Midsummer's Moon

by Megan Derr

  Where was Peter? Well, down in the basement or whatever, but why was he still down there? It was almost lunch time.

  Should he go outside, explore the yard?

  Aargh, what was he supposed to do? Well, leave, and go be somewhere else, cause he never stayed in one place very long but then again he'd never been anywhere quite like this either.

  He was giving himself a headache. Sighing, Lowell wandered back into the kitchen and sat down at the table. It was, for whatever reason, his favorite room to be in – assuming less than twenty four hours was enough time to pick a favorite room.

  Maybe because one of his few good memories was of his stint as a cook's assistant. That had been fun, at least parts of it. Cutting stuff, frying it, grilling it, roasting, boiling…he so wished he could have hung around longer to learn more.

  Wouldn't it be neat if he knew how to cook? Sadly, he just didn't know much. The diner had been an 'old-fashioned cooking' kind of place, and he hadn't been there long enough to learn all of it. Biscuits he remembered, and fried chicken but that had required a lot of work and he hadn't been allowed to do the actual cooking stuff though oh man had he watched and eaten the leftovers.

  They'd had cereal and bananas for breakfast, and Sally had borrowed some eggs and he definitely knew how to cook eggs…

  But was he allowed? Would he get in trouble?

  He snorted at that. Get in trouble. Like that was new, or even mattered. He got in trouble, Peter kicked him out, that was that. Back to life as normal. It wasn't like this weird situation would last.

  Shrugging, he slowly wandered the kitchen hunting down everything he thought he'd need, coming up with a skillet, eggs, butter, cheese, several things from a spice rack that made him gawk, a few other things and then he slowly started to get to work.

  Scrambled eggs weren't really much, but it was the one thing he knew he could do without burning the house down. Or otherwise screw up. 'Werewolf and Kitchen Tragic Combination.' Frowning, he dumped the whisked eggs into the warmed skillet and watched carefully as they cooked.

  He was so busy concentrating, on fretting about what would happen when – if – Peter came upstairs, that the new scent didn't register until a voice broke into his thoughts.

  "Smells good."

  Lowell jumped, the new scent hitting his nose even as he dropped his spatula and it clattered to the kitchen floor.

  "Sorry!" The new guy, pushing up the glasses on his nose, smiled sheepishly. "I figured you'd know I was here, though you were looking pretty hard at those eggs."

  Nodding, Lowell bent to retrieve the dropped spatula, then moved to the sink to wash it. "You smell like the vampire," he said slowly. "Uh. Are you allowed in here?"

  "Yeah," the man replied. "Name's Jordan. I stopped by to meet the new werewolf my wife keeps going on and on about. I think I'd be jealous, except I know better." He winked, and briefly touched his neck, where Lowell could see what were obviously bite marks. He jerked his gaze away, realizing he was staring.

  Jordan laughed softly, but it was a kind rather than a mean sound, or so Lowell thought but who knew? "Have you never seen vamp bites before?"

  Lowell shook his head, feeling his cheeks grow hot, and turned back to save his eggs from burning. "I'm a loner."

  "So was I, actually," Jordan replied. Then he grinned. "Vampire hunters by and large tend to be loners. There are exceptions, but most of us work alone." He moved closer to the stove. "Can I steal some?"

  "You…want some of the eggs?" Lowell asked, surprised.

  "They smell really good," Jordan said. "Don't tell her I said so, cause I'll die a slow and painful death, but Sally is much better at baking than cooking." He winked. "Of course, she's a vampire and rather an old one at that. Don't tell her I said that either."

  Lowell stared at him.

  Jordan smiled. "So can I have some eggs? Cause my cooking is worse than Sally's, though neither of us is nearly as bad as Peter. You'd think a man who dealt with formulae and stuff would be better at measuring out flour, but let me tell you the one day he tried to make a cake it—"

  "Continue with that sentence, Jordan, and I'll tell your wife everything you just said," Peter said from the hallway, glaring at him.

  "Whoops. Busted. Can I still have eggs?"

  Peter moved into the kitchen, still glaring, but Lowell almost thought he looked amused too. "No, you may not, for attempting to tell humiliating stories about me."

  "At least I didn't bring up the incident—"

  "Finish that sentence and the next time I throw my handy little 'solar flares' down the chimney your vision will suffer a lot longer than twenty four hours."

  Jordan laughed. "She was pissed with you, man. Sometimes I think I miss the good ol' days of courtship. I got away with more when she thought I was being a cute little human trying to flirt."

  Peter rolled his eyes.

  "Um," Lowell broke in hesitantly. "Do you want to eat?"

  "Yes," Peter and Jordan chorused, breaking off their congenial bickering to fetch plates and forks, and before Lowell could blink his scrambled eggs were gone from the pan, on three plates – and mostly gone by the time he sat down to enjoy his own.

  He listened as they continued to talk and bicker, eating his eggs quickly, trying not to smile because there was no good reason to smile, though he was glad his eggs didn't taste awful and that he wasn't in trouble.

  The words 'vampire hunter' broke into his idle thoughts, and he looked up, speaking before he thought better of it. "What's a vampire hunter?"

  As the talking ceased and they both looked at him in brief surprise, Lowell wished he'd remembered in time to keep his mouth shut.

  Then Peter shook his head, and Jordan smiled ruefully. "You're not kidding," Jordan said with an easy smile. "He really did manage to avoid learning anything. How, though?"

  Peter shrugged. "It wouldn't be hard, all things considered."

  "True enough, I suppose," Jordan muttered.

  Lowell wished he understood what they were talking about.

  Jordan shook his head. "Sorry. Um, there are different kinds of vampires. What we in the business typically call Broken, Average, and Top."

  "Sally…Peter called her a Top."

  "Yeah, that's right," Jordan said. "A vampire is considered a top when he's a hundred and eighty years old, or roughly three times the average span of a human life. That's about the point when they're well and truly adjusted to being vampire rather than human, and can more or less be trusted not to go on massive killing/making sprees. Uh, making as in 'making more vampires' cause they're only allowed to make so many per century."

  Lowell nodded, not sure he got it but it was still more than he'd ever known.

  Jordan continued. "Average vampires are the middle ones, the young ones, those turned that seem to be doing well but haven't reached that definitive point yet. Most of them won't, 'cause forgetting how to be human is hard."

  "Broken vampires are those that aren't well-made, or simply don't take, as well as some averages who over time can't take it. Vampire hunters come in two main grades – those who hunt broken vamps and those averages who break the rules, and then those who watch over the tops."

  "Uh, okay," Lowell said. He wanted to ask more questions, cause he totally didn't get half of it, but a more pressing question burned to be asked. "Is there, um, stuff like that for werewolves?"

  The two men exchanged a look. Lowell hated when people did that. It never spelled good news for him.

  Finally Peter spoke. "Werewolves…are something else entirely. There's a popular theory that vampires and werewolves are closely related. Both are transmitted through bites, both have a fatal allergy to silver, both are in some way tied to the night…and no one knows where or how they originate. The oldest of both races are long dead, and not even the oldest vampires, it's said, remembered much of anything about their origins. It's believed to be a combination of science and magic, some experiment that had two end results. We'll never know f
or certain."

  "What we do know," Jordan said, "is that vampires became jealous of werewolves. They saw to it that almost all werewolves were wiped out, and I'm sure they'd all be gone except there were enough who helped at least some werewolves survive. Sally, for instance, never hated them."

  Lowell stared. "Jealous?" he asked.

  "Yes," Peter said, fidgeting with his glasses. "Most only change with a full moon, so once a month…otherwise they are mostly human, able to blend with humans better…and can move about in daylight. More important still, they can mate with humans, and do not require human blood to live. Vampires are more powerful, and immortal…but they lose much of the freedom which werewolves retain."

  Jordan pushed his own glasses up his nose, and Lowell thought it was kind of funny they both did that. "For a time, it was said some of the best vampire hunters in the world were werewolves. Even today, there's a pretty famous family in the business that people swear have werewolf blood in their veins."

  Lowell frowned. "How can they have wolf blood and not be werewolves? That doesn't make sense."

  "It's like anything passed on through blood," Peter said. "Over time, if not kept strong, it fades and thins out. I doubt there's much of it left, especially if no werewolves have popped up in the bloodline after so many years."

  Jordan snorted. "One never knows with that loud and proud lot."

  Lowell shook his head, utterly confused. "I don't get it. What do you mean passed on through blood?"

  Dismay flickered across Peter's face. "Ah—I keep forgetting, even as we discuss this, that you just don't know these things. Not all werewolves are the result of biting. Some are simply born. It's passed through genetics as easily as through a bite. Though, it's rare. Often it just sits dormant. Like in the case of the hunter family we were just discussing. Depends."

  "Oh," Lowell said quietly. "Um…could that, uh, be why I don't remember getting bitten?"

  "Probably," Peter said gently. "Very likely, you had a parent who was a werewolf. I could not say for certain, of course, but if you do not have a bite scar…"

  I don't," Lowell said quietly, staring at his empty plate. It didn't really matter, of course, how he'd become a werewolf…except…if his mother or father had known what he might be born as…why would they abandon him to it? Why had no one told him? Why had no one cared?

  Stupid questions, for which he would never find answers, so it was pointless wondering. So he was a born werewolf rather than a made. He felt stupid for not knowing such a thing was possible, but ultimately it didn't make a difference so he should just stop wondering.

  Peter and Jordan were looking at him uneasily, and exchanging looks again, but Lowell didn't want to know this time. He'd had more than enough information for one day.

  Standing, he gathered up the plates and skillet and moved to the sink to wash the dishes.

  "You don't have to do that," Peter said, standing up and joining him at the sink. "You cooked, I'll wash. House rules."

  Jordan snorted, earning a glare from Peter, and then fell silent.

  "Here, go sit down," Peter said with a smile, and Lowell meant to protest – he really did, because he was the one mooching off of Peter so the least he could do was cook and clean as best he was able…but it was hard to muster an argument against that smile, and it was already distracting enough how good Peter still smelled.

  He really needed to figure that out. Distracted by his own thoughts, he returned to the table and obediently sat down, toying restlessly with a paper napkin.

  "So are you going to resume the experiments then?" Jordan asked into the silence.

  "No," Peter said sharply, turning around.

  Jordan held up his hands. "I didn't know, man. Neither did Sally. Thought I'd ask. Why not?"

  "Because there will never be a cure," Peter said, voice still sharp, but Lowell could detect a trace of sadness in it. "After so many years of trying, I am willing to admit an exercise in futility at last. Stacey was the last straw."

  "Stacey," Jordan said contemptuously, "deserved to be taken into the woods and—"

  "That's enough!" Peter said, all but shouting the words – and punctuated by the plate that shattered as it slipped from his hands. "Damn it." He sighed and walked gingerly across the kitchen, vanishing into the laundry room and returning with a broom and dustpan. "Just stay there," he said, motioning for Lowell to sit when he would have stood to help.

  Jordan grimaced. "I'm sorry, Peter."

  Peter sighed as he dumped broken porcelain into the trash, and started sweeping the floor a second time. "No. You're right. I know it. Still a sore subject, I guess."

  Lowell wondered if maybe he should leave. He so hated not knowing what was going on. Was he part of the problem? Stacey was a werewolf, and one who had known Peter…and he wondered how they had known each other, given how upset and all Peter got.

  He bit back any questions though. He didn’t know much, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

  "Maybe now's a good time for me to take my leave, before I shove my foot so far into my mouth I start choking on it," Jordan said. He stood and clapped Peter on the back, waved to Lowell, and then was gone.

  Peter started to speak when the back door abruptly opened again.

  "I think you've got a patient coming, Doc," Jordan said, holding up a hand to forestay whatever remark Peter was about to make. "Looks like Ms. Holly's truck."

  "Oh, great," Peter said with a sigh. He rolled his eyes, and then vanished briefly to return the broom and dustpan to the laundry room.

  Lowell sat, wishing he knew what he was supposed to do.

  Jordan vanished again, and Peter pinched the bridge of his nose.

  After a moment he looked up, and a weak smile curved his mouth. "You look more than a little confused, Low. I apologize for being so obtuse and unpleasant. Stacey is an unpleasant subject for—" He broke off as a car horn blared, and heaved a long sigh as it faded.

  Wry amusement lit his eyes as he turned again to Lowell. "Ms. Holly is one of the town Gossips. She comes here every couple of days to try and weasel out of me whatever I might know about everyone else who has been to see me – and she knows exactly who has been out here." He rolled his eyes as a sharp buzzer rang throughout the house. "I will bet my laboratory she's here to see you, so best come and get it over with." He winked, then motioned for Lowell to follow him.

  Bemused, Lowell went obediently, trailing along as they went from the living portion of the house to the clinic areas.

  "Ms. Holly," Peter said cheerfully, smiling and holding out his hands to the woman who harrumphed loudly before setting her hands in his. Peter kissed her cheek. "You look as wonderful as always. What ails you, my dear lady?"

  If she heard anything he said, she made no show of it, her bright green eyes solely for Lowell.

  She smelled like medicine and stale flowers, a little bit like honey, and man did he know her type – Scary Old Lady. He backed up as she let go of Peter to come toward him, looking warily at the massive handbag hanging from her forearm. He swore they carried bricks in those things.

  No way was he getting in range of the thing.

  "My, my, you are a handsome one, aren't you?" Ms. Holly muttered. "Sally wasn't kidding."

  "Sally?" Peter said sharply. "What in the hell has that bloodsucker been saying now?"

  Ms. Holly glared at him. "You should not call her ladyship by such a crass term. Honestly, Peter, your mother instilled manners in you. Make use of them."

  Lowell frowned. She really shouldn't speak to Peter like that, especially since Sally didn't care if he called her a bloodsucker. He rather thought it was like the way she called Peter Mad Scientist…though he'd only been here a night and a day, so what did he really know?

  "Anyway," Ms. Holly continued with a sniff. "She said only that Peter had a new housemate, and he was young and very handsome. I see she did not lie."

  Peter shook his head. "If you wanted to come for a visit, Ms. Holly, you c
ould have simply knocked on the front door."

  "Bah!" Ms. Holly said, flapping one arm furiously back and forth, the floral pattern of her knee-length, long-sleeved dress moving wildly enough it almost made Lowell dizzy. He wondered what the point of the dress was, cause it really didn't look good, but he sensed saying such a thing would be more fatal to his continued existence than silver. "I'm too busy to run about on frivolous pursuits of curiosity." She turned with a weird sort of flounce toward the back room, saying something about a painful cough.

  Lowell looked at Peter, who rolled his eyes. "She's never been sick a day in her life," Peter said. "She just seems to think none of us knows we're being interrogated." He winked. "You can go find something more amusing to do, if you like. Sorry about all this. Price of small towns is popping up in the local gossip periodically." He laughed, and winked again. "I bet most of my visits the rest of the day and night will all be people wanting a look at my young and handsome boarder. Go have fun, I'll see you for dinner."

  With that, he strode after Ms. Holly, leaving Lowell feeling more than a little dazed and confused. He hadn't cared at all when Ms. Holly had called him handsome, or even that she'd been repeating Sally's words. He didn't believe it. Even on those few other occasions he'd been cleaned up, no one had called him handsome.

  Yet hearing Peter say the exact same thing made his cheeks feel hot, made him all the more painfully aware of just how yummy Peter always smelled.

  Oh, great. That explained the smell at least in part, and of course the fact that Peter was being nice to him for no good reason would amplify it – it was just that those who stirred lust didn't normally have such a smell, so he hadn't quite connected it.

  Typical of his stupid life to feel a bit of lust for someone who was just being nice, and probably would begin to hint – if not outright demand – that he move on.

  Shaking his head, Lowell turned and went to go finish the dishes and mop the floor to get up any remaining glass. His skills were few, but among them was a hell of a talent for mopping floors. 'Wolf Mops Floor, Housewives Turn Green With Envy.' Snorting softly, Lowell banished the silly thought and went to find a mop and bucket.