Midsummer's Moon

by Megan Derr

  "Oh, Low…" Peter sighed softly, and then reached out to cup his face, stroking Lowell's cheeks with his thumbs. "You didn't act one bit like a monster. You acted like a werewolf. Nothing more."

  "I've never done that before," Lowell said miserably. "Why did I change early? I didn't know we could do that."

  "Most werewolves can't," Peter said.

  Lowell stared at him, feeling suddenly cold, cause a statement like that… "So what am I, if not a normal werewolf?"

  Peter shook his head, and let go of his face to grab his hands and slowly pull them both to their feet. "Come on, the middle of this forest is not the place to discuss this. I should have done it after you arrived…" He sighed and shook his head, and held fast to Lowell's hand. "Inside, then we'll talk."

  "What about…uh…Stacey?"

  "I told him to make himself scarce," Peter said, squeezing his hand. "I'm sure precious few people would care if you did actually succeed in killing him, but I do not want you burdened by that."

  Lowell almost started crying again. "I've never wanted to kill anyone before, and I don’t now, except when—" He thought about Stacey touching Peter, and then he started feeling like a monster again.

  "Well, if he's around right now, I'll probably punch him myself. I really am not pleased to see him."

  Nodding, Lowell let himself be dragged along – and then began to wonder just how far he'd run. "How did you find me?"

  "I followed your scent," Peter said with a smile. "That aside, no one knows these woods better than me. Much of it is my land, after all, and the rest may as well be for all the use it gets from everyone else."

  "My scent?" Lowell repeated. "But…you're human…aren't you?"

  Peter smiled at him again. "Yes and no, Low. Come on, let's get inside."

  Lowell wanted to ask more questions, but he was hardly in a position to protest waiting a few more minutes for answers. Suddenly he just wanted another nap, as they trudged up the hill and back into house.

  He obediently went to change into dry clothes at Peter's urging, but hesitated on going back downstairs. Gods, he was stupid. And a freak of the highest order, apparently. Swallowing, telling himself to stop being a coward, he finally forced himself to go back downstairs and into the kitchen.

  Peter held out a cup of coffee, and Lowell slowly accepted it. "Um, I can uh, leave if you want. Which you must, I know, cause—"

  His chin was grasped, and he didn't resist as Peter urged him to look up. "No, Low," Peter said softly. "If you want it to be, this is your home. I will never ask you to leave. I don’t want you to leave. This is my fault, in the end. Come and sit, and I'll try to explain."

  Stiffly Lowell obeyed, sliding into the bench as Peter indicated he should, staring across at where Peter took one of the chairs.

  "You said I'm not a normal werewolf."

  Peter laughed in his gentle way. "Oh, Low…the irony is that you're the most normal werewolf of all. It's the other ones, the ones partly human, that are technically freaks."

  "The ones…are you saying I'm not human or something? Like the way I was born a werewolf, not bitten?"

  "Yes…" Peter said, toying idly with his coffee cup. "No one really knows the true origins of vampires and werewolves…if there are vampires still alive who know the truth, they do not speak of it, and nearly all werewolves were wiped out, so there is no legacy left to tell us from that side… What we do know, Low, is that there is still by some miracle something we call a 'purebred' werewolf."

  "A…purebred? You mean like dogs or something?"

  "Sort of," Peter said, "though I would never in a million years call you a dog, or in any way similar. Purebred werewolves are those werewolves who have untainted blood. There are all manner of theories about the origins of vampires and werewolves. One rather controversial theory is that once werewolves were a proper race. That either humans sought to copy them, or they sought to save themselves by mingling with humans… Most say humans sought the power of lycanthropy, and vampirism was a failed attempt at that."

  Lowell waited.

  Peter smiled faintly. "You are strong evidence for that theory, Lowell. As I said, you are purebred. It's very easy to pick out for those of us that are so intimately acquainted with werewolves. There is not a single drop of human blood in you. Through and through, you are werewolf. You said it always seemed like other werewolves didn't want to stay around you…"

  "Yeah," Lowell said thinly, hands wrapping tightly around his coffee mug. "Are they scared of me?"

  "Maybe a few…but I think it more accurate to say that they held you in awe…and were probably baffled when you gave no indication of knowing all that you are."

  Lowell slumped. He was scary, even to other werewolves? How depressing.

  Peter reached out and lightly touched his hand, pulling it away from the mug, holding it tight. "Don't worry so much, Low…now that you're learning more, it won't be so hard. You've also got me, for what little that is worth."

  The knot in his chest unwound the slightest bit, the words stupidly reassuring for a reason Lowell could not name. "So is this, uh, purebred thing the reason I can change early? I know I've never done that before…"

  "It's in part a purebred thing…but it's an exclusive power of alphas. You obviously don't remember that Stacey was a wolf as well."

  Lowell startled, unconsciously tightening the hold he had on Peter's hand. "That's right, we were fighting. I tried to kill him. How did he become a wolf? Is he purebred too?"

  "No, Stacey is not purebred. He was only able to change because you forced him to change – that is the power of an alpha werewolf once he reaches his maturity and comes into his full power. The age of maturity in werewolves is roughly eighteen years, give or take a few months."

  "Oh," Lowell said, feeling a little bit dazed, a little bit loopy. "What, uh, is an alpha?"

  Peter laughed again, and with anyone else it would have stung but with Peter it just made him feel warm and less of a monster. "An alpha…is, simply put, the leader of the pack. You're meant to lead, to be in charge, to have wolves obey you and submit. That is why so many are intimidated by you, why dogs always prostrate, and even people to some degree have probably not been as rough with you as they might have otherwise been – though I'm sure that last you find hard to believe."

  Lowell shrugged. He didn't believe it for a second. Cops left bruises, and people in their fancy houses with an income and full fridges got really fucking pissed about him stealing a little bit of grass to catch a few z's.

  Him in charge? Of what? The idea was stupid. "I'm not an alpha. How could I be?"

  "You've been homeless your entire life, Low, and no one has ever taught you about werewolves. Given half a chance, and I intend to give you far more than half, you will come well and fully into your own. That display last night proved loud and clear that you're an alpha, and will not tolerate threats to what you consider yours."

  "So being an alpha means turning into a monster whenever wolves I don’t like come around?"

  Peter sighed softly, squeezing his hand tightly. "No, Lowell. That's not it at all." He smiled faintly. "You were protecting your home…" He hesitated. "You were protecting us."

  Lowell frowned. That didn't sound quite right, and Peter was hesitating. His cheeks burned with humiliation. "This morning I attacked him because…because I didn't like him touching you. I almost killed him because he was touching you – that sounds like a monster to me."

  "No," Peter said firmly. "That sounds like after going your whole life knowing nothing about werewolves, you somehow have managed to have everything dumped on you at once. I have tried to make everyone keep their mouths shut, because I knew too much too fast would cause you problems. You're not a monster – you're a werewolf. You were protecting me, Low…" He paused, and when he started speaking again, Peter's voice was low and soft. "You were protecting what you knew belonged to you."

  "Belonged…" Lowell stared, cheeks growing hotter than ever. "Bu
t that—I don't—"

  Peter let go of his hand and took off his glasses, then stood up. He moved around the table and pulled Lowell up. "I saw you sitting on the road and thought you were nothing more than a homeless person. I got out of the car and realized immediately you were a werewolf…"

  He brushed back strands of Lowell's hair, eyes so intent and bright, naked without the glasses. "Once I got you out of the rain, I realized you were much, much more than I could ever have imagined. A purebred, an alpha…and by some strange twist of fate, I do believe we are mates."

  "Mates?" Lowell asked, the word making him feel sort of dizzy, a sensation not helped at all by the way Peter kept touching him. No one ever touched him, except to drag him off or beat him or get him to do some grungy task. "What does that mean?"

  Peter's mouth curved in a smile that was equal parts amused and sweet. "It means that you smell as good to me as I smell to you."

  "Oh," Lowell squeaked, and scrambled to get away, feeling one hundred percent stupid for being so thoroughly busted.

  "It's okay, Low!" Peter said. "You should know that. Hell, I'm sort of baffled you have any interest in me at all, other than the fact I make good coffee." He winked, holding Lowell's face firmly between his hands. "I must have roughly nine years on you, and the quiet life of a small town doctor is not the sort of life most want. Neither have you been here long, and far too much information has been dumped upon you."

  Lowell nodded, or tried, but he was rather too overwhelmed to figure out words right now.

  Peter slowly let him go, and the memory of his fingers tingled on Lowell's skin.

  He swallowed. "So, uh, um…I really don't know what to say or do."

  "I guess not," Peter said. "For now, I suggest we get breakfast, and we can talk a bit longer to help you feel a bit more steady." His face briefly clouded. "Then when Stacey shows his damned face again, we can figure out what the hell he was doing here—" He broke off as the back door opened, and Stacey strolled into the kitchen.

  Lowell growled, unconsciously reaching out to hold fast to Peter, shoving him back, moving forward. "Go away," he snarled, unable to help it even as he wondered what the hell his problem was.

  He was a purebred wolf. He was alpha. Peter…was his, uh, mate. Stacey was a jerk. Okay, he could work with that.

  "Stacey…" Peter sighed. "Why are you here? You left swearing you would sooner kill yourself than come back. I don't want you here."

  "Your fucking attack dog went ballistic on me," Stacey said.

  Lowell bristled. "Shut up," he snapped—then stood sort of gawking at his own words, his own tone.

  Stacey laughed. "It's cute how he's trying to be all tough."

  Alpha. In charge. Stacey made Peter unhappy. "I wasn't the one bleeding to death in the forest," he said quietly. "I'm not the one who smells like blood and medicine."

  "You—"

  "Enough!" Peter said sharply. "Stacey, shut the fuck up or I will let him tear you to pieces. He's still coming into his full power, and likely to move more on instinct than rational thought, which means he will attack you first and ask questions later. Shut up, sit down, and explain what in the hell you're doing here."

  Stacy rolled his eyes, opened the fridge and snatched out a carton of orange juice, then sat down at the table and drank straight from the carton. "How's that bite, Pete?"

  "Shut up," Peter said tiredly. "You know damn good and well how it is."

  "Yeah, but I bet that cub there doesn't. You into jailbait now, Pete?"

  "His name is Peter, not Pete," Lowell said quietly, but firmly. He hesitated, then let his hatred of Stacey surface, let it course through him. "Get a glass for the juice, stop drinking out of the carton."

  Stacey stared at him, blinking slowly several times—then he stood up and snagged a glass, stomping back to the table and pouring the orange juice into it. "Fucking weirdo wolf, I knew you were odd when I first saw you."

  Lowell said nothing, merely fetched the mugs on the table and filled them with fresh coffee for himself and Peter.

  "Why are you here, Stacey?"

  "I wanted to see how the family reunion was going," Stacey replied.

  There was a weighted pause, and Lowell barely caught back the mug he'd handed to Peter, as Peter let go of it in surprise. "What family reunion?"

  Stacey grinned in a way that was more a baring of teeth. "I guess I'm a little early. Your brother will be here soon, though, I'm sure. Funny, Pete, that you never fucking told me you have a family of werewolves. But, they hate you too, don't they? Afraid jailbait will hate you too? He should."

  "Shut up," Lowell snarled, hating the pain he could see in Peter's stance, his face, the way he'd gone so white. "I could never hate him."

  "Ask him why that bite I gave him isn't a problem," Stacey said, snarling the words right back. "Ask him, then tell me if you could never hate him."

  Lowell threw his coffee at Stacey, then himself, picking Stacey up and throwing him toward the back door. "Get out. Stay out. Come back and I will kill you."

  He stood shaking as the door closed behind Stacey, feeling like he was two different people, one of them a total stranger.

  "Low…"

  The gentle touch to his shoulder had him turning around, going easily into the arms that pulled him close, allowing himself to be soothed by the feel and smell of Peter, who said they were mates, and he didn't wholly understand that but for now just knowing was enough.

  Part Three: Waning Moon

  Lowell made his way steadily back home, eagerly following the scent of his mate.

  His territory was secured; no interlopers would enter it lightly. All signs of the recent intruder had been abolished. Mate and home were safe again.

  Moon was high and bright in the sky, calling, loving. As he cleared the forest and crossed the creek, he paused at the base of the hill. Throwing his head back, he howled long and loud at Moon, expressing love and thanks and admiration.

  As the howls slowly faded away into silence, he made his way swiftly up the hill to the porch.

  His claws clicked on the porch as he lazily crossed it to where his mate sat against the railing, legs stretched out. Reaching his mate, Lowell pushed and rubbed and nuzzled. He chuffed as the affection was returned, hands petting and stroking and caressing. Giving one last nuzzle, he finally draped himself over his mate's legs, eyes closing as he relaxed. Moon and mate, home secured…

  Rumbling softly, he allowed himself to slip into a light doze, just able to feel the hands that still petted and caressed.

  The chirping of birds woke him, along with the feel of a breeze across his skin.

  Lowell sat up with a start, overwhelmed by so many scents he did and did not recognize.

  Peter was the most overwhelming of all. The window across the room was open, letting in the sounds and scents of outside. A trace of citrus, the faintest hint of the alcohol Peter had been drinking the other day.

  His eyes widened as comprehension dawned. What was he doing in Peter's bedroom?

  'Werewolf Dies of Mortification.'

  He looked around despite himself, absorbing all he could of this piece of Peter he'd never seen before. The carpet was dark green, the furniture a warm, gold wood. There was a dresser, two nightstands, a large chest at the foot of the massive bed. To his left, on the same wall against which the bed was pushed, was the open window. Against the far left wall was a door that likely led to the bathroom. At the far end of the wall opposite the bed was the door to the hall.

  On the walls…pictures…

  Lowell pushed back the dark green coverlet and slowly climbed from bed. He paused briefly to admire that he was dressed in his usual sleep pants, and carefully did not think about the fact that he would have been naked when he changed back.

  He moved to the nearest collage of pictures, at least two dozen of them neatly arranged. A man with gray-flecked hair who looked like Peter plus several years. A woman with dark, curly hair and a smile exactly like Peter's
.

  The couple stood with their hands resting on the shoulders of two young men – Peter was immediately recognizable, and Lowell could not tear his eyes away from the image of a Peter who could not be more than ten or so.

  Finally he dragged his eyes away to look at the other boy. Two or three years older? He looked more like the mother, right up to the dark, curly hair.

  Other pictures in the group showed them as wolves. Sharp. Dark brown-red fur, and they looked so happy all heaped together…and Peter sitting in the midst of them, smiling in his soft way. Lowell wondered if anyone else had ever thought he looked sort of sad, even as he rested his hands on the wolves lying around him.

  Moving away from the collage, he examined next a picture of Peter and his brother. They were handsome children, about the same age as in the other pictures.

  He moved to another one…this one a shot of three kids playing in the creek, wet and messy and happy. Peter, his brother, and a girl that looked like them except that her hair was a pale blonde.

  So this was Peter's family? The werewolves that used to live here? Why had they left? More important, why hadn't Peter gone with them?

  Wandering the room, he studied and memorized every picture available.

  He jumped when the door opened, stumbling into the dresser, scrambling to catch the little box that nearly fell off when he knocked it. 'Werewolf Opposite of Suave.'

  "You're awake," Peter said with a smile. He was wearing his lab coat, and smelled like lavender and peppermint – so Ms. Holly had come around again.

  "I, uh, I'm sorry. Why am I here? Is everything okay? Sorry, I was uh, looking at the, um, pictures."

  Peter laughed softly, and pushed at his glasses. "You wouldn't leave my side last night. I went to bed and you hopped right up beside me."

  "Oh," Lowell said faintly. 'Werewolf Dies of Embarrassment.' "Uh, sorry?"

  Peter smiled. "There's coffee, if you like." He rolled his eyes. "My second pot this morning, I swear one day this town really will be sick and I won't believe them."