yellowhorde (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yellowhorde) wrote2008-11-04 10:57 pm
yellowhorde) wrote2008-11-04 10:57 pm
[fic] The Hunted - Chapter 17/? - Petshop of Horrors
Disclaimer: I don't own Petshop of Horrors and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write.
Pairing: Leon x D
Category: Supernatural/Alternate Universe
Rating: R
Warning: Violence, Language, Sexual Situations and Hermaphrodite!D
Title: The Hunted
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for NaNoWriMo 2007
Previous Chapters: Prologue 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16
Face down on the pavement, Joshua heard the squeal of tires, smelled the stench of burned rubber, but to his fading senses they were dim and unimportant. As if from a great distance, he heard a car door slam and felt more than heard the hurried approach of feet as they sent subtle vibrations through the cracked pavement upon which his cheek rested.
"Josh? Oh my God, Josh!"
The next thing Josh knew he was being roused from his state of semi-unconsciousness. Hands were upon him, dragging him from the pebbly cement, turning him on to his back. Instincts buried deep beneath the pain and exhaustion warned him that he was vulnerable in his weakened state and wide open for an attack. Determined to protect himself from further harm, he groaned and struggled to open his eyes, to will his abused body to either fight or flee. But his eyelids were so heavy and he was so damned tired...
Fortunately, the anticipated attack never came. Instead he felt himself being lifted gently into a more or less semi-reclining position. Bright red pain sliced through his shoulder and he cried out as he was pulled into an awkward embrace, his body cradled against the solid warmth of a decisively masculine chest. And though the cologne that wafted to his nose was cheap and had been applied a bit too freely, underneath he detected the warm, familiar scent of family.
Somehow Joshua found the strength to open his eyes and look upon the face of the younger brother he hadn't seen in three years. "Ian..."
The socially awkward, scrawny fifteen year old wearing wire frame spectacles and his older brother’s hand-me-downs had been replaced by a handsome young man with clear blue eyes and disheveled, shoulder-length auburn hair that fell about his face in wild abandon. He had filled out a bit, especially in the shoulders, and his face had exchanged its little boy look for that of a chisel jawed adult, graced by a full goatee and modest sideburns where once there had only been fine wisps of hair. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, his brother had added more than a few inches since they had last been together, though it was hard to tell from his current position.
"Oh, shit, oh shit, Josh,” Ian rasped, staring down at the blood soaked front of his shirt, “What the hell did they do to you?" His voice cracked with panic as he pressed one hand over the seeping bullet wound in a vain attempt to staunch the blood and used the other to check his pulse, which was weak and unsteady.
Wincing at the pain, Josh reached up with a trembling hand and tried to push Ian's hands away from the wound. “Don’t,” he gasped. He could still feel the silver relentlessly burning its way through his body. "Hurts…" he said a fraction louder, and was alarmed at how thin and helpless his voice sounded.
"Sorry," Ian jerked his hands away as if he’d just received an electrical shock and stared in horror at the blood that now covered them. He licked his lips nervously and glanced in the direction of the gas station. Josh followed his gaze and though he wasn't able to properly bring his eyes into focus, he could blurrily make out the figure of the old man still reading his newspaper while a life or death struggle was being waged less than fifty feet from his nice, normal world with its clean fluorescent lights and every day normalcy.
Seeing him there, warm and safe and reading his paper without a care in the world, Josh felt a spark of rage mingled with undeniable grief. That had been his world, too, he thought, up until a few years ago when everything fell apart around his ears. He had been Mr. Normal with a loving family, a beautiful girlfriend, a full-ride scholarship to one of the top Ivy League colleges in the country. The future had stretched out in front of him, bright and full of promise. And then the moon rose full one fateful night and dormant genes had awakened…
Then, without warning or apology, Fate pulled the rug out from under him and he had lost everything.
“Forget about it,” Josh said, reading Ian’s intention in his eyes. With some effort he gathered his energy in an effort to make himself understood. “That’s not the kind of help we need. He’d only call the cops, anyway.”
"Shit. I thought werewolves could heal super fast?" Ian hissed under his breath and if things hadn’t been so dire, Josh might have laughed at the indignation in his voice.
"Silver bullets..." God, it hurt to speak. He coughed and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Alarm wrapped its fingers around his heart and gave a mighty squeeze. Crap, the bullet must have grazed one of his lungs. "We can't heal as fast when they use silver." He coughed again, grimaced, turned his head and spat onto the concrete. The blood looked very red in the glow of the fluorescent light overhead.
"I need to get you to a hospital,” Ian’s eyes were wide, desperate as he tried to heave Josh to his feet. "Or you'll die. Then Mom will kill me for sure.”
"Can't risk it,” Josh mumbled and grabbed hold of one of his brother's hands as another wave of pain lanced through his body. "They have to report gun shot wounds. The cops are probably keeping an eye on the local hospitals just in case. They'll find me. Take me back… or worse."
He didn’t quite dare think of what exactly worse might entail but knew that it would be bad, very bad.
Unconsciously his grip tightened as the pain crested and he felt the thin bones in his brother’s hands shift subtly under his fingers. He forced himself to take a calming breath then loosened his grip when he saw Ian wince in pain.
"I can't go back there, Ian,” He whispered hoarsely, “I won't. I'd rather die."
Ian chewed his lower lip helplessly and when he spoke he sounded terribly young and frightened, a child playing dress up in his daddy’s clothes. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Gotta get the bullet out.”
Ian gasped in surprise and twisted around as best he could while supporting his brother's weight. A man wearing little more than rags and reeking of garbage stood behind him. Dirt blackened toes protruded from what once may have been a pair of sneakers and the skin on his face and arms was covered in red pustules. He clutched a grimy bottle of booze in one hand, a hunting knife in the other.
“Go away!” Ian swatted his hand at him in an impatient shooing gesture. “God, I don’t have time for this shit.”
The hobo sighed and shook his head. He shuffled closer, the knife glinting blue-silver in the florescent light.
Ian glanced from the knife to the hobo, then at his brother, his eyes holding fearful indecision. He slowly raised his hands to the sky to show he was unarmed. “Look, dude, go away,” he pleaded. “I don’t have any money, okay?”
“You gotta get the bullet out, boy.” The shambling wreck of a man repeated patiently. “Else he’s a goner.”
“What? Oh. But I don’t know h-“
“I do.” The man said and his voice held a sort of quiet confidence that seemed to have an immediate calming effect on the young man. Here was someone who claimed to know what they were doing, and with his brother’s life on the line, he really couldn’t afford to ignore him no matter how fucked up he looked.
“Josh? What do you think?”
“Harvey’s a good guy,” Josh mumbled. “What the hell, let’s give it a shot, bro.”
Harvey the hobo’s lips twisted to form a smile that was all rotten teeth and swollen gums. The man obviously didn’t hold dental hygiene high on his list of priorities, but then again, the man ate out of a freaking dumpster, for Christ’s sake. “Help me carry him to my place, son,” Harvey ordered and, moving forward, took hold of Joshua’s legs. “It ain’t far.”
Nodding his head, Ian scrambled to his feet and, after getting a firm hold on his brother’s arms, helped carry him some fifty feet to an overflowing dumpster off to the left and slightly behind the old building. Josh had to clench his teeth in an effort to keep from screaming in pain as his brother and the hobo half carried, half dragged him away from the telephone booth. His heart thundered unevenly in his ears, blotting out the grunted curses and the instructions Harvey was giving his brother.
Once they were out of sight of the old man reading the newspaper, Josh felt some of the tension in his guts ease. He was willing to bet serious money that out of sight, out of mind was almost certainly the old man’s motto and it seemed unlikely that he would bother to stir himself from his reading to check out any midnight activities that may take place near the overflowing dumpster.
“Good,” Harvey grunted when the reached the dumpster. “Now, set him down right there.” He pointed to a spot relatively clear of clutter then turned to a collapsing cardboard box – his home by the looks of things – and rummaged around for something, mumbling under his breath.
The smell of the place was horrendous, and although Ian hesitated, he did finally ease Josh down onto the ground. He glanced around at the small mountain of trash bags rising out of the dumpster’s lid like a mini Andes. Fast food containers and liquor bottles lay scattered everywhere, the stench of their combined mold forming a nose-wrinkling miasma.
“What the fuck was I thinking?” He mumbled in disgust, keeping his voice low so the hobo couldn’t hear him. “There’s no way in Hell this old goat is going to be able to help us. From the looks of things, he can barely help himself.”
After a few minutes the hobo returned carrying a half-empty bottle of vodka. “I was saving this for a special occasion, but no time like the present, eh?” He laughed and began working the top off, squinting his eyes in concentration as he did.
“So… what do you want me to do?” Ian asked nervously, glancing down at Josh.
“Hold him down, keep him quiet ‘cause this is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.”
As Ian hunkered down near Josh’s head, Harvey splashed vodka liberally over the hunting knife. The liquor washed away some of the dirt and grime. To Ian’s horror, he could make out several large patches of rust along the edge of the blade.
“Now, wait just a minute, you’re not going to use-“
“Shut up,” Harvey snapped and eased himself painfully to his knees, grunting and grimacing all the while. “We ain’t got time to gab. This here kid’s fading fast. Now help me, or not. But quit your bitching right now or, so help me God, I’ll give you something to bitch about.”
Without another word, the old man used to knife to hack away at Josh’s clothes, ripping the blood soaked cloth to reveal the entrance point of the bullet. He leaned over and poured more of the vodka over the wound. Josh’s eyes flew open immediately as the vodka burned into his wound.
He screamed.
“Shut him up before someone comes poking their nose out here, you idiot!”
Eyes wide and shocked, Ian slapped his left hand over his brother’s mouth and tried to hold him still with his right. But Josh was twisting and bucking with more energy than either man would have imagined considering his current state.
“Hold him down,” Harvey snarled. “God damn it.”
“Josh, listen to me!” Ian panted, “I know it hurts, but it’ll only hurt for a little bit. I promise.” Joshua’s eyes wildly rolled up to meet his brother’s, the pupils expanded so that only a little color could be seen. There was so much pain in that gaze; it almost broke Ian’s heart.
“I promise.” He repeated softly and prayed that it was true.
“Ready?” Harvey asked and the knife in his hand, looking larger than life and twice as menacing, eased toward wound.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I was a medic in ‘Nam long before you were even a twinkle in your mama’s eye.” Harvey said and his voice was soft, his eyes far away. “I’ve seen boys worse off than this. Sometimes they lived… and sometimes they were called home to God. But me and my crew, we served our country and did the best we knew how.”
He leaned over Josh until his nose practically touched his heaving chest. “So, to answer your question, yeah, I think you can say I know what I’m doing.”
For an old man, his hands drew the blade through Joshua’s flesh with the speed and precision few men could’ve matched. Josh arched beneath him, sweat pouring from his skin, his screams muffled by his brother’s hands and reassuring words.
“Jesus Christ!” Ian gasped, his face screwed up in his effort to keep his own screams trapped in his throat. He had never seen so much blood. “It’s okay,” he whispered into Josh’s ear. “It’s okay.” Over and over again he repeated these words. Like a charm or a mantra. All of the color had drained from his face and his stomach lurched crazily.
“Don't you go puking on me, kiddo.”
The hobo's sharp command brought him back from the brink. Shaking, he swallowed hard, his throat burning with unshed tears. “No, sir,” he managed, “I’m fine.”
“Good boy.”
Another incision was carved into Joshua’s upper chest, widening the wound entrance just enough for Harvey to dig his filthy fingers into the bleeding flesh. Josh’s body jerked reflexively in reaction, but he lacked to strength to even scream. Hot tears washed down his cheeks cutting clean trails through the grime that coated his face.
Biting his tongue in concentration, Harvey twisted his hand at the wrist, pushing deeper into the flesh. The air was heavy with the hot coppery stench of blood and a half dozen flies and gnats began to buzz around the three men, landing then flitting off again in a hum of tiny insect wings.
“Gottcha, you son of a bitch,” Harvey’s face contorted in a fierce snarl of triumph. He withdrew his hand slowly, a small twisted piece of metal – the remains of the silver bullet that had lodged in Joshua’s flesh. He held out his hand and grunted, “Here.”
Reluctantly, Ian held out one hand, palm up. The hobo dropped the spent bullet into his outstretched hand then smeared his own bloody hands over the stained rags he wore.
“Now give me your shirt,” He ordered.
Ian jerked his head up. “Give you my what?”
“Your shirt, damn it. What are you, deaf?” He snorted in exasperation at the uncomprehending look in the young man’s eyes. “Can't have him bleeding to death, now can we?”
“Oh, right. I got it now.” Ian undid the buttons to his ruined white tee shirt first then slid it off of his shoulders. The undershirt was next. There was no way he’d ever get the blood out, anyway.
He handed both over to Harvey without another word. The old man used the bloody knife to deftly cut the first tee shirt into strips then folded the undershirt until it was reduced to a compact square of cloth. Placing the undershirt over the wound, he instructed Ian to hold the cloth in place while he used the strips of cloth as a makeshift bandage and tied them as best he could around Joshua’s still heaving chest.
“Now,” Harvey said gruffly, “Get him to a hospital, boy, and he should be fine.”
Misty eyed, Ian glanced down at his brother, who lay on the ground bleary eyed and only semi-conscious. It may have been an effect of the light, but already it looked like some color had crept back into his cheeks. Even the crudely done incisions looked smaller. But that couldn’t be right.
Could it?
“I don’t know how to thank you, man.” He whispered hoarsely as he and Harvey hoisted his brother up, both of them taking a side as they stumbled and grunted their way to Ian’s car with Joshua dangling between them, eyes closed, head lolling. “You really saved our bacon.”
Ian fumbled the back door of his car open and helped Harvey ease Josh into the back seat. Once his brother was stowed, he shut the door and turned to the ragged old man who had saved his brother’s life.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.” He said, holding his hand out. Harvey accepted the gesture and clasped his own calloused hands around Ian’s.
“Well, there is one thing…” Harvey trailed off and cast his eyes to the ground in a gesture Ian mistook for embarrassment.
“Anything, man, name it and it’s yours.”
Harvey squatted down and ran one gnarled finger along the red swoosh of Ian’s white Nikes. His eyes shimmered just like a little boy’s at Christmas.
“Anything?” He glanced up, hope naked on his weathered features.
“Anything. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
A pink tongue darted and moistened chapped lips. “Can I have your shoes?”
Grinning, like a fool, Ian slipped off his shoes and handed them to the old man, who gleefully accepted them. “Done and done, dude.”
Still grinning, he walked over to the driver’s side door, let himself in and shut the door quietly behind him so as not to disturb Josh any more than necessary. With a twist of the key, he started the car. It felt kind of weird to be working the pedals bare footed, but it was only temporary. He had other shoes at home he could wear, after all. And a pair of shoes in exchange for the life of his big brother was a bargain too good to pass up.
As he drove away he flashed his lights and waved his hand in farewell to the old man, who was prancing merrily back to his dumpster in his new shoes.
“Okay, Josh,” he called over his shoulder, “Time to go home.”
***
The night was steadily losing its battle to the encroaching dawn when Leon bolted awoke in his old childhood bedroom, one fist crammed into his mouth in an effort to bite back the scream that wanted to escape. A thin sheen of sweat glossed his face, one drop slid into his eyes and he blinked rapidly in an effort to ease the sting. When that didn’t work, he tried to wipe the sweat away he found that his good arm and both legs were tangled in the linen, effectively immobilizing him.
In a frenzied burst of claustrophobic panic, he yanked himself free, kicking and tugging wildly as he snarled curses under his breath.
With every movement monstrous bolts of pain ripped though his head, thudding sickly in rapid time with his beating heart, and the ferocity of it temporarily blinding him to anything else. It helped block out most of the nightmare, but the more vital memories remained - savage, snapping teeth and the rich tang of blood in his mouth.
In my mouth, right in my fucking mouth, he thought shakily and felt his gore rising, Jesus Christ.
And now he realized that he could actually taste blood – the sweet, coppery taste of it filled his mouth. Unsteadily, he touched his fingers to his bottom lip and hissed as he felt the jagged tear. He must have bitten it while trying to fight himself free from the nightmare. Idly he licked the tip of his finger, washing the blood away with his tongue then he began nibbling at his lower lip, sucking until he had removed all traces of blood before worrying it with his teeth.
Suddenly without warning, it blindsided him, a surge of raw craving that actually had his mouth watering as a new, unnatural hunger rose within him. Confusing images danced wildly through his mind like a series of strobe flashes: Hot blood, cold terror and the feel of teeth – his teeth – tearing through human flesh to reach the frantic pulse beneath.
And the most disturbing thing was that while part of him was repulsed by these thoughts, these phantom sensations, another much more primitive part, buried deep beneath the veneer of what passes for civil humanity, rejoiced.
Horrified, he yanked his finger back out of his mouth. He stared at his hand, heart racing out of control. His legs felt odd, rubbery, a feeling he associated with long distance running and end of the year track meets. Clenching his eyes, he ignored his heaving stomach and concentrated hard on not getting sick.
“Oh dear God, what the hell is happening to me?”
It wasn’t his voice, couldn’t be. It was so thin and shaky. But it was a voice he recognized nonetheless – the voice of the child he had been, a scared seven year old lost in the painful aftermath of an event he could fully comprehend.
Raking his good hand through his sweat dampened hair, Leon desperately tried to collect his thoughts, to calm his racing heart and ragged breathing. It wouldn’t do him any good to hyperventilate and pass out now.
“Okay, Orcot,” he mumbled, “Calm down and think, damn it. I’m not a helpless child anymore; I’m an adult and I can beat this thing, what it is.
Shaken and feeling a little foolish, he closed his eyes and began one of the relaxation techniques he had learned as a little boy, breathing in slowly, deeply, and then exhaling as he mentally counted backwards from eight to one. With more effort than was pretty, he willed the small panicky voice in his head to be silent. He then mentally tucked his jumble of thoughts and fears into the darker recesses of his mind with the promise that he would take the time to sort through them later, perhaps after the sun rose.
Somehow examining this most recent dream didn’t feel particularly safe or smart, especially while the night still held sway. There would be plenty of time once the sun came up. And while he knew that daylight couldn’t magically make everything better, it did help banish useless fears and made it easier to think things through in a calm, rational manner.
Breathe in. Breathe out. In again, out again, establishing a slow, steady rhythm. With each breath Leon visualized the fear and uncertainty leaving his body, carried away bit by bit with each exhalation until it was gone. Slowly, his breathing took on its normal rhythm and the thunder of his heart subsided.
“Ah,” he sighed, feeling once more in control. “That’s much better,”
Once he had calmed down and taken a few moments to think things over, he wasn’t overly surprised that he had had one of his werewolf nightmares. At a very early age he had learned that such incidences were often triggered by stressful events in his life. And the last few days had been nothing if not stressful what with having a case where a werewolf was on the loose somewhere in Los Angeles and being taken off said case after being mauled by the very werewolf he and his team had been hunting.
Leon had a better understanding of what could trigger his nightmares, but he could admit, even if only to himself, that he had never gotten used to the midnight monster fests his brain threw his way on a more or less regular basis. And who could blame him? In reality the attack had only lasted a few minutes, but it played through his dreams again and again, a warped performance with plenty of free-style madness for everyone, yes, but still terrifying nonetheless. And the sad fact of the matter remained that the dreams had pretty much been a constant in his life since the day he had been attacked when he was seven years old and would, no doubt, continue to crop up every once in a while.
Normally that wouldn’t be such a big problem. Hell, he had spent more than a few sleepless nights on account of his night terrors, but then again, he’d also lost sleep on account of all-night study (read make-out) sessions and wild parties. The problem was that recently they had been getting more intense, more real. It was bad enough that vampires, werewolves and other supernatural baddies were really real without having his nightmares getting up close and personal like they never had before. It was as he was the one who had a starring role in the mental monster movies… and that didn’t sit well with him at all.
So his dreams bothered him (well, more than they ever had at any rate), the brain busting headaches worried him, and now, this…new blood fetish that he had acquired, if that was what it was, scared the living hell out of him. But he wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about them. It was too weird. And if he ever did talk to a shrink he’d probably be committed to an insane asylum and kept in a padded room for the rest of his life. If the guys at the station ever found out that he had so much as thought about taking to a psychologist, well, he’d never hear the end of it.
Cops talked to shrinks all the time… but they didn’t go advertising the fact – it wasn’t good for morale.
“It wouldn’t do any good anyway,” Leon mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, “Talking about things never makes anything any better. It just stirs everything up.”
Leon detangled himself from the sweat drenched sheets and sat up, wincing at the pain that erupted anew through his head. He gazed longingly at his bed but knew that from years of experience that there would be no more sleep for him that night. Besides, what was the point in trying to catch a few extra zees when he couldn’t sleep in his favorite sleeping position? Unfortunately, until his clavicle bone was fully healed, he was stuck sleeping on his back with his head propped up by a small mountain of pillows instead of on his stomach.
Knowing he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep and desperate for some pain relief, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and snatched his faded flannel robe that he had tossed on the headboard. The twin-sized frame squeaked as he moved, a small sound made loud by the silence of the night. The robe fluttered around his shins and he clumsily tied the belt, grateful for its warmth against the chill in the air. A quick search of the pockets confirmed that his cigarettes and lighter were all accounted for.
The carpet was smooth and cool beneath his feet and he made no noise as he padded his way to door and out into the hall, moving carefully so he would not jar either his throbbing head or his wounded shoulder.
The kitchen was dark, but he navigated it easily enough, a task that would have been impossible in his own messy apartment. Reaching over the kitchen sink, he yanked the pull cord and waited for the fluorescent light to cast away the shadows. The bulb was old and it took a few seconds before it flickered into life. Wincing, he turned his head away from the glow until his eyes adjusted. Florescent lights had never been a problem before, but lately his eyes were a little oversensitive.
“I probably need glasses,” he groused. But if his vision really was impaired, it would be a cold day in Hell before he let anyone see him in a pair of spectacles. He would be a contact man or a blind man. Those were the only options as far as he was concerned.
In the meanwhile, if bright lights were going to be an issue, then sunglasses would be his new fashion accessory until he got things straightened out.
Fantasizing about all the gorgeous babes he’d pick up wearing only a sporty pair of sunglasses and a tight pair of swimming trunks, Leon fumbled into one of the wooden cabinets next to the sink and took out an almost empty economy sized bottle of extra strength aspirin and the bottle of Vicodin Dr. Tsung had prescribed for him. Ah, prescription pain pills, he thought, as he retrieved a can of beer from the refrigerator, if these don’t get rid of my headache, I might as well cut of my head and be done with it.
D’s waspish warning from the other day about mixing alcohol and prescription pain pills filtered through his head but he mentally waved it away like a bothersome fly.
“I need a drink, damn it.” He muttered defensively as he shook half a dozen pills out onto the counter. “The world is turning upside down and if I don’t get a handle on things, I’m going to go fucking crazy.”
Having rationalized his decision, Leon hooked his finger into the beer tab and popped the top off the beer, grinning at the satisfying hiss of escaping air pressure. He tossed the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a long, cold swallow of beer.
“Damn, but that hit the spot!”
While still standing by the sink, Leon drained the can in a series of long pulls and tossed the empty can into the recycling bin. No point in getting his father bent out of shape for not recycling since it was his beer, after all. Smacking his lips reflectively, he wandered over to the refrigerator, yanked open the door and stared longingly at the remaining cans.
“Another one won’t hurt any,” he figured, reaching for a second beer. “And it would do a world of good for my poor frazzled nerves.”
The second can was quickly joined by a third... and then a fourth. By the time he was halfway through his fifth beer his latest bout of dreams seemed dull and unimportant. All thoughts of the scent, taste, the maddening craving for blood had grown soft and fuzzy around the edges. And that was just the way he liked it.
Pleasantly buzzed but not yet tired enough to even think about attempting sleep, Leon prowled the house restlessly. He slowly worked his way through the dining room, past the master bedroom and en suite bathroom and up the short flight of steps that led to Chris’ bedroom, wobbling every few steps as the alcohol cancelled out some of his fine motor skills.
In the hall outside of Chris’ bedroom, a small light cast a soft warm glow which effectively banished both the night and the shadows that often prowled outside little kids’ bedrooms hoping for a fright or two. The bedroom door was open and the light wrapped itself around the door frame in such a way that Leon could make out the sleeping form of his kid brother half under this Mickey Mouse comforter, which dangled halfway to the floor.
Leon never kidded Chris because he always asked their dad to leave the light on outside of his bedroom. Other big brothers probably would have, but not him. He knew only too well from both personal experience and his work as a legal hunter for the Supernatural Crimes Division of the LAPD that all kinds of bad apples roamed the earth once the sun went down… and not all of them were human.
For several minutes he watched his brother as he slept, spread eagle on his back. His chest rose and fell rhythmically and his sleep was untroubled. His face scrunched itself into a half grimace as an intense, almost painful, wave of love for the boy swept over him. If anything ever happened to him… well, he just wouldn’t know what to do. Their relationship had started off a bit on the rocky side, what with their mother dying shortly after giving birth to Chris, but Leon hadn’t allowed the grief over the loss of his mother to eclipse the love he felt for the boy or his pride at finally being a big brother.
On impulse, Leon crossed the room, his movements as silent as mist. He knelt at the head of the bed and looked down into his brother’s sleeping face, his thick lashes, a shade or two darker than his blond hair, fanning across his creamy cheeks. A little angel…
Smiling at the idea of his little hellion of a brother being described, even while asleep, as an angel, Leon gathered up the fallen comforter and laid it out properly over the boy, tucking it in snuggly lest he get chilly. Chris stirred in his sleep and muttered something unintelligible before sinking deeper into his own private dreamland.
“Sweet dreams, kiddo,” Leon whispered hoarsely as he gently brushed a lock of hair from Chris’ forehead. “Love you.”
Feeling a little foolish, he brushed his lips against the boy’s forehead in a light kiss. Now, if anyone asked him if he ever showed such sappy affection toward his baby brother, he would have to lie and say no. And it wouldn’t be a lie, exactly. Though he loved Chris and had no doubts that he loved him back, they were still guys and guys didn’t go for mushy shows of affection…. That is unless there was no one around to witness a moment of temporary weakness, a weakness born of love.
His skin’s so warm, Leon thought in wonder, but that was just the way Chris was. The kid put off almost as much heat as D did.
Leon’s gaze traveled down from his brother’s face to the pale expanse of throat. He could just see the steady rhythm of his beat under that delicate skin in the soft light. And watching it flutter, so full of energy, of life, stirred other emotions within him. Dark and dangerous thoughts surfaced, alien, strange, thoughts that no brother should think of another.
In his mind’s eye he saw himself jumping onto the bed, scooping the child into his arms, balling a fist into the fine softness of his hair and yanking his head back to expose that youthful pulse. One hand slapping over his mouth to stifle any noise, he imagined himself plunging his teeth into that small neck, tearing skin, rending flesh. Hot gouts of arterial blood would spray, cutting off his child’s voice before it could even cry out. And he would drink blood, devour flesh… and, oh, how he would feast.
To his horror, Leon’s hand had actually shot out, fingers entwining in blond hair so much like his own, before he was able to distance himself from the eerily realistic images in his mind. He snatched his hand away as if burned, and cried out in a low voice, moaning in self-loathing as he realized what might have happened had he not snapped back to himself in time.
“No, Chris,” he panted as hot tears filled his eyes, “Oh God, no, I would never hurt you… never.”
He threw himself onto his feet and away from the bed so violently he almost lost his footing and went crashing to the ground. Fortunately, he caught himself in time and was able to lurch out of the room, thudding into first one wall then the other in his haste to put distance between him and the helpless child who slept blissfully unawares of how close he had come to being an angel for real.
Thundering down the steps, Leon felt the misstep a fraction of a second before his ankle twisted sending sharp slices of pain shooting up from his ankle. With a wordless cry he crashed to his knees, tumbling down the remaining stairs in a graceless sprawl. He lay at the bottom, temporarily stunned, then lurching to his feet he fled to the back yard.
When he reached the oak tree his mother had planted when they had first moved to California fifteen years ago, trembling with emotion, he collapse to his knees, panting and making small, desperate sounds in his throat. His alcohol laden stomach lurched sickeningly and he fell heavily to his knees and vomited at the base of the tree again and again until he was empty and then he heaved until his stomach muscles were sore.
“No, Chris,” he sobbed raggedly as he beat at the earth with his fist, “No, no! I’d never hurt you… please, God. Never hurt you.”
Leon didn’t know how long he lay there, desperately unhappy, his head pounding from the violence of his retching. When he had the strength to move he pulled himself up and leaned heavily against the tree trunk smelling the sweet-sour stench of his own vomit and the unmistakable reek of used booze.
Like one caught in a bad dream, he reached into his robe pocket and fumbled out his cigarette and lighter. It took some doing but he finally managed to shake out the last of his Marlboros. Lighting the cigarette, though, took a considerable more amount of effort because his fingers were trembling too hard for him to connect the tip with the tiny flame.
The neighborhood began to come alive around him, dogs barked, birds began to sing and he could clearly make out the soft oceanic sound of distant traffic. Soon Chris’ alarm would be going off and he’d yawn and stretch his way awake before he getting up to feed his pet rat and begin the preparations for yet another school day.
He couldn’t bring himself to leave, lest he left Chris alone and wondering what had happened to him. He wouldn’t go inside the house for fear of what he might do. So instead he made a small compromise and sat on the lawn, under his mother’s tree, and waited for the sun to rise.
Things always looked better in the sunlight. They had to because he couldn’t imagine them getting any worse.
Heaving a weary sigh, Leon Orcot rested his head against the rough bark and, for the first time in more years than he cared to admit, closed his eyes and prayed.
And hoped with all his heart that God was in a listening mood.
TO BE CONTINUED…
CHAPTER 18
Pairing: Leon x D
Category: Supernatural/Alternate Universe
Rating: R
Warning: Violence, Language, Sexual Situations and Hermaphrodite!D
Title: The Hunted
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for NaNoWriMo 2007
Previous Chapters: Prologue 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16
Face down on the pavement, Joshua heard the squeal of tires, smelled the stench of burned rubber, but to his fading senses they were dim and unimportant. As if from a great distance, he heard a car door slam and felt more than heard the hurried approach of feet as they sent subtle vibrations through the cracked pavement upon which his cheek rested.
"Josh? Oh my God, Josh!"
The next thing Josh knew he was being roused from his state of semi-unconsciousness. Hands were upon him, dragging him from the pebbly cement, turning him on to his back. Instincts buried deep beneath the pain and exhaustion warned him that he was vulnerable in his weakened state and wide open for an attack. Determined to protect himself from further harm, he groaned and struggled to open his eyes, to will his abused body to either fight or flee. But his eyelids were so heavy and he was so damned tired...
Fortunately, the anticipated attack never came. Instead he felt himself being lifted gently into a more or less semi-reclining position. Bright red pain sliced through his shoulder and he cried out as he was pulled into an awkward embrace, his body cradled against the solid warmth of a decisively masculine chest. And though the cologne that wafted to his nose was cheap and had been applied a bit too freely, underneath he detected the warm, familiar scent of family.
Somehow Joshua found the strength to open his eyes and look upon the face of the younger brother he hadn't seen in three years. "Ian..."
The socially awkward, scrawny fifteen year old wearing wire frame spectacles and his older brother’s hand-me-downs had been replaced by a handsome young man with clear blue eyes and disheveled, shoulder-length auburn hair that fell about his face in wild abandon. He had filled out a bit, especially in the shoulders, and his face had exchanged its little boy look for that of a chisel jawed adult, graced by a full goatee and modest sideburns where once there had only been fine wisps of hair. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, his brother had added more than a few inches since they had last been together, though it was hard to tell from his current position.
"Oh, shit, oh shit, Josh,” Ian rasped, staring down at the blood soaked front of his shirt, “What the hell did they do to you?" His voice cracked with panic as he pressed one hand over the seeping bullet wound in a vain attempt to staunch the blood and used the other to check his pulse, which was weak and unsteady.
Wincing at the pain, Josh reached up with a trembling hand and tried to push Ian's hands away from the wound. “Don’t,” he gasped. He could still feel the silver relentlessly burning its way through his body. "Hurts…" he said a fraction louder, and was alarmed at how thin and helpless his voice sounded.
"Sorry," Ian jerked his hands away as if he’d just received an electrical shock and stared in horror at the blood that now covered them. He licked his lips nervously and glanced in the direction of the gas station. Josh followed his gaze and though he wasn't able to properly bring his eyes into focus, he could blurrily make out the figure of the old man still reading his newspaper while a life or death struggle was being waged less than fifty feet from his nice, normal world with its clean fluorescent lights and every day normalcy.
Seeing him there, warm and safe and reading his paper without a care in the world, Josh felt a spark of rage mingled with undeniable grief. That had been his world, too, he thought, up until a few years ago when everything fell apart around his ears. He had been Mr. Normal with a loving family, a beautiful girlfriend, a full-ride scholarship to one of the top Ivy League colleges in the country. The future had stretched out in front of him, bright and full of promise. And then the moon rose full one fateful night and dormant genes had awakened…
Then, without warning or apology, Fate pulled the rug out from under him and he had lost everything.
“Forget about it,” Josh said, reading Ian’s intention in his eyes. With some effort he gathered his energy in an effort to make himself understood. “That’s not the kind of help we need. He’d only call the cops, anyway.”
"Shit. I thought werewolves could heal super fast?" Ian hissed under his breath and if things hadn’t been so dire, Josh might have laughed at the indignation in his voice.
"Silver bullets..." God, it hurt to speak. He coughed and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Alarm wrapped its fingers around his heart and gave a mighty squeeze. Crap, the bullet must have grazed one of his lungs. "We can't heal as fast when they use silver." He coughed again, grimaced, turned his head and spat onto the concrete. The blood looked very red in the glow of the fluorescent light overhead.
"I need to get you to a hospital,” Ian’s eyes were wide, desperate as he tried to heave Josh to his feet. "Or you'll die. Then Mom will kill me for sure.”
"Can't risk it,” Josh mumbled and grabbed hold of one of his brother's hands as another wave of pain lanced through his body. "They have to report gun shot wounds. The cops are probably keeping an eye on the local hospitals just in case. They'll find me. Take me back… or worse."
He didn’t quite dare think of what exactly worse might entail but knew that it would be bad, very bad.
Unconsciously his grip tightened as the pain crested and he felt the thin bones in his brother’s hands shift subtly under his fingers. He forced himself to take a calming breath then loosened his grip when he saw Ian wince in pain.
"I can't go back there, Ian,” He whispered hoarsely, “I won't. I'd rather die."
Ian chewed his lower lip helplessly and when he spoke he sounded terribly young and frightened, a child playing dress up in his daddy’s clothes. "What am I supposed to do?"
"Gotta get the bullet out.”
Ian gasped in surprise and twisted around as best he could while supporting his brother's weight. A man wearing little more than rags and reeking of garbage stood behind him. Dirt blackened toes protruded from what once may have been a pair of sneakers and the skin on his face and arms was covered in red pustules. He clutched a grimy bottle of booze in one hand, a hunting knife in the other.
“Go away!” Ian swatted his hand at him in an impatient shooing gesture. “God, I don’t have time for this shit.”
The hobo sighed and shook his head. He shuffled closer, the knife glinting blue-silver in the florescent light.
Ian glanced from the knife to the hobo, then at his brother, his eyes holding fearful indecision. He slowly raised his hands to the sky to show he was unarmed. “Look, dude, go away,” he pleaded. “I don’t have any money, okay?”
“You gotta get the bullet out, boy.” The shambling wreck of a man repeated patiently. “Else he’s a goner.”
“What? Oh. But I don’t know h-“
“I do.” The man said and his voice held a sort of quiet confidence that seemed to have an immediate calming effect on the young man. Here was someone who claimed to know what they were doing, and with his brother’s life on the line, he really couldn’t afford to ignore him no matter how fucked up he looked.
“Josh? What do you think?”
“Harvey’s a good guy,” Josh mumbled. “What the hell, let’s give it a shot, bro.”
Harvey the hobo’s lips twisted to form a smile that was all rotten teeth and swollen gums. The man obviously didn’t hold dental hygiene high on his list of priorities, but then again, the man ate out of a freaking dumpster, for Christ’s sake. “Help me carry him to my place, son,” Harvey ordered and, moving forward, took hold of Joshua’s legs. “It ain’t far.”
Nodding his head, Ian scrambled to his feet and, after getting a firm hold on his brother’s arms, helped carry him some fifty feet to an overflowing dumpster off to the left and slightly behind the old building. Josh had to clench his teeth in an effort to keep from screaming in pain as his brother and the hobo half carried, half dragged him away from the telephone booth. His heart thundered unevenly in his ears, blotting out the grunted curses and the instructions Harvey was giving his brother.
Once they were out of sight of the old man reading the newspaper, Josh felt some of the tension in his guts ease. He was willing to bet serious money that out of sight, out of mind was almost certainly the old man’s motto and it seemed unlikely that he would bother to stir himself from his reading to check out any midnight activities that may take place near the overflowing dumpster.
“Good,” Harvey grunted when the reached the dumpster. “Now, set him down right there.” He pointed to a spot relatively clear of clutter then turned to a collapsing cardboard box – his home by the looks of things – and rummaged around for something, mumbling under his breath.
The smell of the place was horrendous, and although Ian hesitated, he did finally ease Josh down onto the ground. He glanced around at the small mountain of trash bags rising out of the dumpster’s lid like a mini Andes. Fast food containers and liquor bottles lay scattered everywhere, the stench of their combined mold forming a nose-wrinkling miasma.
“What the fuck was I thinking?” He mumbled in disgust, keeping his voice low so the hobo couldn’t hear him. “There’s no way in Hell this old goat is going to be able to help us. From the looks of things, he can barely help himself.”
After a few minutes the hobo returned carrying a half-empty bottle of vodka. “I was saving this for a special occasion, but no time like the present, eh?” He laughed and began working the top off, squinting his eyes in concentration as he did.
“So… what do you want me to do?” Ian asked nervously, glancing down at Josh.
“Hold him down, keep him quiet ‘cause this is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.”
As Ian hunkered down near Josh’s head, Harvey splashed vodka liberally over the hunting knife. The liquor washed away some of the dirt and grime. To Ian’s horror, he could make out several large patches of rust along the edge of the blade.
“Now, wait just a minute, you’re not going to use-“
“Shut up,” Harvey snapped and eased himself painfully to his knees, grunting and grimacing all the while. “We ain’t got time to gab. This here kid’s fading fast. Now help me, or not. But quit your bitching right now or, so help me God, I’ll give you something to bitch about.”
Without another word, the old man used to knife to hack away at Josh’s clothes, ripping the blood soaked cloth to reveal the entrance point of the bullet. He leaned over and poured more of the vodka over the wound. Josh’s eyes flew open immediately as the vodka burned into his wound.
He screamed.
“Shut him up before someone comes poking their nose out here, you idiot!”
Eyes wide and shocked, Ian slapped his left hand over his brother’s mouth and tried to hold him still with his right. But Josh was twisting and bucking with more energy than either man would have imagined considering his current state.
“Hold him down,” Harvey snarled. “God damn it.”
“Josh, listen to me!” Ian panted, “I know it hurts, but it’ll only hurt for a little bit. I promise.” Joshua’s eyes wildly rolled up to meet his brother’s, the pupils expanded so that only a little color could be seen. There was so much pain in that gaze; it almost broke Ian’s heart.
“I promise.” He repeated softly and prayed that it was true.
“Ready?” Harvey asked and the knife in his hand, looking larger than life and twice as menacing, eased toward wound.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“I was a medic in ‘Nam long before you were even a twinkle in your mama’s eye.” Harvey said and his voice was soft, his eyes far away. “I’ve seen boys worse off than this. Sometimes they lived… and sometimes they were called home to God. But me and my crew, we served our country and did the best we knew how.”
He leaned over Josh until his nose practically touched his heaving chest. “So, to answer your question, yeah, I think you can say I know what I’m doing.”
For an old man, his hands drew the blade through Joshua’s flesh with the speed and precision few men could’ve matched. Josh arched beneath him, sweat pouring from his skin, his screams muffled by his brother’s hands and reassuring words.
“Jesus Christ!” Ian gasped, his face screwed up in his effort to keep his own screams trapped in his throat. He had never seen so much blood. “It’s okay,” he whispered into Josh’s ear. “It’s okay.” Over and over again he repeated these words. Like a charm or a mantra. All of the color had drained from his face and his stomach lurched crazily.
“Don't you go puking on me, kiddo.”
The hobo's sharp command brought him back from the brink. Shaking, he swallowed hard, his throat burning with unshed tears. “No, sir,” he managed, “I’m fine.”
“Good boy.”
Another incision was carved into Joshua’s upper chest, widening the wound entrance just enough for Harvey to dig his filthy fingers into the bleeding flesh. Josh’s body jerked reflexively in reaction, but he lacked to strength to even scream. Hot tears washed down his cheeks cutting clean trails through the grime that coated his face.
Biting his tongue in concentration, Harvey twisted his hand at the wrist, pushing deeper into the flesh. The air was heavy with the hot coppery stench of blood and a half dozen flies and gnats began to buzz around the three men, landing then flitting off again in a hum of tiny insect wings.
“Gottcha, you son of a bitch,” Harvey’s face contorted in a fierce snarl of triumph. He withdrew his hand slowly, a small twisted piece of metal – the remains of the silver bullet that had lodged in Joshua’s flesh. He held out his hand and grunted, “Here.”
Reluctantly, Ian held out one hand, palm up. The hobo dropped the spent bullet into his outstretched hand then smeared his own bloody hands over the stained rags he wore.
“Now give me your shirt,” He ordered.
Ian jerked his head up. “Give you my what?”
“Your shirt, damn it. What are you, deaf?” He snorted in exasperation at the uncomprehending look in the young man’s eyes. “Can't have him bleeding to death, now can we?”
“Oh, right. I got it now.” Ian undid the buttons to his ruined white tee shirt first then slid it off of his shoulders. The undershirt was next. There was no way he’d ever get the blood out, anyway.
He handed both over to Harvey without another word. The old man used the bloody knife to deftly cut the first tee shirt into strips then folded the undershirt until it was reduced to a compact square of cloth. Placing the undershirt over the wound, he instructed Ian to hold the cloth in place while he used the strips of cloth as a makeshift bandage and tied them as best he could around Joshua’s still heaving chest.
“Now,” Harvey said gruffly, “Get him to a hospital, boy, and he should be fine.”
Misty eyed, Ian glanced down at his brother, who lay on the ground bleary eyed and only semi-conscious. It may have been an effect of the light, but already it looked like some color had crept back into his cheeks. Even the crudely done incisions looked smaller. But that couldn’t be right.
Could it?
“I don’t know how to thank you, man.” He whispered hoarsely as he and Harvey hoisted his brother up, both of them taking a side as they stumbled and grunted their way to Ian’s car with Joshua dangling between them, eyes closed, head lolling. “You really saved our bacon.”
Ian fumbled the back door of his car open and helped Harvey ease Josh into the back seat. Once his brother was stowed, he shut the door and turned to the ragged old man who had saved his brother’s life.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.” He said, holding his hand out. Harvey accepted the gesture and clasped his own calloused hands around Ian’s.
“Well, there is one thing…” Harvey trailed off and cast his eyes to the ground in a gesture Ian mistook for embarrassment.
“Anything, man, name it and it’s yours.”
Harvey squatted down and ran one gnarled finger along the red swoosh of Ian’s white Nikes. His eyes shimmered just like a little boy’s at Christmas.
“Anything?” He glanced up, hope naked on his weathered features.
“Anything. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
A pink tongue darted and moistened chapped lips. “Can I have your shoes?”
Grinning, like a fool, Ian slipped off his shoes and handed them to the old man, who gleefully accepted them. “Done and done, dude.”
Still grinning, he walked over to the driver’s side door, let himself in and shut the door quietly behind him so as not to disturb Josh any more than necessary. With a twist of the key, he started the car. It felt kind of weird to be working the pedals bare footed, but it was only temporary. He had other shoes at home he could wear, after all. And a pair of shoes in exchange for the life of his big brother was a bargain too good to pass up.
As he drove away he flashed his lights and waved his hand in farewell to the old man, who was prancing merrily back to his dumpster in his new shoes.
“Okay, Josh,” he called over his shoulder, “Time to go home.”
***
The night was steadily losing its battle to the encroaching dawn when Leon bolted awoke in his old childhood bedroom, one fist crammed into his mouth in an effort to bite back the scream that wanted to escape. A thin sheen of sweat glossed his face, one drop slid into his eyes and he blinked rapidly in an effort to ease the sting. When that didn’t work, he tried to wipe the sweat away he found that his good arm and both legs were tangled in the linen, effectively immobilizing him.
In a frenzied burst of claustrophobic panic, he yanked himself free, kicking and tugging wildly as he snarled curses under his breath.
With every movement monstrous bolts of pain ripped though his head, thudding sickly in rapid time with his beating heart, and the ferocity of it temporarily blinding him to anything else. It helped block out most of the nightmare, but the more vital memories remained - savage, snapping teeth and the rich tang of blood in his mouth.
In my mouth, right in my fucking mouth, he thought shakily and felt his gore rising, Jesus Christ.
And now he realized that he could actually taste blood – the sweet, coppery taste of it filled his mouth. Unsteadily, he touched his fingers to his bottom lip and hissed as he felt the jagged tear. He must have bitten it while trying to fight himself free from the nightmare. Idly he licked the tip of his finger, washing the blood away with his tongue then he began nibbling at his lower lip, sucking until he had removed all traces of blood before worrying it with his teeth.
Suddenly without warning, it blindsided him, a surge of raw craving that actually had his mouth watering as a new, unnatural hunger rose within him. Confusing images danced wildly through his mind like a series of strobe flashes: Hot blood, cold terror and the feel of teeth – his teeth – tearing through human flesh to reach the frantic pulse beneath.
And the most disturbing thing was that while part of him was repulsed by these thoughts, these phantom sensations, another much more primitive part, buried deep beneath the veneer of what passes for civil humanity, rejoiced.
Horrified, he yanked his finger back out of his mouth. He stared at his hand, heart racing out of control. His legs felt odd, rubbery, a feeling he associated with long distance running and end of the year track meets. Clenching his eyes, he ignored his heaving stomach and concentrated hard on not getting sick.
“Oh dear God, what the hell is happening to me?”
It wasn’t his voice, couldn’t be. It was so thin and shaky. But it was a voice he recognized nonetheless – the voice of the child he had been, a scared seven year old lost in the painful aftermath of an event he could fully comprehend.
Raking his good hand through his sweat dampened hair, Leon desperately tried to collect his thoughts, to calm his racing heart and ragged breathing. It wouldn’t do him any good to hyperventilate and pass out now.
“Okay, Orcot,” he mumbled, “Calm down and think, damn it. I’m not a helpless child anymore; I’m an adult and I can beat this thing, what it is.
Shaken and feeling a little foolish, he closed his eyes and began one of the relaxation techniques he had learned as a little boy, breathing in slowly, deeply, and then exhaling as he mentally counted backwards from eight to one. With more effort than was pretty, he willed the small panicky voice in his head to be silent. He then mentally tucked his jumble of thoughts and fears into the darker recesses of his mind with the promise that he would take the time to sort through them later, perhaps after the sun rose.
Somehow examining this most recent dream didn’t feel particularly safe or smart, especially while the night still held sway. There would be plenty of time once the sun came up. And while he knew that daylight couldn’t magically make everything better, it did help banish useless fears and made it easier to think things through in a calm, rational manner.
Breathe in. Breathe out. In again, out again, establishing a slow, steady rhythm. With each breath Leon visualized the fear and uncertainty leaving his body, carried away bit by bit with each exhalation until it was gone. Slowly, his breathing took on its normal rhythm and the thunder of his heart subsided.
“Ah,” he sighed, feeling once more in control. “That’s much better,”
Once he had calmed down and taken a few moments to think things over, he wasn’t overly surprised that he had had one of his werewolf nightmares. At a very early age he had learned that such incidences were often triggered by stressful events in his life. And the last few days had been nothing if not stressful what with having a case where a werewolf was on the loose somewhere in Los Angeles and being taken off said case after being mauled by the very werewolf he and his team had been hunting.
Leon had a better understanding of what could trigger his nightmares, but he could admit, even if only to himself, that he had never gotten used to the midnight monster fests his brain threw his way on a more or less regular basis. And who could blame him? In reality the attack had only lasted a few minutes, but it played through his dreams again and again, a warped performance with plenty of free-style madness for everyone, yes, but still terrifying nonetheless. And the sad fact of the matter remained that the dreams had pretty much been a constant in his life since the day he had been attacked when he was seven years old and would, no doubt, continue to crop up every once in a while.
Normally that wouldn’t be such a big problem. Hell, he had spent more than a few sleepless nights on account of his night terrors, but then again, he’d also lost sleep on account of all-night study (read make-out) sessions and wild parties. The problem was that recently they had been getting more intense, more real. It was bad enough that vampires, werewolves and other supernatural baddies were really real without having his nightmares getting up close and personal like they never had before. It was as he was the one who had a starring role in the mental monster movies… and that didn’t sit well with him at all.
So his dreams bothered him (well, more than they ever had at any rate), the brain busting headaches worried him, and now, this…new blood fetish that he had acquired, if that was what it was, scared the living hell out of him. But he wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about them. It was too weird. And if he ever did talk to a shrink he’d probably be committed to an insane asylum and kept in a padded room for the rest of his life. If the guys at the station ever found out that he had so much as thought about taking to a psychologist, well, he’d never hear the end of it.
Cops talked to shrinks all the time… but they didn’t go advertising the fact – it wasn’t good for morale.
“It wouldn’t do any good anyway,” Leon mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, “Talking about things never makes anything any better. It just stirs everything up.”
Leon detangled himself from the sweat drenched sheets and sat up, wincing at the pain that erupted anew through his head. He gazed longingly at his bed but knew that from years of experience that there would be no more sleep for him that night. Besides, what was the point in trying to catch a few extra zees when he couldn’t sleep in his favorite sleeping position? Unfortunately, until his clavicle bone was fully healed, he was stuck sleeping on his back with his head propped up by a small mountain of pillows instead of on his stomach.
Knowing he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep and desperate for some pain relief, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and snatched his faded flannel robe that he had tossed on the headboard. The twin-sized frame squeaked as he moved, a small sound made loud by the silence of the night. The robe fluttered around his shins and he clumsily tied the belt, grateful for its warmth against the chill in the air. A quick search of the pockets confirmed that his cigarettes and lighter were all accounted for.
The carpet was smooth and cool beneath his feet and he made no noise as he padded his way to door and out into the hall, moving carefully so he would not jar either his throbbing head or his wounded shoulder.
The kitchen was dark, but he navigated it easily enough, a task that would have been impossible in his own messy apartment. Reaching over the kitchen sink, he yanked the pull cord and waited for the fluorescent light to cast away the shadows. The bulb was old and it took a few seconds before it flickered into life. Wincing, he turned his head away from the glow until his eyes adjusted. Florescent lights had never been a problem before, but lately his eyes were a little oversensitive.
“I probably need glasses,” he groused. But if his vision really was impaired, it would be a cold day in Hell before he let anyone see him in a pair of spectacles. He would be a contact man or a blind man. Those were the only options as far as he was concerned.
In the meanwhile, if bright lights were going to be an issue, then sunglasses would be his new fashion accessory until he got things straightened out.
Fantasizing about all the gorgeous babes he’d pick up wearing only a sporty pair of sunglasses and a tight pair of swimming trunks, Leon fumbled into one of the wooden cabinets next to the sink and took out an almost empty economy sized bottle of extra strength aspirin and the bottle of Vicodin Dr. Tsung had prescribed for him. Ah, prescription pain pills, he thought, as he retrieved a can of beer from the refrigerator, if these don’t get rid of my headache, I might as well cut of my head and be done with it.
D’s waspish warning from the other day about mixing alcohol and prescription pain pills filtered through his head but he mentally waved it away like a bothersome fly.
“I need a drink, damn it.” He muttered defensively as he shook half a dozen pills out onto the counter. “The world is turning upside down and if I don’t get a handle on things, I’m going to go fucking crazy.”
Having rationalized his decision, Leon hooked his finger into the beer tab and popped the top off the beer, grinning at the satisfying hiss of escaping air pressure. He tossed the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a long, cold swallow of beer.
“Damn, but that hit the spot!”
While still standing by the sink, Leon drained the can in a series of long pulls and tossed the empty can into the recycling bin. No point in getting his father bent out of shape for not recycling since it was his beer, after all. Smacking his lips reflectively, he wandered over to the refrigerator, yanked open the door and stared longingly at the remaining cans.
“Another one won’t hurt any,” he figured, reaching for a second beer. “And it would do a world of good for my poor frazzled nerves.”
The second can was quickly joined by a third... and then a fourth. By the time he was halfway through his fifth beer his latest bout of dreams seemed dull and unimportant. All thoughts of the scent, taste, the maddening craving for blood had grown soft and fuzzy around the edges. And that was just the way he liked it.
Pleasantly buzzed but not yet tired enough to even think about attempting sleep, Leon prowled the house restlessly. He slowly worked his way through the dining room, past the master bedroom and en suite bathroom and up the short flight of steps that led to Chris’ bedroom, wobbling every few steps as the alcohol cancelled out some of his fine motor skills.
In the hall outside of Chris’ bedroom, a small light cast a soft warm glow which effectively banished both the night and the shadows that often prowled outside little kids’ bedrooms hoping for a fright or two. The bedroom door was open and the light wrapped itself around the door frame in such a way that Leon could make out the sleeping form of his kid brother half under this Mickey Mouse comforter, which dangled halfway to the floor.
Leon never kidded Chris because he always asked their dad to leave the light on outside of his bedroom. Other big brothers probably would have, but not him. He knew only too well from both personal experience and his work as a legal hunter for the Supernatural Crimes Division of the LAPD that all kinds of bad apples roamed the earth once the sun went down… and not all of them were human.
For several minutes he watched his brother as he slept, spread eagle on his back. His chest rose and fell rhythmically and his sleep was untroubled. His face scrunched itself into a half grimace as an intense, almost painful, wave of love for the boy swept over him. If anything ever happened to him… well, he just wouldn’t know what to do. Their relationship had started off a bit on the rocky side, what with their mother dying shortly after giving birth to Chris, but Leon hadn’t allowed the grief over the loss of his mother to eclipse the love he felt for the boy or his pride at finally being a big brother.
On impulse, Leon crossed the room, his movements as silent as mist. He knelt at the head of the bed and looked down into his brother’s sleeping face, his thick lashes, a shade or two darker than his blond hair, fanning across his creamy cheeks. A little angel…
Smiling at the idea of his little hellion of a brother being described, even while asleep, as an angel, Leon gathered up the fallen comforter and laid it out properly over the boy, tucking it in snuggly lest he get chilly. Chris stirred in his sleep and muttered something unintelligible before sinking deeper into his own private dreamland.
“Sweet dreams, kiddo,” Leon whispered hoarsely as he gently brushed a lock of hair from Chris’ forehead. “Love you.”
Feeling a little foolish, he brushed his lips against the boy’s forehead in a light kiss. Now, if anyone asked him if he ever showed such sappy affection toward his baby brother, he would have to lie and say no. And it wouldn’t be a lie, exactly. Though he loved Chris and had no doubts that he loved him back, they were still guys and guys didn’t go for mushy shows of affection…. That is unless there was no one around to witness a moment of temporary weakness, a weakness born of love.
His skin’s so warm, Leon thought in wonder, but that was just the way Chris was. The kid put off almost as much heat as D did.
Leon’s gaze traveled down from his brother’s face to the pale expanse of throat. He could just see the steady rhythm of his beat under that delicate skin in the soft light. And watching it flutter, so full of energy, of life, stirred other emotions within him. Dark and dangerous thoughts surfaced, alien, strange, thoughts that no brother should think of another.
In his mind’s eye he saw himself jumping onto the bed, scooping the child into his arms, balling a fist into the fine softness of his hair and yanking his head back to expose that youthful pulse. One hand slapping over his mouth to stifle any noise, he imagined himself plunging his teeth into that small neck, tearing skin, rending flesh. Hot gouts of arterial blood would spray, cutting off his child’s voice before it could even cry out. And he would drink blood, devour flesh… and, oh, how he would feast.
To his horror, Leon’s hand had actually shot out, fingers entwining in blond hair so much like his own, before he was able to distance himself from the eerily realistic images in his mind. He snatched his hand away as if burned, and cried out in a low voice, moaning in self-loathing as he realized what might have happened had he not snapped back to himself in time.
“No, Chris,” he panted as hot tears filled his eyes, “Oh God, no, I would never hurt you… never.”
He threw himself onto his feet and away from the bed so violently he almost lost his footing and went crashing to the ground. Fortunately, he caught himself in time and was able to lurch out of the room, thudding into first one wall then the other in his haste to put distance between him and the helpless child who slept blissfully unawares of how close he had come to being an angel for real.
Thundering down the steps, Leon felt the misstep a fraction of a second before his ankle twisted sending sharp slices of pain shooting up from his ankle. With a wordless cry he crashed to his knees, tumbling down the remaining stairs in a graceless sprawl. He lay at the bottom, temporarily stunned, then lurching to his feet he fled to the back yard.
When he reached the oak tree his mother had planted when they had first moved to California fifteen years ago, trembling with emotion, he collapse to his knees, panting and making small, desperate sounds in his throat. His alcohol laden stomach lurched sickeningly and he fell heavily to his knees and vomited at the base of the tree again and again until he was empty and then he heaved until his stomach muscles were sore.
“No, Chris,” he sobbed raggedly as he beat at the earth with his fist, “No, no! I’d never hurt you… please, God. Never hurt you.”
Leon didn’t know how long he lay there, desperately unhappy, his head pounding from the violence of his retching. When he had the strength to move he pulled himself up and leaned heavily against the tree trunk smelling the sweet-sour stench of his own vomit and the unmistakable reek of used booze.
Like one caught in a bad dream, he reached into his robe pocket and fumbled out his cigarette and lighter. It took some doing but he finally managed to shake out the last of his Marlboros. Lighting the cigarette, though, took a considerable more amount of effort because his fingers were trembling too hard for him to connect the tip with the tiny flame.
The neighborhood began to come alive around him, dogs barked, birds began to sing and he could clearly make out the soft oceanic sound of distant traffic. Soon Chris’ alarm would be going off and he’d yawn and stretch his way awake before he getting up to feed his pet rat and begin the preparations for yet another school day.
He couldn’t bring himself to leave, lest he left Chris alone and wondering what had happened to him. He wouldn’t go inside the house for fear of what he might do. So instead he made a small compromise and sat on the lawn, under his mother’s tree, and waited for the sun to rise.
Things always looked better in the sunlight. They had to because he couldn’t imagine them getting any worse.
Heaving a weary sigh, Leon Orcot rested his head against the rough bark and, for the first time in more years than he cared to admit, closed his eyes and prayed.
And hoped with all his heart that God was in a listening mood.
TO BE CONTINUED…
CHAPTER 18
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