by Megan Derr
They paused as they heard the wolf howl again, and Astor realized it had stopped for the better part of an hour—not long after they'd left the forest. Probably the werewolf on hire had gone for a lunch break. He rolled his eyes.
"Ghost, Astor," Tennyson said with a laugh that immediately made Astor forget what he'd been thinking. He glanced at Tennyson, who clarified, "You're here to write about ghosts, not lame werewolves. It doesn't matter how charmingly scathing the chapter is, I'll make you delete it. Come on, the snow is getting worse and I could do with lunch." He resumed walking, striding past Astor and hitting him with the spicy-sweet tang of his blood, the orange and sandalwood of the cologne only Tennyson would wear in a forest full of wild animals, and all of that on top of the sharp, crisp smell of a winter-drenched forest.
Astor reached out, not even thinking, and grabbed Tennyson's wrist. Tennyson stopped, turned toward him, and something in his face kicked up the beat of Astor's heart to a furious pace, made it hard to breathe—
And, of course, that was when everything went to hell.
He should have heard it coming, should have smelled it—but one moment he was one step and two heartbeats away from kissing Tennyson, and in the next moment something or someone crashed into them, sending them flying.
Sitting up with a snarl, Astor looked around for the idiot who had ten seconds left to live—and stopped short as he heard Tennyson's scream of pain, whipping around to see a wolf with its jaws clamped down on Tennyson's forearm. The smell of blood was sharp, and Tennyson's screaming was the worst sound he'd ever heard.
That was no ordinary wolf, either. Astor knew a flea-bitten, ill-bred mongrel when he saw one. Damn it. There was nothing he hated more than careless paranormals. "Hey, silver slut!" he snarled. The wolf let go of Tennyson's arm with a snarl and whipped around, eyes red with madness. The werewolf met Astor's eyes, snarling again, spittle dripping from its jaw.
As easy as that Astor had him. "Come here," Astor purred, standing up and holding out his arms, drawing in his prey.
The werewolf whimpered, unable to resist pull, the eyes that had gone jewel green. Shifting slowly and awkwardly to human as it came toward him, the werewolf stepped obediently into Astor's arms. Astor gripped the werewolf's hair, pulled his head sharply to one side, and sank his fangs in deep, sucking hard.
Werewolf blood always tasted thicker than normal human blood; heartier, like drinking a stout instead of a lager. He might not favor werewolves in general, mostly because so many of them seemed to be ill-mannered oafs, but he never considered it a chore to drink their blood.
He drank until the wolf was on the verge of passing out, ensuring that he would be too weak to hurt anyone else. Pulling away, he met the werewolf's eyes again and said in a soft, coaxing tone, "Go to sleep."
The werewolf obeyed, dropping like a rock to the ground, naked as the day he was born. Astor left him there, completely uninterested in the bastard, attention only for Tennyson. He frowned as he knelt beside Tennyson and examined the nasty wound on his right forearm—a mess of blood and flesh and ruined fabric.
Tennyson was gasping and writhing in pain, obviously dazed and not completely there, body battling both the pain of the wound and the brutal effects of werewolf venom. Astor summoned his powers to daze Tennyson long enough to get him back to the hotel.
But when he tried to lure Tennyson in, it didn't work. Instead, all Tennyson said was, "I love when your eyes turn green. It's not fair—" He gasped and cried out in pain as the werewolf venom went to work on his system in earnest. "Not how I planned this—"
"Planned what?" Astor huffed as Tennyson's only answer was to pass out. First thing was first. Take care of Tennyson. Take care of the stupid werewolf. And, of course, because life hadn't suddenly gotten difficult enough, the snow had gotten worse. It was falling hours ahead of schedule and heavily enough that there was not a doubt in his mind they would soon be snowed in.
"Fuck you," Astor said to no one in particular.
He set to work, securing Tennyson's wound until he could get him back to the inn to treat it properly. Then he fetched his backpack and pulled out the compact, space-age type blanket he kept and wrapped the naked werewolf in it.
It took him forever to get Tennyson back to the inn, explain the mess, have the werewolf fetched, obtain medical supplies, and convince a terrified staff that no, he really did not want to bring authorities into it. But finally he was left in peace, just him and Tennyson in his room.
At least the staff had immediately owned up to having a werewolf. If they had tried to lie about it after seeing what had happened to Tennyson…well, it was a very good thing they had not been stupid about it.
Stripping down to just his undershirt, Astor got all the supplies in order and cleaned Tennyson's wound. Then he slowly, meticulously stitched it up, cleaned it again, and finally bandaged it. He could not undo the effects of the venom already changing Tennyson forever, but he had good hands and experience with such wounds, so the arm would heal well.
He smoothed a blanket over Tennyson, who was wearing only his boxers because Astor wasn't leaving him in his wet, muddy, blood-soaked clothes. Rifling through Tennyson's jeans, he found the card to Tennyson's room and went next door to fetch fresh clothes.
Once inside, however, Astor stopped short, taken aback by what he was seeing. The hotel coffee machine had been relegated to the floor by the TV cart, shoved back out of the way. In its place was an espresso machine and all its implements, along with a tin of espresso, bottles of hazelnut and peppermint syrups, and chocolate syrup.
What was going on?
Deciding that questions obviously had to wait, Astor dug out pajama pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt then returned to his own room. It took some doing, but several minutes later he had Tennyson dressed in fresh clothes and settled more comfortably in bed. He probably should have taken Tennyson to his own room, but given that the fun with the werewolf venom was only just beginning …
He held the back of his hand to Tennyson's forehead, unsurprised to find he was feverish. It would likely be at least forty-eight hours before the worst of the ordeal was over and Tennyson woke up again. Astor very carefully did not forget about the small percentage of victims who simply could not handle the transition and died.
Sitting down, Astor scrubbed at his face, feeling grimy and tired. A shower was definitely in order, and he would need food even if the excess of blood still had him feeling too full. He also needed to find people to threaten with bodily harm if they did not give him suitable explanations. That was what he needed to be thinking about.
Try as he might, however, all he could think about was what he had seen in Tennyson's room. What Tennyson had said before he had passed out. Not how I planned this. "Planned what?" Astor asked aloud, confused and frustrated and hating the hope that gasped for breath even as he tried to smother it.
He reached out helplessly to touch Tennyson's face, cupping it lightly, thumb brushing over a bruise on Tennyson's cheek. He started, froze, when Tennyson turned into the touch, making soft, murmuring, snuffling noises.
"Planned what?" Astor asked again, then made himself pull away and stand up. He double checked Tennyson was as comfortable as he could be, then went to get a shower so that he was refreshed and ready when he went to go pick fights.
*~*~*
Astor slid into the room where he'd stuck the stupid werewolf, then closed the door and locked it. He glared at the werewolf, who was chained to the bed. "I'm told your name is Carter, and that you just started working here this year. Given that you were a stark raving lunatic when you attacked us in the woods, I'm guessing you haven't been a werewolf very long."
Carter just glared at him. "You're a bloodsucker. You drank my blood! I'm fucking woozy, man! I was already sick—" He stopped as Astor bared his fangs, recoiled. "Jesus. I guess if werewolves are a thing then blood suckers can be a thing but you're fucking scary as hell, dude."
Astor smiled sweetly. "I'd be more ca
reful about what you say to me and how you say it. You're the silver slut who just infected the love of my life."
"I didn't mean—" Carter said, then stopped. He seemed to wilt. "I didn't mean to. I've been fine. But then today when I got back to the inn and went on shift, everything just—it just went wrong. I don't know why. I didn't mean to bite anybody."
The way he started crying dulled Astor's anger. "How long have you been a werewolf?"
"Six months," Carter said. "Some twink jumped me in a bar. Thought he was just into the whole biting thing. Woke up the next morning and…man, it's been a really shitty six months. When I found this place and they actually wanted to pay me, I damn near died of shock. It was all going great until today."
Astor leaned against the door and folded his arms across his chest. "What did you do today? Tell me everything."
"Nothing much, man," Carter replied, shrugging. "I've been sick as hell, so I went to the doctor—"
He stopped as Astor cut him off with a groan. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Astor said, "Please don't tell me he gave you antibiotics and you took them."
It was one of the stupidest things a werewolf could do. When the body changed to adjust for the werewolf infection, body chemistry altered. Silver was a wolf's best friend; it cured most anything in a werewolf. But many drugs for normal humans no longer worked, or caused a bad reaction. In the case of most antibiotics, it could induce madness.
The long silence was all the answer he needed. Dropping his hand, Astor looked up and said, "You're a werewolf, not a human. That means your body chemistry has changed. Didn't anybody tell you this shit?"
"No," Carter said, crying harder. "I tried—but how the fuck do you say 'clueless newbie werewolf seeks somebody to tell him what the fuck is going on'. I mean seriously, man. Where do you ask something like that?"
Astor sighed, because it was true. "Look, I'll get you some stuff to read, find you a couple of numbers to call. In the meantime, no more medicine of any sort, for anything—not even a headache—unless you talk to me first. Your body chemistry has changed. That means that what works for humans won't work for you. Giving you antibiotics is like giving a dog chocolate, except where it kills dogs it turns you crazy."
Carter paled. "I didn't—it never occurred—I'm really fucking sorry. I hope your boyfriend is okay."
"He'll be fine. You be more careful. I'll be back in a little while."
Leaving the room, Astor returned quickly to his own. He checked on Tennyson, half-tempted to shake him awake and demand answers, but it was more important he be left alone while his body changed.
Astor grabbed his laptop to print out things for Carter to read and his phone to pull a few numbers. He also grabbed the emergency silver from his medical kit, shoving it into his pocket before darting back out. Back in the lobby, he holed up in the inn's sad excuse for a business center and spent two hours fighting with the printer.
When that torture session finally was over, he returned to Carter's room.
"Here," he said irritably. "Werewolves 101 and some people to call. I wouldn't doubt Maria will insist you go stay with her for a bit if we're ever able to get off this stupid mountain. I also brought this—" He showed Carter the metal case he'd shoved into his pocket. "This is silver serum. There are doctors who know about us, who can give the proper help. You're a werewolf, and contrary to the popular opinion of the ignorant masses, silver is not your enemy. It's your best fucking friend. It'll fix most anything, like some sort of panacea. The details on why and how are in those papers I gave you. I'll give you an injection, and if you still feel sick in a couple of days, I'll give you another. All right?"
"O-okay," Carter replied.
Astor prepared the syringe with practiced ease, swabbed the appropriate spot on Carter's forearm with an alcohol pad, then injected the silver serum. "There. Now stay in here and read, and stop doing stupid shit."
Carter bobbed a quick, eager nod. His eyes were bright with tears as he said, "Thank you. I'm really sorry—"
"Forget it," Astor said. "Everybody is stupid sometimes. The point is not to do the same stupid thing over and over. Read. Rest. Make the phone calls."
He left before the conversation got any more tearful or ridiculous, eager to return to Tennyson's side and watch over him while he changed from human to werewolf.
About the only positive thing in the entire situation was that Tennyson knew all about werewolves and vampires, so at least that awkward conversation wouldn't need to happen. He'd just have to keep himself distracted until Tennyson finally woke up and answered all his goddamn questions.
*~*~*
Between the typing and the Beethoven, he almost didn't hear it. But as the percussion eased for a moment, a soft groan penetrated his concentration and drew Astor from his writing. Halfway through a sentence spelling out the demise of a character he was glad to finally off, Astor stopped. He turned in his seat, pulling off his reading glasses and setting them aside.
Tennyson sat up slowly in bed, eyes closed, and the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead. "Why do I feel like I've been run over by a truck?"
"Is that rhetorical or are you really asking?" Astor asked, amused when Tennyson jumped—and more relieved than he would ever admit that Tennyson was finally awake, almost a full seventy-two hours after being bitten.
Eyes snapping open, hand falling, Tennyson just stared at him. He slowly looked down at his arm, then back up at Astor. Recollection filled his face. "Fuck."
"That was one of many expletives I employed myself," Astor replied. "How are you feeling?" He stood up and went to the little sink just outside the bathroom, selecting one of several little bottles of pills and shaking out two.
"Like shit," Tennyson replied as Astor returned to the bed. "What happened? Why did that werewolf go psycho and bite me?"
Astor did not immediately reply, focusing on giving the pills to Tennyson. "Take those," he ordered, and when Tennyson had popped the pills in his mouth, he handed over a glass of water from the nightstand. "Your arm is healing well, but it's going to hurt like hell for a while yet."
Tennyson nodded. "I know." He laughed shakily. "Wow, is this going to wreak havoc on my schedule. I don't know how I'm going to tell my normal clients I can't meet with them during the full moon."
Rolling his eyes, Astor replied, "I'm sure it'll work itself out. There are werewolves with more difficult lives than you who manage just fine. At least you're well-prepared; too many don't know werewolves exist until they are one."
"I know," Tennyson repeated and drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I'm also damned lucky that you were there. I can't imagine what kind of shape I'd be in right now if anyone else had been there with me—or no one." He shuddered and looked at Astor. "Thank you."
"Forget it," Astor said. "You're not feeling sick or anything?"
"No," Tennyson said. "Just wrung out, and my arm is throbbing but that will go away once the pills kick in. Why did he come—" He drifted off, staring at the long-sleeved black t-shirt he was wearing. "This is my shirt."
"Well I couldn't very well leave you naked," Astor replied. "My clothes are too small for you, and your room was right next door anyway."
To his complete astonishment, Tennyson turned bright red. He'd never known Tennyson to blush about anything. "Shit. You weren't supposed to see my room," he muttered, burying his face in one hand, and Astor was almost amused by the fact that all thoughts of being a werewolf had clearly fled Tennyson's mind.
Of course, he wasn't really thinking about werewolves himself any more. "What's going on, Tennyson? Why did you come to stay with me for the entire month? Why did you say you did it on a whim when clearly you didn't? Why did you bring a damned espresso machine with you?"
"This is not how I planned this," Tennyson said with a sigh, picking at the ugly coverlet. "It's all gone rather nicely to hell."
"What's gone to hell?" Astor snapped, ready to throttle him.
Tennyson looked up at him
then glanced down again, before he finally said quietly, "Winning you back."
Of course, of course, that was when the power went out because life hated him. "And I hate everything," Astor muttered. Navigating by the light of his laptop, Astor went to his book bag and pulled out two flashlights. He turned them both on, then tossed one on the bed. "Stay here while I go see what's what, and when I get back you are explaining that statement, or I'll hit you."
Then he left, not waiting for a reply, though he thought he heard Tennyson laughing before he shut the door behind him. He walked down the hall to the lobby, where he could see people gathered by the couches. "So I guess the weather has finally taken the power?"
"Yeah, it turned into a blizzard yesterday," said Matilda, the crone who had checked Astor in, but had proven to actually be rather cool. She was certainly the only one not remotely bothered about the werewolves and vampire hanging about the place. "Can't do shit until the weather clears; boss never could be bothered to put in a generator. I keep telling him, and he keeps going to Maui instead." She blew out an irritated sigh.
Astor nodded then asked, "How's Carter?"
"Doing much better," Matilda replied. "I don't think I've ever seen the poor kid so happy. I had no idea he was so ignorant. He seemed to have it together as much as any wolf. Just thought he was quiet. These days, he's practically bouncing off the walls with joy. Like a puppy, as much as I hate to say something so lame. Be careful he doesn't see you, he'll probably try to lick you in gratitude."
Grimacing, Astor said, "At least he won't be biting anyone else. I assume that as there is nothing to be done about the power, we are best off riding the weather out in our rooms?"
Matilda nodded and motioned to the other inn workers standing with her, all of them reluctant to speak to him since seeing he'd lost his temper with them after Tennyson had been bitten. It probably hadn't helped he'd flashed his fangs—it usually didn't, but it always got him what he wanted, one way or another. "Yeah, best you can do is just sit tight and ride it out. We're used to it, though, so meals won't be a problem. We got this covered, best thing for you to do is cozy up in bed with your pretty boy. I know I'd like someone that sweet to cuddle up with."
