yes, sweetie?" answers my dad, looking at me over the car roof.

"I, um," I hesitate to lie any more to them tonight, due to the consequences of my last one. "I need some air. I'm gonna stop by the park on my way home."

Dad is too bleary-eyed and tired to argue about the safety logistics. "Okay. Got your cell phone?"

"Yep."

"Call us if you need us, Adrienne," my mom says, hugging me. Her arms linger around me. "Your brother's going to be okay," she whispers into my hair.

A pleasant sentiment, if I were still a child. Cold reckoning tells me I will be down a brother by the end of the week, if I don't succeed in what I plan to do next. Not knowing if I would be able to again, I hug my mom back tightly, then traverse the lot to do the same to my dad.

Then I get in my car, and go to bargain for my brother's life.