Loud, ominous thumps echoed across the ceiling. This was shortly followed by the sound of sloshing liquid. Then more thumps. One by one, from the left corner of the roof, all the way to the right, then back to the left. As the thumps occurred, slivers of moonlight appeared and disappeared wherever they happened. Edgar counted twenty four in all. Alan counted thirty. Alan was right.
"Now, boys," Max began, gently pushing them into the room, "this will just be a lesson. Not necessarily a punishment. I do know that you're far too young and inexperienced for that just yet, but it's best to know what a scolding will look like if you don't mind your manners. You will retire here for the morning, and tomorrow night we'll have a proper introduction. I'd prefer you both wash up now, but it really would be a waste. You'll have to wash up when I come back for you."
Neither of the Frog brothers spoke, too terrified to fight back until at the very least Max's back was turned. There was no fighting it, however. They both knew what they were facing. A head vampire. A long-winded, dorky, boring head vampire. The worst kind of triple threat. Quadruple threat? Edgar wasn't quite sure.
"Now you'll notice, if you look above you," Max droned on, "every ten seconds, a slat of light will appear above, then disappear as soon as the next one appears about a foot or so away. It's not exactly precise. Rather ingenious, if I do say so myself. I used water fountains to create the effect…"
Edgar's eyes glazed over and he could swear he was falling into some sort of zen-like trance. Before he knew it, Max had closed the door behind him. The sound of a very loud, heavy lock clicked into place.
"Jesu-" Alan tried to shout, catching himself with a rough cough. "Je–" He tried again, only to go into a full blown coughing fit.
"Alan, you ok?" Edgar asked, gripping his brother by the shoulders and giving him a good shake, "get a hold of yourself!"
Alan slapped him away, gripping at his chest, "Ed, we're gonna be semi-toasted every five minutes by sunlight!"
Frowning, Edgar tried to understand what his brother was saying, "you're not making any sense."
"Look up, Ed, the sun is going to rise. There's gonna be light hitting us over and over, moving across the ceiling constantly."
Edgar couldn't quite get what he meant, but he nodded slowly, pretending to follow.
"So we just keep walking back and forth to avoid it," Edgar said, reasoning with him.
"We can't, dude. That Max guy said our bodies won't be able to move much. We can't keep it up all day, and sooner or later we're just gonna have to lay flat and take it!"
Edgar crossed his arms, "it can't be that bad. The comics are probably exaggerating. We'll get sun burns, maybe. Mark my words, Alan, this'll be a cakewalk."
As it turned out, he wasn't entirely wrong. It was in fact a cakewalk, when one considered that a cake spent the first portion of its life in the oven. Then, when one took into account that cakes couldn't walk and neither could Edgar or Alan when the slivers of light swept across them over and over just as they healed the damage it had done before - - the day was quite literally a cakewalk. Very painfully, and very literally.
Together, the Frog brothers developed an even deeper bond than they'd had already. A shared hatred and resentment of their reluctant maker. Something it would seem anyone who'd had the head vampire's blood all had in common.
They had none of the tools that David and the others had. They didn't know the first thing about what they could be capable of. It would take time to figure that stuff out.
"Alan," Edgar croaked, too weak to grip at his brother's hand as they lay curled on the ground, strips of charred flesh healing again and again as the lights above them migrated across the ceiling.
"Edgar," Alan replied weakly.
Edgar tried and failed to lift his head, forcing the next sentence out with the last bit of strength he had while the daylight pushed him into an agonizing slumber, "gonna bash his monster ass."
Alan couldn't nod, but he did so in spirit, "yeah."
Michael wrapped his arms as best he could around David's torso to try to wrest him from the pile of splintered antlers. Streams of too-dark blood dripped and flowed over his shoes.
"You are mine."
He turned those words over in his mind again and again. They just kept echoing, bouncing around in his skull. He swore he could actually hear David's voice surrounding him.
It was sharp and forceful, tinged with the same vicious humor the vampire sported from that first night they'd locked eyes. When Michael thought he was gloating silently over winning the girl.
He was supposed to be sleeping. They all agreed to go to bed, deal with everything in a few hours. How could any of them even pretend they were lying in bed right now without their eyes wide open? It was a grim joke.
Try as he might, he couldn't seem to pull David from the horns. The more he tried, struggled, pulled, the harder it became. Then his fingers slipped, wet with blood, and pieces of the coat crumbled in his hands.
"David," Michael whispered, panicking. More of the coat crumbled. The flesh beneath it. Everything quickly fell away in large blackened clumps.
"David!" He shouted, scraping at the ash with too-human nails, trying to somehow reshape him, put him back together whole. Michael didn't care if anyone heard him. He was delirious now, unable to understand himself or what had even happened. Tears, blood, and ash mingled in his hands.
Stripped bare to his soul, which Michael could hardly believe he even had anymore after everything, he felt the world around him crumbling just like the former vampire and–friend? Enemy? Neither word was quite right. Neither of them was strong enough to define whatever David was to him. They'd only known each other a few days. He should be glad to be freed from this nightmare. Yet he wasn't. Michael felt hollowed out. Empty. Burned through from the inside as the blood inside his veins became human. His and his alone.
In that moment, he realized he'd give anything to just take it all back. Everything. He just wanted them all to be alive again. Maybe in his own twisted way, David was right.
Then Michael was floating, drifting on a wave of heat and pain. Something else, fucked up as it somehow was. Euphoria. Bliss. The nightmare he'd had so many times fragmented, pieces of it disappearing and melting one by one as his eyes he hadn't even known were closed fluttered open.
He gasped, feeling cold hands bearing down on his wrists. Sharp knives digging into his neck. No, not knives. Teeth. Tearing and pulling at his flesh again and again. He was still dreaming. Maybe this was just illusions of his broken mind. Fuck, it felt so real.
Hips pressed down against his, just barely grinding. He wanted to respond, pull the monster above him closer. Then the fog of sleep reclaimed him when David whispered something into his ear. It was David. He couldn't remember anymore why that was so impossible. Couldn't remember anything past leaving the bowling alley.
He woke to the violent sound of banging on his bedroom door.
"Open the DAMN door, Michael Emerson!" His old man shouted. "It's three in the god damned afternoon and I've had it with this shit!"
"Rick," Lucy called out her soon to be ex-husband's name, arms crossed to pull her lace shawl a little tighter about her shoulders. "Rick, stop."
He rounded on her, towering above Lucy and as usual relying on his size and glare to try to keep her quiet. How on earth her younger son looked so much like his father, she'd never know. Both of the boys were so very different from him. His short fuse would be the death of the man one day, and she was tired of watching it burn.
"Michael!" He shouted again, pointedly banging on the door without breaking eye contact with Lucy. He was daring her to do something about it.
"Richard," she said his full first name, eyes closing in exasperation and heartache, "I'll talk to him. I think it's fair to say you have nothing left to say to anyone after last night." The way he'd tried to blame every single mistake he'd made in his life on her and the boys, focusing so much of it on Sam over dinner made her sick. She was done in so many ways with the man. Once they left in a few days, he would never see them again if she could help it. Even if she'd agreed he could have everything else but her car. If they could afford it, she'd have gotten Michael and Sam to a hotel that morning just to be done with everything then and there.
The banging finally stopped and Rick gave her such a condescending smile, she very nearly slapped him. She wanted to, but Lucy had never raised her hand against anyone, and she wasn't about to start now. It would only give him an excuse to push his nasty temper further. Enough was enough.
He ran a hand through his thinning brown and gray hair, sneering at Lucy as if that were somehow a measured response. "You've ruined both of them. Pampering and babying them all the damn time. Fine, do whatever you want. Talk to your son, cry. I don't give a shit anymore."
With that, the angry and pitiful excuse for a father stomped down the hallway towards his bedroom to continue packing everything of real value left in their house. Lucy remained beside her older son's door.
"Michael," she whispered, tapping softly, "you can take your time coming downstairs. I know–" she hesitated. What did she know? Was there anything she could really say? "-things will be better. Soon. We need to talk. I'm not mad at you for lying to me last night. I'm just glad you're home." He'd gotten into this routine of sleeping every day quite a while ago. Actively leaving the house at night was something altogether new. She didn't blame her son for wanting to get away from them. Shame pricked her heart. Lucy just hoped it wasn't too late for things to change for the better.
The soft sound of a lock clicking drew a weak smile to her lips.
"It'll just be me and you and your brother. We'll have some cookies." Her pitch went up just a little at the last word. She hoped he still liked cookies.
"Well, I'll let you get ready. Wash up. Whatever it is you need to do, honey," she said, drawing back from his door when she realized it wasn't opening just yet. Lucy went downstairs to meet Sam in the kitchen. He'd tied an apron haphazardly around himself to avoid getting any stains on his favorite pastel suit jacket.
"Isn't it a little warm for that, Sam?" She teased, trying to force some cheer for his sake.
Sam looked almost appalled at the question, "mom, it's never too hot to dress with a little style." He popped his collar for effect, slapping a tupperware mixing bowl on the kitchen island.
They set to work on gathering the ingredients for the cookies. Every so often Lucy would glance towards the kitchen door in hopes her eldest would make an appearance, just in case. It would be nice if he joined them before the batter was in the often.
"So what's Santa Carla like?" Sam asked, prodding Lucy's shoulder to get her attention. She brushed at the speck of flour he accidentally left behind in the process. She'd never taken the boys to visit their grandfather's house. Occasionally they'd exchange letters, maybe talk on the phone, but the money and time had never really been there for a trip to visit her hometown. Another regret of many to try to make up for now.
"Well, it's got a lovely beach. I'm sure things have changed since I was there, but I know dad is still the same. You'll like it, honey. Grandpa has always wanted to share the family business with you boys."
Sam wrinkled his nose, "his weird hobby?"
"Honey, you'd be surprised at how popular his work is. Though, I will admit, when mom was around there weren't quite as many—you know what? I think I'll let you boys find out for yourselves when we get there. Words can't describe dad's taste."
"That bad?" A tired, cracking voice asked from the kitchen door. Lucy turned around to see her eldest leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.
"Michael, honey!" Lucy gasped, striding towards him and snatching up a dish towel to wipe at her hands, "are you sick?" He looked so pale. Too pale. He'd dressed himself though, in some jeans and a black t-shirt. The contrast made her all the more concerned as she tried to reach for his forehead. He shrugged her aside, shaking his head weakly.
"Fine," he very clearly lied, licking his lips and squinting in the light of the kitchen, "fine." He had his raybans tucked over his t-shirt collar, which he quickly slipped on as he dodged around her to take a seat at the kitchen table and lean back.
"Welcome back, Mike," Sam grumbled. Lucy gave him a gentle shake of her head, directing her attention back to her eldest and approaching him again.
"New gloves?" She asked, trying to make conversation when she noticed his leather-clad fingers drumming on the table. He looked down and back up, shrugging in response. At least she could honestly say he was in fact still a teenager, so while it was a little out of character for Michael to remain so tight-lipped - - hormones were enough of an excuse for her to ignore his poor mood.
"Coffee? Aspirin? Do you want anything?" She pressed on, pulling out one of the chairs so she could sit in front of him.
"I'm fine, mom. Just tired."
"I'm not surprised! When did you get home?"
"Late."
Sam gave a loud snort at the kitchen counter at that response.
"Sam," Lucy turned back to look at him, "did you preheat the oven?"
He nodded, "and I ate the leftover pizza, too."
"Great," Michael said, leaning one elbow on the kitchen table to stifle a yawn, "I hate pizza."
Lucy frowned, "Michael. Tell me what's going on. Is it a girl?"
"Mom," Michael replied, "I got home late. That's all. So what happened?"
She broke the news as gently as she could, "honey, we're being evicted. I didn't want to worry you or your brother until I knew for sure, but in a couple of days we're going to move in with your grandfather. Just until I get on my feet."
"In California?" He asked, lowering his sunglasses just enough to meet her gaze. She was more than a little grateful his eyes weren't bloodshot. She'd been just a little worried he might have been doing drugs, something worse even. It was a small relief, settling her nerves enough for her to smile at him with genuine cheer.
"Santa Carla, yes. By the beach. Your father and I are–" she paused, trying to grab one of his hands, which he pulled away. It stung just a little, but she pressed on, "-getting a divorce. It's for the best. I think me, you, and Sam can start over if you'll give me a chance. Honey, how do you feel about a road trip?"
Michael pushed his sunglasses back up to fully shade his eyes, rubbing a hand over his forehead in tired irritation, "sure. Yeah." He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up to leave.
Lucy stood up with him, "what are you doing?"
"I'm going out," he told her flatly, heading to the kitchen door.
"Michael!" She followed closely, "what about the cookies? Don't leave, stay. Please."
"I'll be back," he threw over his shoulder, dodging around Lucy's hands as she tried to grab at one of his arms. She let him leave.
She stood there, dumbfounded. Not sure what just happened. The clack of a wooden spoon echoed against Sam's mixing bowl.
"It's gotta be a girl, mom," he said, trying to reassure her. She hoped he was right.
She sized him up, popping a stick of gum in her mouth and curling the foil wrapper between rainbow pastel nails. "You've got an eye, don't you?" she teased. The little guy had been pawing through clothing racks for several minutes now, and she couldn't help herself. He was just her type. Short. Cute. Blonde.
"Me?" He asked, turning his head just slightly to glance at Tina, "you could say that. How much for the jacket?" He pulled out a black leather biker's jacket from one of the many he'd been examining and fiddled with the cardboard price tag buttoned to its sleeve.
"Says it right there," she pointed out. She should have been behind the counter, but she couldn't resist. He was just too cute not to want to flirt with. She just loved a guy with style.
"No offense, but it's a little big for you. Gift for someone else?" She asked, blowing a long, slow bubble to punctuate the question. She was careful not to let it get so big it risked sticking to her pink-streaked bangs.
He grinned, "yeah. It's a gift."
"Price is on the tag," she pointed out and stepped just close enough to lean down and flick the little piece of cardboard on the jacket sleeve. In the process, she accidentally brushed against him. "I like the jacket you're wearing, by the way. Make it yourself?" She asked, blushing just a little.
He grinned. His teeth were so white. "Yeah, with a little help from some people here and there." The guy gave Tina a once over, biting idly at the finger of one of his gloves as a thought seemed to strike him. "Hey, what time are you off? I've got this party I'm going to tonight at that old bowling alley out on Bronco. You can bring whoever you want. There's plenty of drinks, music. It'll be a blast."
She was about to decline, though the thought was unbelievably tempting. But unthinking, without even a second to pause for breath, Tina replied with an affirmative, "yeah, sure! I'll bring everyone I know if that's alright with you. I'm out in like an hour." Gosh, where did that come from?
"Great!" He replied, folding the jacket and removing it from the hanger, "I'll look forward to seeing you, Tina."
She nodded several times, bobbing and smiling dreamily, not once questioning why he knew her name as he left, nor why she didn't charge him for the jacket. What a nice guy! She was head over heels already.