Heya! Been finding the time to work on Brown Eyes between work on my next IRL manuscript, and I'm pretty happy with how this chapter turned out. Hope you're all having a wonderful day, and hope you all enjoy the chapter!

June 9th, Six and a Half Years Ago I

Applause echoed in the cramped day room. Malcolm smiled and did an exaggerated bow, stretching out his cape for added flair.

"Thank you very much!" he said, doing his best to project his voice so that even the residents with hearing aids could hear him. "I hope you've all enjoyed the show so far."

"We have, young man!" said a woman in her late 80s. She stood up on shaky legs and clapped as she looked over Malcolm's distinctly empty magician cabinet. She had wispy white hair cut close to her scalp, but her voice was so strong she sounded like she hadn't aged a day over 50. "Don't know where you sent poor Bill's sweater, but good riddance! Man's had that ugly thing for over ten years!"

"It's not that ugly," Bill yelled from the other side of the room, taking a moment to let out a stream of deep, ugly coughs. "And I've had it for twelve years!"

"Settle down, Mrs Faraday." A middle-aged man in a button-up shirt guided the old woman back into her chair. "We don't need you pulling out your back." He held back a sigh. "Again."

The man, Mr Cathady, was the home's Director of Care. Though he'd been pleasant enough on the phone, he got consistently exasperated with the elderly in his care. He hadn't smiled once throughout Malcolm's performance, despite the people trying to pull a conversation out of him, and he kept muttering to himself every time his foot got caught on one of the many walkers and wheelchairs.

"I'll pull my back out as much as I want!" Mrs Faraday said, though she did slowly sink into her armchair. "We're having fun here, and I ain't letting you bring this ol' bird down!"

Malcolm hid a frown. Judging by the residents' faces, this was likely the most entertainment they'd had in a long while. It was the kind of joy Malcolm always hoped to bring with his shows, but it typically also pointed to a deeper issue in these kinds of homes. It's likely that, aside from a performer once or twice a year, the only kind of fun these people got were weekly bingo sessions between long stretches in front of the television.

It didn't help that Mrs Faraday wasn't the only one who had trouble settling back into her seat. Many of the other older folks looked tired, pale. Like they'd barely moved around, much less gone outside, in ages. They had spirit, but their bodies looked weak. Even compared to the elderly in other nursing homes Malcolm had been to that year.

Still, this home had one of the most engaged audiences Malcolm had seen in a while. But even if the residents enjoyed the show, he doubted that Cathady would put up the money for a second magic show. Not when Malcolm was only in town for a couple more weeks.

"Don't you worry, Mrs Faraday." Malcolm straightened himself up and walked over to a table in the corner. One he'd stealthily prepped before the start of the show. "We still have plenty more to go. Now, I'll need a volunteer for this next trick—"

A nurse poked her head around the corner and raised her hand. "Mr Dresden!"

"Ah, thank you, my dear. But I was hoping to find a volunteer from the audience." Malcolm gestured to the elderly residents, some of whom had raised their hands and were playfully arguing with the potential volunteer seated next to them.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I wasn't volunteering." The nurse sheepishly glanced at Cathady, who gave her a lazy 'go on' wave. "I hate to interrupt, but you have a phone call, Mr Dresden. I… I think you want to take it."

Malcolm paused for a moment before nodding. As a traveling performer, keeping a steady phone number was always a challenge. Constantly changing towns—not to mention states—made it difficult for the talent agency he liaised with to keep in touch. The supernatural groups he worked with were better about keeping track of his relative location, but even they needed a phone number to work with.

After some trial and error, the best method he found was to give them the reception number of whatever motel or share house they were staying at. For however long Malcolm was working in the town, that'd be the contact point, and he would give them the number of whatever home or theater he was performing at for the day. That way, Malcolm was certain he'd eventually get whatever message he needed to get.

Sure, he usually had to spend some time persuading the receptionists to go along with this plan. And sometimes he had to fork over a couple extra nights' cash. But in the end, it's what worked. After all, it's not like Malcolm could pull a phone out of the wall and carry it with him all day. Forget magic—that was pure science fiction!

"I see." Malcolm turned back to the home's residents and bowed. "Forgive me for the interruption. I shall return shortly. Until then, I'm sure you can discuss among yourselves who will join me onstage."

"Well, 'course it's gonna be me!" Mrs Faraday said.

"Ha!" a woman cackled. "And who'd wanna share a stage with an old crone like you?"

"You're older than me, Deborah, and you know it!"

Taking advantage of the clamor, Malcolm took off his top hat and weaved his way toward the reception area. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, and he had to duck under the door frames that weren't made with his six foot five height in mind, but he made it without tripping on any stray shoes or canes. Malcolm wasn't naturally a dextrous guy, but years of constant physical exercise seemed to pay themselves off in unexpected ways.

At the reception area, the nurse offered Malcolm the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello," said a woman with a deep voice. The kind that tells you she smokes half a pack of cigarettes on a good day. "Is this Malcolm Dresden?"

"I am indeed him. Malcolm Dresden, your everyday magician and bodyguard, at your service."

"And I'm the secretary at Riverside High School," the woman continued, tired and straight to the point. "I'm calling about your stepson, Thomas Fairchild."

"Thomas?" A twisting feeling crept up Malcolm's throat. "Is everything okay? Is he hurt?"

"He's not hurt, Mr Dresden," the secretary droned, and the sound of shuffling papers filtered across the line. "But he is in the infirmary right now. According to our files, he suffers from… acute migraines?"

Malcolm's body went taught, and his hand tightened its grip on the phone.

"Y-Yes. He does." Malcolm glanced over his shoulder. The young nurse had gone back into the dayroom. "Does he have one now?"

The secretary hummed. "Mhmmm."

A cold feeling shot up through Malcolm's spine. It was like he'd been thrust into ice water, and the sinking feeling spread to the rest of his body. His neck, his toes. Through his chest and right to the fingers that held the phone in a death grip.

Stars and Stones, Malcolm thought. Again? This soon after the last time?

"He's in the infirmary," the secretary continued. "School policy usually dictates that the student stay here until the migraine subsides—"

"He has a doctor's note," Malcolm said quickly. Pushing past his shock, he pulled off his magician cape. "If he gets a migraine, I can pull him out of class. No questions asked."

"Which is why I'm calling, Mr Dresden." The secretary sighed. "I'm just informing you that we're releasing him for the day. Since he's 18, we can let him go after contacting you. I'm sure he can find a bus ride to…" There was another shuffling of papers. "…The Red Flamingo Motel? Am I reading this right?"

"I'm picking him up." Malcolm found his personal backpack he'd left under the reception desk and zipped it open. His cape went in and his hunting jacket came out. "I'll be there in 15 minutes. 20 tops. Tell him I'll be there, okay? I don't want him leaving by himself."

"Alright," the secretary said. "I'll let the nurses know."

"Thank you—"

The line went dead.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Malcolm spun around. Standing by the door frame was Cathady, glancing accusingly at Malcolm's backpack.

"My kid's sick," Malcolm explained. "I have to go pick him up."

"I bet he can stay in the infirmary until you come back and finish your job," Cathady said. "Unless it's an emergency, your kid can wait a couple hours."

It is, Malcolm thought.

But he couldn't say it. Riverside, Colorado was a small town, and small towns know everything about everyone. Including outsiders who only planned to be there for a couple months. Once Malcolm headed for the school, all it would take is one person gossiping, and every staff member in the nursing home would know that he thought an 18-year-old's migraine was an emergency. Malcolm would get pegged as an overprotective dad at best and a liar at worst. The former, he could live with. But if he got labeled as the latter, any possible work in this town would dry up faster than a drought in California.

But this 'migraine' was an emergency. Malcolm wanted to say as much, yell as much. But he couldn't.

For Thomas' safety, he didn't dare.

"He has a medical condition." Malcolm shoved his arms into his hunting jacket. "If you're a parent—"

"I'm not."

"If you were, then you'd understand." Malcolm zipped his backpack shut and threw it over his shoulders. "I'll be back for everything tomorrow. I promise. If you could keep it here until then—"

"I'm only paying you half." Cathady crossed his arms over his chest. "And if you're gonna make me wait until tomorrow to pick up all your junk, then I may as well only pay you half of that."

Malcolm winced. A quarter of the promised pay wasn't much. It'd barely cover their expenses, and Malcolm would have to find something else fast to fill in the gaps. He knew Thomas had money saved up, but that was a gift from his eldest sister. He'd offered to give some to Malcolm, when they were short on cash, but Malcolm refused it every time. He was the dad. It was his job to provide for his son, not the other way around.

So Malcolm would make do.

"I'll take it," Malcolm said.

Mr Cathady sighed and started walking toward the reception desk. "Fine. I'll get the money."

"I'll pick it up tomorrow." Malcolm spun on his heel and rushed for the door. "I promise I'll be back, bright and early!"

"Damn performers," Mr Cathady muttered. In a louder voice, he called out, "You're leaving all your gear here, so I damn hope you'll be back!"

Cathady's voice faded as Malcolm rushed into his car and turned onto this ignition. He had to get to Riverside High School, and he had to get there fast.

Because if this 'migraine' was as bad as the last one, then Thomas wasn't the only one in danger.

"Mr Dresden," the secretary huffed, her legs and lungs trying to keep up with Malcolm's pace. "There's no need to rush."

The high school was quiet. Kids were in class, busy with fractions and essays and all the things Malcolm vaguely remembered from his teenage years. There were posters everywhere. Reminders for make-up exams, flyers inquiring about a missing bike, and even sign-up for CIT positions at the local summer camp. The biggest posters were promoting the seniors' graduation party, set to happen exactly two weeks from now. But nothing told Malcolm what he needed to know.

The direction to the nurse's office.

"Apologies, ma'am," Malcolm said. He tried his best to sound polite, but his mind was elsewhere, looking around for any signage in the school's highways. "I get nervous when things happen with my kids, that's all. Is it still straight ahead?"

The secretary nodded. Her large tote bag jostled with every step. "Until the end of the hallway, then take," she gulped a wheezing breath, "a left. Second door, on the right."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Now with a clear direction, Malcolm picked up the pace even more, even as he left the secretary to semi-jog behind him. He saw the sign to the nurse's station the moment he turned the corner, and he ignored his instinct to knock before throwing the door wide open.

"Jesus!" a woman cried.

The nurse's office was roughly what Malcolm expected. It was relatively small (unfortunately fitting for a public school), with a single desk that was barely big enough to seat one person, maybe two. A single window was half-open, letting in a warm summer breeze. The woman sitting down was in her mid-40s, and she was clutching a crucifix necklace that hung about her neck.

"My apologies," Malcolm said quickly. The woman started lecturing him, reminding him that manners exist, but Malcolm was scanning the rest of the room. Beside the two tall filing cabinets, the infirmary only had two beds, separated by a rolling curtain.

"You got here quick!" said a chipper voice.

From behind the curtain, another nurse stepped into view. She was wearing the same light blue scrubs as the nurse at the desk, but was in her mid to late 20s. Her hair was a mousy brown, pulled into a bun that was slowly coming loose. She was fairly short, to the point she had to crane her neck to look up at Malcolm, and had hazel eyes that shone under the room's bright lights. When she smiled, a dimple appeared in her right cheek.

Hell's Bells, Malcolm thought.

"Are you Malcolm's dad?" the young nurse said.

Malcolm nodded.

He should've driven faster.

Malcolm pulled back the curtain divider. Thomas was perched on the edge of the bed, head bent low and his hands clutching at the bedframe. His curly black hair was disheveled around his face. His knuckles were pale, his brow was furrowed. He was shaking from head to toe. Even his watch, a worn digital one Malcolm had bought for him at a garage sale, jiggled against his wrist.

"Hey. Hey." Malcolm knelt in front of his son. "Thomas, you with me?"

From this angle, Malcolm got his first good look at Thomas' face. The boy had squeezed his eyes shut, and his thin-frame glasses were practically falling off his nose. Malcolm couldn't blame him.

Left here, with a young, pretty nurse, was exactly what Thomas' Hunger wanted. Needed.

If Thomas hadn't been aware of the true nature of the Hunger, he could've lost control. He would have taken the woman, fed on her, and killed her.

That's all it would take for him to Turn, and become a full vampire of the White Court.

"Heh. Took you long enough."

Thomas forced his eyes open. They were dilated, unfocused, but they were still blue.

Blue eyes. Not gray. Blue.

Malcolm let out a breath. "What did you want me to do? Run every stop sign and get caught by the cops?"

"Why not? You're a magician, right? Just make the station wagon disappear." Thomas smirked, and Malcolm smiled in relief.

He was joking. That was good. That means the Hunger hadn't taken over yet.

"I could've left by myself," Thomas said.

"And we agreed that you wouldn't. And why." Malcolm kept eye contact with Thomas, but held himself back from making physical contact. "How bad is it?"

Thomas winced. "Stomach."

Malcolm forced himself to keep a neutral face. Even as his throat tightened and every voice in his head screamed at him to get Thomas out of there.

"Do you feel sick?" the young nurse asked. She looked around before grabbing a trash can that was tucked in the corner. "Here, use this."

"Thank you, but I think he needs some fresh air," Malcolm said. The nurse hesitated, still holding the trash can, and Malcolm quickly added, "But if you have a spare plastic bag, we'll take it with us just in case."

As the nurse went to fetch a bag, Malcolm motioned for Thomas to stand up. After getting a signature from the secretary and the head nurse, Thomas would be officially released from the day. Thomas had used the "Stomach" keyword, which was bad, but not the worst.

Unless Thomas said "Heart", they still had time before he'd be one impulse away from losing control.

The secretary had finally reached the nurse's office. She was puffing, and she set her tote bag on the nurse's desk so she could find the release papers she'd shoved inside. The wait felt like hours, and it felt even longer once the secretary and head nurse started talking.

"I thought someone your age would have manners," the secretary wheezed.

"I'll say," the head nurse agreed. "You damn near gave me a heart attack, bursting through the door!"

"Apologies again." Malcolm glanced at Thomas, who had balled his hands into fists, and was glaring at the two women.

Finally, the secretary pulled out the release papers. The head nurse signed them before pushing them toward Malcolm. Without a word, she looked at the secretary and motioned toward the half-open window. The secretary reached into her bag, pulled out her lighter and cigarettes.

Malcolm leaned over the desk and filled out the forms. He had mundane details to add in: Thomas' fake last name, Malcolm's name, his occupation, their current address, current phone number. All things the secretary could've filled out before Malcolm arrived at the school.

"Kid's been shaking like a lead since he came in," the nurse said, in a voice that was just a bit too loud to count as 'subtle'. "Hopefully he'll get some rest at home."

"I doubt it," the secretary said. The lighter clicked. "They're staying at The Red Flamingo."

"This is my problem with freelance 'artists'." The nurse took a long drag of her cigarette. "They claim they give their children better lives by 'touring' the country, and then stay at places filled with STDs."

"You're telling me. He answered the phone saying he's a magician and bodyguard." The secretary chuckled. "How much do you want to bet that's a cover for his actual work?"

"It usually is."

Vaguely, Malcolm felt Thomas come to stand next to him. He was still shaking.

"Nurse, I had a question about the girl from the junior class," the young woman said. Her voice was louder than before, with an extra dosage of cheer. "Do you think she's possibly—"

"Lila," the head nurse droned. "I know this was a sudden transfer for you, but there's a time and place to ask about a student's condition. This isn't a hospital placement. When you work at a school, you wait until other students are out of the room."

"Doesn't stop you from gossiping about them when they're still here," Thomas muttered.

The secretary tsked. "Would you like to repeat that, young man?"

"Did I say something?" Thomas sucked in a breath. "Sorry. The migraines make me mumble."

The head nurse laughed. "That's a new one."

"Ignore them." Malcolm finally signed his signature, and he set the papers and pen down on the desk. "Thank you, ma'am. We'll head out."

It took Malcolm a moment to get Thomas moving. Instead of leaving the room right away, the teenager stared at the two older women. One hand was gripping the desk, next to the secretary's purse, and the other was still wound into a fist.

"Thomas," Malcolm said firmly. "Let's go."

The boy took a deep breath. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, and left the room.

"Hope you feel better!" the young nurse, Lila, called out.

Thomas winced and started running.

It was around 11am, and most of the parking spaces were filled up with cars belonging to high school juniors and seniors. Malcolm had been forced to park all the way at the back, but Thomas had no problem spotting the car. Among the more 'hip' vehicles that filled the parking lot, the 67 Chevrolet station wagon was a sore, beige thumb.

By the time Malcolm had reached the car, Thomas had already thrown himself into the passenger seat. Malcolm rushed to put on his seat belt and start the engine.

"The Hunger. I…" Thomas shuddered. "It—It wants—"

"I know." The old station wagon rumbled to life, and Malcolm started guiding them out of the lot. "Just breathe. You've handled this before, you can handle it again."

"You don't understand." Thomas bent forward and wrapped his arms around his middle. "It's like—Like it's calling to me. Like I can hear it."

"Okay. I believe you." Malcolm bit his lip. "Hang tight. We're getting you out of here."

"Far," Thomas ground out. "No people. Nothing."

"The motel's just a few minutes away. I'll stay outside—"

"No." Thomas shook his head, and his long hair hid his face from Malcolm's view. "Still too close. I can't—No people."

"I won't come in. I'll stay by the door, but—"

"Still too close." Thomas shook with ragged breaths. "I'll know you're there. And there are people in other rooms. I… I can't."

"Okay. Okay."

Malcolm turned onto the road. Riverside was small, but it was a well-kept town. There weren't really any rundown, empty buildings nearby. There was a restaurant that had closed down, but it was next to a laundromat, and Malcolm couldn't risk that. There also weren't any big fields. It was Colorado, and the only thing nearby were dense woods.

Woods, Malcolm thought. That can work. It's not perfect, but it can work.

Switching his blinker on, Malcolm made a U-turn in the middle of the road. "I think I know a spot. It's not too far."

Thomas groaned. "No people."

"No people. Just hold on, son.

"Hold on."

Malcolm stopped the car at the edge of the forest. It wasn't exactly a parking spot, but it was a small clearing that was just big enough for the station wagon. And it was by a back road. A couple miles forward was a hiking trail, and beyond that, a campsite.

Malcolm had found this spot when he'd taken a wrong turn the other day. He was trying to scope out the campsite, to see if it's be a good place to take the boys camping after school ended. He'd missed his exit and found this spot. Far enough away that stray hikers were unlikely to wander out here, but close enough to the town that Malcolm made it in less than 10 minutes.

Just as Malcolm put the station wagon into park, Thomas threw the passenger door open.

"Thomas, stop."

"I need to get out," Thomas said, one foot already out of the car. "I—I need to."

"I know. Just wait one minute. You can hold on for one minute."

Thomas gulped.

"I'm gonna trust you to go into those woods, okay? Thomas, Thomas. Listen to me," Malcolm soothed as Thomas leaned his head toward the open door. "I'm gonna trust you. I'll stay right here, in this spot, and I won't follow you. I won't, for three hours."

Thomas spun around. His black hair flew across his face, and his eyes were wide behind his glasses. "That's not enough time."

"You want to be alone, this is the deal. You have your watch, and I'm gonna give you this."

Malcolm reached under his seat and pulled out the hidden rope, the one he kept next to the emergency silver knuckles and handcuffs. "This runs for about 200 feet. As long as you hold onto this, you can go as far as you need to, and I'll trust you to follow it to come back. I'll only go looking for you if you're not back in time. Okay?"

Thomas eyes the rope warily. "You promise? Not to follow?"

"I promise. For three hours, I'll stay right here."

Thomas shook his head. "You need to stay here—until I come back. It—could be longer."

"Three hours," Malcolm repeated.

"I could—" Thomas gulped. "I'm not—safe to—b-be with. Not—n-now."

"This is non-negotiable, Thomas. I'm giving you your space, but you gotta meet me halfway."

Thomas panted. Malcolm held out the rope.

"Please," he begged. "For me."

A beat passed. Two. Three.

Thomas grabbed the end of the rope.

"O-Okay," Thomas said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Okay, Dad."

Malcolm sighed in relief. "Go. I'll be right—"

Thomas burst out of the car. In the time it took for Malcolm to process it, Thomas had disappeared into the treeline. The only indication he'd been there was the rope. It jutted between two trees, swaying as Malcolm's son ran further and deeper into the woods.

Malcolm tightened his grip on the rope. "Here."