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Chapter Text

alethophobia (noun)

-A fear or dislike of the truth; an unwillingness to come to terms with truth or facts.

Buzzfeed News, July 15th, 2022

Samantha Kinsey, New York, NY- Good news for fans of last year’s breakout hit, “Shagged: A History of Erotic Cinema;” up and coming husband and wife team, director Laszlo Cravensworth and editor Nadja Antipaxos, are teaming up once again to produce their next documentary, to be shot this year for release next. According to what we know from VC Productions, the duo will be turning their focus from wide to narrow, a hometown mystery of tragic murders in upstate New York that has locals at odds and a town in chaos. Not much more is known about the production, but Cravensworth tweeted “Setting off with my darling wife and our noble crew for another grand adventure in the medium of cinema!” earlier this week, so it sounds like the shoot is already underway. Here’s hoping that Cravensworth’s affable charm can drive this film in the same way it held our hands through the messy, slippery history of porn.

July 12th, 2022

8:31am

It’s been exactly 47 minutes since they left Starbucks, and Guillermo’s quadruple-shot macchiato hasn’t kicked in yet. His lack of heart-palpitating energy is a concerning sign. When he had told the barista his order, Kayleigh - name tag italicized - had raised an eyebrow and asked if he was sure, if he was absolutely sure that was his order. He’d repeated himself, willing to put up with a constant low level anxiety for the next 12 hours if it meant he could stay awake on three hours of sleep. If Kayleigh thought this was his first quadruple-shot macchiato, then she was sadly mistaken. He’d figured out the perfect balance of caffeine-bolstered sleep deprivation back in college, which is why it’s suspicious that he doesn’t feel that familiar level of wired. Anxiety’s old friend paranoia is really stuck on the idea that Kayleigh cheated him out of two of those shots.

The van’s radio is blaring the fuzzy fading edges of a New York City rock station. Don Henley’s staticky voice croons, “ Relax, said the night man, we are programmed to receive... you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave... ” The tune, normally haunting, is made less so by Laszlo’s cheery whistle, harmonizing in a discordant dichotomy. He’s driving the van this morning, the vehicle giving occasional judders as he shifts the manual gear. They could’ve rented an automatic; probably should’ve, considering it shorts them two drivers. But Laszlo had insisted, and if his European sensibilities mean Guillermo gets to avoid an activity he hates, well, he’s not complaining.

“Laszlo, I am telling you, we missed the exit!” Nadja is restless in the passenger seat, motioning pointedly to her phone. “Turn the fucking van around before we end up even farther up the ass-crack of nowhere!”

Laszlo looks put out to have his whistling interrupted, even for a brief moment to answer his wife. “Darling, relax. We can simply take the next one. It’ll add another twenty minutes, tops.”

Colin Robinson sticks his head forward from the back seat. “That’s an acceptable detour. Gas expenses should only rise a few extra dollars.”

“All right there, Gizmo?” Laszlo asks, directing his eyes to Guillermo in the rearview mirror. “You look as though the concept of sleep itself has escaped your memory.”

“I’m okay,” Guillermo says, trying to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He can manage it for about ten seconds before his eyelids droop back down, and he stifles a yawn. Thankfully, Laszlo has turned his sights back to the road by then.

Something nudges his left leg. Guillermo glances over to the opposite side of the van, to the big man sprawled across the two seats beside him, flagrantly ignoring seat-belt laws. He can’t see Nandor’s eyes, hidden behind sleek sunglasses, and he could have sworn the other man had been snoring softly not thirty seconds ago. Nandor seemingly had no compunctions about passing out as soon as they got in the car.

“Guillermo, you did not eat this morning, did you.” It’s more a statement than a question.

Guillermo grins sheepishly. “Do I ever?” They’ve only known one another for two months, but Guillermo has shown up to every 9am meeting with coffee sans food. It should be pretty obvious how high he ranks breakfast on his priorities list.

Nandor lets out a long-suffering sigh and jams his hand into the Jansport on the floor between the driver’s seat and his own. After some rustling and grunting, he lifts out a small muffin, vaguely pink and speckled with black dots. He holds it out to Guillermo.

“Eat,” Nandor orders. “If you pass out while we are filming and break the camera, I will be very disappointed.”

Guillermo takes the muffin, mumbling, “Thank you.” He bites into it, and his taste buds are flooded with a delicate, flowery taste, mixed in with something earthier; complex despite the simple looking treat.

“This is really good!” Guillermo says through a mouthful. “Where did you get this?”

Nandor shrugs. “I made it,” he explains. “Rosewater and Cardamom. Family recipe.”

Guillermo sinks back into his seat, letting out a happy sigh as he tries not to devour the whole thing too fast. “Really good,” he repeats.

“You bring muffins for him but not your oldest friends?” Nadja scowls at Nandor over the back seat.

Nandor scowls right back, yanking the backpack off the floor and shoving it at her. “You want a muffin? Take a muffin.”

“I did not say I wanted one, but I would have liked to be offered one.”

“Well, I am offering it to you now!”

“No; keep your bloody muffin, it is a pity muffin!”-

Guillermo doesn’t say anything as they dissolve into more pointless bickering, chewing slowly, eyes ping ponging back and forth between them. Laszlo had said they were fast friends in film school, but all they ever seem to do is argue. And it’s always over something stupid, like muffins or recollections of college events or whether The Room is a better bad movie than Plan 9 from Outer Space (they’re both wrong; the correct answer is Showgirls .)

Listening to two thirty-somethings argue about muffin etiquette isn’t what Guillermo had thought he’d signed up for when he signed his life away in a half-packed college dormitory, an unknown hot Persian guy who he’d come to know as Nandor Jahan sitting on his bed and explaining the deal. Laszlo Cravensworth was the hottest shit coming out of the film circuit this year, dropping a documentary so salacious and well constructed that major studios were throwing him money like groupies threw panties at an aging rock star. Laszlo Cravensworth had signed with VC Productions for his next project, an untitled new documentary that would be another deep dive into an esoteric subject matter, once he found the right one. Laszlo Cravensworth was an auteur, and he wanted a fresh mind, untainted by studio standards, to shoot his next project.

One call from Nandor to an old college professor for recommendations led to Guillermo getting a knock on his dorm room door on move out day.

He still doesn’t understand how this happened. He was 10 minutes away from sending his application in to the Panera Bread near his mom’s apartment, only to find himself staring at a pile of papers with legalese that he should probably have read more thoroughly, based on some comments made by Colin Robinson that suggested it would cost the studio more to replace the film equipment than him, so he’d better be careful.

Nandor had been very matter of fact about the whole thing, unnervingly unreadable as Guillermo had stumbled through his questions about Guillermo’s style, influences, and whether he had any kind of portfolio. The best thing Guillermo had was his final film school project, so Nandor sat on the already-stripped mattress, accepted Guillermo’s hastily sanitized AirPods, and stared at a laptop screen for 30 minutes while Guillermo stood amongst boxes, shuffling awkwardly.

The paperwork came out after that.

Sometimes, Guillermo thinks this is all a big practical joke. He’s three years older than his classmates, by virtue of having to scrape and scrimp his way to save enough money so his student loans are miserable rather than devastating. His professors always had high praise for his work, but Guillermo could see every mistake, every imperfection, every cut that could’ve been made a few frames early, or the shots that needed a more thoughtful composition. Even if he’s above average in his cohort, how the fuck did his name get dropped for something this important? Especially when the guy handing Guillermo the paperwork has been Laszlo’s regular cinematographer for nearing a decade- minus the last two and a half years.

Actually, maybe those last two years are important to understanding how he got recruited. Not that anybody’s told Guillermo what happened. The most Nadja had been willing to divulge was that there had been An Argument, and Nandor had been out of contact up until about six months ago, when he’d shown up at Laszlo and Nadja’s Brooklyn apartment one night. Now he’s crashing in their guest bedroom, and Guillermo is too nervous about saying the wrong thing or prying too deeply to ask further questions.

Though, he has seen something. The skin around the bottom of Nandor’s ring finger, it’s a little lighter than the rest of his somewhat tanned hands. It’s not much to go on, but Guillermo likes puzzles.

Nandor is a jigsaw, the pieces of him starting to come together in Guillermo’s brain after two months of sitting next to him on Nadja and Laszlo’s ratty apartment couch, their side conversations tucked between the group’s brainstorming sessions. Guillermo knows that Nandor was born in Southern Iran, but immigrated with his parents when he was five. He knows Nandor’s favorite coffee order is a cinnamon latte, extra sugar. He knows that, in addition to a plethora of other sports, Nandor used to ride horses in high school, and may have stolen his cousin’s horse girl books as a young child, but he won’t confirm this.

He also knows that making Nandor smile has become a new obsession. The guy often seems so unnaturally dour. Guillermo will sometimes catch him staring off into the middle distance, or out a window, a listless, pensive look on his face. One time, Guillermo had nudged his shoulder to get his attention, and Nandor had whipped his head around, snapping, “What the fuck do you want?” which seemed to startle them both. The next day, Guillermo had woken up to a text that said, getting coffee, tell me your drink order , and that had felt like an apology.

As for the other members of this team, Guillermo’s off the cuff hot takes are as follows: Laszlo talks like a method actor on the set of a Victorian period piece - peppering a lot of phrases like “pray tell” and “whilst” and “old chap” into his dialogue - but not a period piece about fancy gentrified nobles. No, he’d be more akin to a dock worker, bemoaning the “fucking twats” who gave his last film poor reviews, or wryly questioning “Off for a wank, Gizmo?” once when Guillermo bowed out of a meeting early. He also has an encyclopedic knowledge of pornography. Guillermo asked him once - once - about some little detail of his last documentary, and while the first twenty minutes of Laszlo’s monologue were certainly interesting, the last twenty five made Guillermo want to wash his brain out with bleach. He does not need to know that much about a co-worker’s sexual escapades. He is not looking for tips.

Good for Nadja, though.

Speaking of, Guillermo suspects Nadja knows about twenty ways she could kill him with film equipment. Whereas Laszlo has been fairly affable to him from day one, Nadja remains an ice wall. She rarely addresses him, and the only time she’s ever said something remotely positive to him was the day he found the idea for the film.

It was a complete accident; Guillermo mentioned his love of true crime blogs, and reading about a town in Upstate New York where locals claimed there was a real vampire. Nadja’s eyes had narrowed, stiletto black nails pointing daggers as she held out her hand for his phone and demanded he show her. She’d scanned the article, handed his phone to Laszlo, and said, “Good work,” while her husband lit up like a Christmas tree, shaking with excitement.

Their final teammate, Colin Robinson, is the biggest mystery of all. Bald as a freshly laid egg and just as White, Guillermo can’t tell if he’s thirty five or fifty five years old. He’s the money man of this whole operation, sent by the studio to ensure that the film stays on time and on budget. His emotional expressiveness tends to fall between the range of neutral to slightly sour, unless there’s an argument going on; then he’s all wide grins, eyes practically glowing as he watches the conflict. He will also correct you if you ever call him Colin, Mr. Robinson, or - as Laszlo sometimes does - C-man. It’s Colin Robinson; to you, to Guillermo, to everyone. His impression of Guillermo seems even worse than Nadja’s; sometimes he’ll ask Guillermo questions straight out of a Filmography 101 class, like he’s trying to see if Guillermo bought his degree from Film School Mill dot com or something.

That’s the crew, and Guillermo is still on it after two whole months, even with two out of the four other members seeming unimpressed that he’s joined them. He can’t even work up the energy to be angry or resentful; he’s just trying not to fuck this up. Getting the chance to work with one of the hottest up and coming directors is an incredible opportunity, but if he fails, it will be a black spot on his reputation, and who knows if he could recover.

So. No pressure.

Guillermo checks his watch as Nadja and Nandor’s muffin conflict finally dies down. They left the city limits about an hour ago, and they’ve still got another three to go, putting their arrival time in Coventry around mid-day. Guillermo did a semi-deep dive into researching the town’s history before they left. It lies nestled up in the Adirondack Mountains, full of beautiful landscapes and crippling poverty. Historically, the Iroquoian and Algonquin tribes lived around the area until the usual European colonial settler bullshit. The town itself was founded in the mid 1700s by a man named Johann Albrecht, and according to local lore, the killings began after a massive earthquake rocked the region in the 1760s. Guillermo has a list of names; there’s been at least one, if not more, deaths every half century or so.

The vampire angle is interesting. There was an uncited claim on the blog post that rumors of a creature of the night stalking the town had been present for centuries, but Guillermo could only find documented evidence of this from the early 1900s onwards, right about the time when a local group of “vampire hunters” was formed. If Guillermo had to guess, somebody really dug Bram Stoker and connected the tangential dots. Something about the idea of a local vampire stuck enough in the minds of residents that the hunter group has existed in one form or another for at least a century. It hasn’t been all sunlight and rainbows, though - after the last victim in the 70s, there was a huge uproar when a second townie ended up dead, this time after one of the hunters mistook them for a vampire. As a result, there’s a divide in the town between people who believe the vampire theory and everyone else who thinks they’re nothing but dangerous nuisances.

As if reading his mind, Laszlo pipes up, “We remembered the night vision lenses, yes? No good finding a fucking vampire if we can’t get a clear shot of it.”

“So you believe the locals, then?” Nandor asks. “We are going to the middle of nowhere to get eaten by a big, bad, bloodsucker?”

“I’m certainly not dismissing the possibility of some kind of supre-natural force affecting the area. Clearly, something is causing all these deaths.”

“Probably wolves,” Nadja offers. “Maybe mountain lions. They’re in the middle of a fucking forest, after all.”

“Then why the consistency, darling?” Laszlo pounds a hand on the wheel, jerking the vehicle very slightly before setting it to rights. “Wouldn’t wolf attacks have more variety in how often they occur? More frequently?”

“Populations wax and wane,” Nandor drawls. “Ecological cycles.”

“Just because you want an exciting hook for this film, doesn’t mean you can conjure up some fucking boogeyman of legend to fill in the gaps.” Nadja says. “For all we know, there’s a family of sick fucking axe murders who’ve been terrorizing the town for generations; that’d make far more sense than the donkey-brained tale of fucking vampires. Colin Robinson, would you talk some sense into my idiot husband?”

“As long as we find a through-line for the story, I could care less whether these people are getting offed by Dracula or the Wolfman or the Texas Chainsaw family,” Colin Robinson answers. He’s fully focused on his laptop, probably calculating their fuel expenses in real time based on how hard Laszlo puts his foot on the pedal.

Nadja lets out a shrill sound of frustration. “Useless. Gizmo, you agree with me, yes?”

“His name is Guillermo,” Nandor chides. It’s weird, he’s been doing that every so often, even though Guillermo doesn’t really mind the little nickname they’ve come up with for him - based on his supposed handiness with the equipment.

“It’s okay, Nandor,” Guillermo says. “I guess it’d be kind of cool if it really was a vampire? Would make my abuelita happy that I still wear the confirmation present she got me.” He tugs the gold chain and little gold cross she’d given him out from under his t-shirt momentarily before tucking it back away. “In all reality though, Nadja is probably closer to the truth.”

“I’m surrounded by unbelievers, I can’t believe this,” Laszlo complains. “The fucking audacity of it all.”

“Well, if we see a real vampire, I invite you to tell me off,” Nandor assures him. “But until then, I’m going to worry more about the mountain lions and locals with NRA bumper stickers.”

The sun rises as the landscape morphs around them; suburbia fades away to forests of fir trees, morning dew glinting off the little pine needles. Those forests burst open onto beautiful wide plains of grasses, sliced through with the outcroppings of mountain ranges in the distance. Guillermo has one of their handheld cameras on the seat beside him, and as the landscape flies by, he starts filming, taking the opportunity to capture a kind of view he’d never get back in Brooklyn.

They spot a sign that says COVENTRY- 30 MILES a little before noon. Nandor asks them to stop briefly at a tourist lookout point. He grabs his prayer mat out of the trunk and leaves to find a quiet spot. The rest of the crew make their way to a shaded wooden platform at the edge of an outcropping, the rolling Adirondacks and serene Lake Placid stretched out before them.

“If this shoot is a bust, we could just make a nature documentary,” Nadja says, sighing as she looks out over the landscape. “Beautiful countryside. Can’t compare to the beaches in Greece, but it’s a close second.”

Laszlo wraps an arm around her waist and bumps his hip against hers. “I hope the beaches are more memorable, considering that’s where we married.”

“Yes, we got up to many things on the sands that day,” Nadja says, eyebrows rising into her hairline as a wry smile slips across her face. “A pity, I am pretty sure we can never go back to that town.”

“The memories were worth the citation from the authorities,” Laszlo says, kissing her cheek.

Guillermo watches their quiet, easy affection, and thinks back to his ama and papá dancing to old vinyls in their tiny apartment. Sometimes you can just tell when two people are meant for each other, and with Laszlo and Nadja, that was apparent about five minutes after meeting them. When Guillermo had viewed Shagged , Nadja’s brief moments on camera hinted at a playful banter between them that began far earlier and went on long after the scenes would cut. Guillermo imagines that without her, Laszlo’s supposed auteur genius wouldn’t burn nearly as brightly. A great (and kind of terrifying) woman behind every man, and all that.

Nandor is fussing with their equipment when Guillermo gets back to the van. “Leave Laszlo to pack everything like an overgrown child,” Nandor says, holding a bag out to Guillermo. “Here, pull out the extra batteries so I can put them in the actual fucking battery cases we own.”

“Are you okay?” Guillermo asks, handing off the batteries and watching as Nandor mutters a litany of curses under his breath. His shoulders are making out with his ears, a line of tension in his hunched spine. If Guillermo worked his fingers into the spot between Nandor’s shoulder blades, he’s certain he could ease that tension.

“I dislike long car rides, I dislike being outside of the city, I dislike Laszlo’s laissez faire attitude towards the security of our expensive equipment.” Nandor sighs, wiping a hand across the light sheen of sweat on his brow. He fumbles a hair tie out of his pocket and pulls his locks back into a messy bun that hurts Guillermo’s eyes to look at. Somebody never taught this man how to tie a proper ponytail.

“Can I fix that?” Guillermo asks before he can stop himself.

“Huh?”

“Your hair, just- c’mere.” He tugs Nandor to sit on the lip of the trunk, angling his body sideways with a gentle touch on his shoulder. This gives Guillermo access to undo the poorly tied bun. Carefully, he twists the locks - soft, well-oiled, lovely to run his fingers through - around one another, artfully creating a tight, neat bun at the back of Nandor’s head. He taps the pocket Nandor produced the first hair tie from, satisfied when he pulls out a second one that will complete the hold.

“There, better?” Guillermo asks when he’s done. He steps back and clasps his hands together, resisting the urge to smooth down the few short hairs that have escaped the bun.

Nandor pulls out his phone and turns on the camera, looking at himself. Then to Guillermo. “Huh. That’s very good. How did you do that?”

“Sister taught me,” Guillermo admits, grinning sheepishly and shrugging. “She said that if I wanted to impress a girl one day, I should learn how to do basic styles.”

“Well, color this girl impressed,” Nandor smiles, the simple act lighting up his whole face. It’s a warm thing, rich as the coffee currently digesting in Guillermo’s gut. He makes a note to add ‘getting his hair styled’ to the list of ‘Things that Nandor Likes.’

“You’re welcome.”

“You’ve made a grave mistake, though.”

“What?”

“I will need you to teach me how to do this. We may have to practice quite a bit; I’m a slow learner.” His eyebrows ride skyward, bucking with amusement.

“S-sure,” Guillermo stammers. Nandor’s eyebrows ride even higher. Fuck. Guillermo never does well being teased. “I mean, we’re gonna be here at least a week, right? You think that’s enough? Of course that’s enough; you’re a really smart guy-”

“Guillermo.” If it were possible to jump out of your own skin, Guillermo would be in the tree above their car, jolted out of his thoughts by Nandor’s three fingers tapping the curve of his shoulder. “You do not have to actually teach me, if you do not wish.”

“I don’t mind,” Guillermo shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. Fuck, it’s warm today. “I’ll need to repay you for all the mistakes I’m bound to make.”

“Mistakes?” Nandor frowns, straightening up and motioning for Guillermo to move aside so he can shut the trunk. “What mistakes do you anticipate making?”

Guillermo watches the tight strain of Nandor’s t-shirt around his shoulder blades as he shuts the trunk. Oh, Guillermo can think of one vital mistake, but it’s not related to cinematography. “Laszlo just came off shooting a film that’s going to get nominated for multiple technical Oscars, and he wants a nobody right out of college to shoot his next movie? That’s a lot of pressure to have on my shoulders.”

Nandor tilts his head to the side. Guillermo is reminded of his tia’s German Shepherd, curious to a fault. “So you do not want to be on this shoot? Was I wrong to ask you to join us?”

“No, that’s not what I mean- just ignore me, okay?” Of course Guillermo had to go and open his big mouth, practically insult the guy who offered him this job. Nandor’s probably offended, and he’s definitely going to tell Laszlo and Nadja about Guillermo’s little confidence problem, and they’ll see he’s a fraud, and fire him, and strand him in the middle of Nowheresville.

Fuck. He’s doing it again.

“I’ll be right back,” Guillermo says, leaving before Nandor can ask any more questions.

He finds a tree to hide behind and presses his back into it, feeling the cracked brittle bark digging into his shirt. Tipping his head back to look up into the branches, he takes a deep breath, counting to four, then releasing for four beats. Then again, and again. In one-two-three-four, out one-two-three-four... Come on, Guillermo, focus on the leaves swaying in the breeze, the distant murmur of a waterfall, the smell of pine...

There. Back in the present again. Didn’t even need to pop a pill that time. He’s really got to work on keeping his anxiety under wraps. If anybody finds out how easily Guillermo can dissolve into a panic-ridden mess, he’ll never get work.

When Guillermo gets back in the van, he ignores Nandor’s curious stare and curls up against the side door, looking out the window. Thankfully, after a few moments, Nandor shifts his attention back to his phone, and Guillermo feels like he can breathe again.

The last thirty minutes of the trip are quiet. They pass two cars on the road into town, vehicle juddering as the wheels roll over the deteriorating asphalt. A light breeze scatters off the mountaintops, scented with fireweed and pine, cool and clean. Guillermo recalls a past summer, camping in his uncle’s rickety old RV and sleeping under the stars. The van glides over a bumpy wooden bridge, waterfall cascading beneath the pine board beams as they climb.

On the edge of the cliffside past the bridge, there’s a large, worn wooden sign that says WELCOME TO CONVENTRY, half-hidden by overgrown, gnarled tree branches. Somebody’s spray-painted a thick red line across the -TRY and written a little THE between TO and COVEN.

“Welcome to the- ah. Clever. We’ll come back later to shoot that,” Laszlo comments as the van whistles by, twisting the wheel hard to turn up the mountainside. Nadja curses at him as everyone is jerked sideways. Guillermo wrenches a hand out to steady himself, and accidentally ends up gripping Nandor’s thigh.

“Sorry,” Guillermo says, quickly pulling his hand away as the van settles. “Slow reaction time.”

Nandor hmmm s and nods back at Colin Robinson, who has squirreled himself away behind noise-canceling headphones, intensely staring at his laptop. “Better not let him know that, or you’ll be on the end of a lecture about ‘liability’ and ‘expenditures’ and other such nonsense.”

Another half mile down the road, past a few rotted old houses, they break through the tree line and find themselves finally within the town proper. The main street of Coventry looks like it hasn’t been paved since the Reagan administration. Cracks in the road worm their way under every building foundation, splitting around brittle tufts of grass as the land attempts to reclaim its space. The newest building is a strip mall-adjacent McDonalds, its smooth white concrete a harsh Americana contrast to the rundown but quaint New England mid-century buildings surrounding it. Unmanicured trees sway over the roadway, and two or three people pick their way across the shaved-down roots overgrowing through the sidewalk. A retriever-shaped dog eyes them from its lazy lie on a porch as they drive past, as does its rocking-chair bound owner. Guillermo can hear tinkling of windchimes, and the fluttering of an unnerving Confederate flag hanging between the posts of a porch roof.

They turn the corner at a sickly green husk of a shop called Chieftain Vapes with a generic Native man in a headdress over the door. This road ambles at an easy angle upwards. They pass an empty basket-ball court with netless hoops, more half-dilapidated homes, and the town’s high school, where a weathered plastic poster draped across a chain-link fence reads Go Mountain Lions! with a scowling big cat bursting through the green font. Guillermo focuses the camera on the fluttering poster as they pass by. A few teens are mulling around on the grass behind the fence; maybe half-a dozen.

Something has been bothering Guillermo since they entered the town, and now he realizes what. “There aren’t a lot of people out,” he says, leaning forwards over the front console. “It’s the middle of summer and beautiful out.”

Laszlo snorts. “Yes, what’d you expect? It’s a small town that was just privy to a horrific murder. Everyone’s probably staying the hell home and keeping their kids home too.”

Another turn brings them to the local Presbyterian Church; the brick sign out front reads “ALL WHO BELIEVE SHALL BE SAVED, MAS DAI1Y” in black swappable lettering; clearly they ran out of Ss and Ls. There’s a small pile of flowers and plush animals and burnt out candles surrounding a tripod stand holding a blown up image of a young blond woman. Guillermo recognizes her face with a sad pang; her picture was up on the blog post about the vampire’s latest victim.

“Ah, Coco Henderson, yes?” Nandor says, motioning to the photo.

Guillermo nods. “Twenty years old, worked at her parents’ diner. Found dead in the woods by one of her co-workers after a late shift; we’ll be interviewing the co-worker first today. Throat torn out, claw marks.”

“Hmmm, she was quite pretty. A shame,” Laszlo says.

Nadja smacks him on the shoulder. “Do not be a pig, Laszlo. A girl is dead and you are thinking about your dick?”

“Nonsense, I was simply making an observation-”

They quickly dissolve into bickering. Guillermo ignores them to do a quick Google search, pulling up the website for Coventry Daily , the town’s newspaper. It looks like they haven’t updated their web design since 2005; there are a lot of broken .jpegs and Forbidden 403s. Finding their Obituary section takes a minute.

Coco Henderson (2002-2022)

We are mourning the loss of a beautiful young life, our wonderful daughter, Coco. A bright, vivacious personality, Coco was valedictorian of the 2020 graduating class, captain of the cheer squad, and working on her bachelor’s degree in business. She loved hiking, playing with the family dog Scooter, and spending time with her loving boyfriend Patrick. She was active in St. Magnus’s choir, and was planning on attending a mission trip with the church to help starving children in Africa. It is incomprehensible that our sweet little girl, our Buttercup, is no longer with us on Earth, but we know she is looking down on us from Heaven, held in God’s loving embrace. We love you, sweetie, and we will see you again someday.

“No offense to the dead girl, but this sounds like a dating profile from Christian Mingle , minus the boyfriend part.” Nandor is peering over his shoulder, somehow sneaking into Guillermo’s personal space in the span of a few moments.

“You think this is bad? These are just Methodists; my abuela’s Catholic obituary was practically a new gospel text,” Guillermo jokes. He tucks his phone back into his pocket. “Anyway, she’s the kind of white girl that the true crime blogs love talking about. The vampire stuff is what made the story stick out.”

“We’ve already got a lock on interviews with the Hendersons, but have we heard anything from either of the Mister Sandifords?” Laszlo calls from the front; apparently he and Nadja have reached a resolution to their argument. “Colin Robinson, you said you sent several follow-up emails.”

“If they don’t want to talk to us, there’s not much I can do to convince them otherwise.” Colin Robinson shrugs, eyes never leaving his laptop. “If they become integral to the story you’re telling, I might be able to swing some extra cash from the producers for incentives.”

“So we are going to bribe them to talk about their dead relative, is that it, then?” Nadja asks.

“If you have a better idea-”

“Bribe away. The more footage you can get me in the editing booth, the better.”

“There must be some public records,” Laszlo points out. “The man died in what, the seventies?”

Guillermo shakes his head. “Couldn’t find much besides a short article about the death in an old digitized newspaper. We might stumble on something in the historical records; Mrs. Lazzarro said she would try and pull whatever she could find before we get there.”

Nandor glances at him. “Minimal reporting about the death of a Black man? Guillermo, I think you are pulling my leg.”

“Fuck off,” Guillermo says, unthinkingly, realizing what he’s done a moment later. But, oh, Nandor seems more amused by the outburst than offended, eyes crinkling at the edges. Jot another one down for Things that Make Nandor Smile: off the cuff honesty.

“Everybody shut up.” Nadja twists towards the back, tapping on the iPad in her hand with a stylus. “I will be going over the itinerary for today. First of all, this... Jenna girl will meet us at a park nearby the diner she works at. Afterwards, Laszlo, Nandor, you’re going to head to the police station to make sure all of our filming permits are correctly filed. I will go with Gizmo to shoot B-roll around the town.”

“If I am supposed to be teaching Guillermo things about camera work, why am I going with Laszlo?” Nandor drawls. “This makes no sense.”

“Because I fucking said so,” Nadja trills, shooting daggers at him. He rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath. “What was that?”

“Nothing! Nothing.” Nandor folds his arms and looks out the window. “Go on, Captain.”

“That is what I thought. Now then. Once that is done, we are meeting Mrs. Lazzaro at the town graveyard around three. She’s going to talk to us about the founding of the town and the history of these supposed vampire attacks. After that, we can get some food and settle in for the evening. Any questions? None? Good.” She leaves about half a millisecond between asking for questions and confirming there are none.

“Wonderful explanation, darling,” Laszlo says. “Though you did forget that we’re stopping at the hotel first. Colin Robinson needs to set up his base of operations, and we did want to get some of this equipment out of the vehicle.”

“Yes, I’m trusting that you’ll all manage to not incur massive expenses outside of my watchful gaze on day one.” Colin Robinson finally looks up, and stares directly at Guillermo. As if Guillermo was the one buying single sleeve lozenge packs at the highway truck stop, not Laszlo. What is this guy’s problem?

The hotel turns out to be, in fact, a motel. The one floor, teal-colored building slouches just slightly to the right, surrounded by dried out bushes and centuries old trees. It’s set before an open field of patchy grass, about three hundred feet wide, which itself sits before the tree line of woods behind the town. It seems as though it’s been years since the place had good upkeep; paint flecks down on Guillermo’s head from the creaky screen door as Nandor fusses with getting the key into the lock on the inner door.

The inside of Guillermo and Nandor’s room contains two queen sized beds with ugly brown bedspreads, set atop an uglier brown rug, smelling of the faint hint of mothballs. A plain wooden dresser sits against the opposite wall, with a CRT television atop it, and- those are rabbit ear antennas. Damn. At least the place has Wifi. There’s also a rickety table in the corner, and a door leading to a darkened bathroom.

“Home sweet home,” Nandor says. “Better than my first apartment, at least.”

There’s a large yellowing curtain covering the wide window across the back wall, and when Guillermo draws it aside, he can see out across the field. The woods in the distance are impenetrably thick. Easy to get lost in , he thinks, wiping a smudge off the ill-cleaned glass to peer beyond the treeline. Useless; he can’t see more than fifty feet into the forest.

“Planning on a nature hike?” Nandor asks; he’s dumped all their equipment on the table in the corner. Guillermo watches as he runs through the checklist he keeps on his phone for at least the fourth time today, mumbling each item under his breath. His nails clack rapidly on the water-stained wood. Guillermo notes their jagged edges, like they’ve been picked at regularly.

“My blood’s O-positive; I step foot into those woods and the mosquitos will make a meal of me.” He’s already gotten bit at least twice today. Apparently the woman at the drug store who’d recommended Nature’s Enemy bug spray hadn’t known what she was talking about.

“Better watch out then, don’t want the vampire getting a sniff and deciding you’ll be it’s next meal.” Nandor’s grin is best described as shit-eating, clearly still amused by all the talk of vampires in the car.

“You really don’t think it exists?” Guillermo sits on the edge of the bed, toeing his shoes off on instinct, only to remember that they’re not staying very long. His lack of sleep is going to require another pit stop for more coffee. He’s already looking forward to bed tonight - lumpy, thin mattress or not.

“I don’t believe in any of that shit. Ghosts, werewolves, sirens. All of them are about as real as angels or shayatin - ah, demons from Islamic folklore,” he explains at Guillermo’s confused look.

“You don’t believe in angels or demons?”

“You do?”

“I don’t know...” His fingers idly trace the outline of the cross underneath his shirt. “Maybe? Kind of the whole basis of my religion that an angel came down from heaven to tell a teenage girl she was having a baby.”

Nandor crosses the room, pushing open the bathroom door and turning on the light, he disappears from view, but the door stays ajar. Guillermo hears the sink turn on.

“If I recall, you said you are a lapsed Catholic,” Nandor calls, voice echoing off the tile. “I presumed you are like all the other lapsed Catholics I know - bitter and constantly needing to talk about how the church hurt you.”

Guillermo snorts, picking up his shoes so he can unlace them and put them back on. “It’s more like, I don’t go to mass anymore but I tell my ama I go every Sunday at a church near my apartment. Showed it to her once. Barely convinced her not to go inside and speak to the priest about how my eternal soul’s report card was looking.”

“Hmmmm,” Nandor says, then nothing else.

Guillermo fiddles with a knot in the laces, keeping the conversation going. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Is there such a thing as a lapsed Muslim?”

He hears Nandor scoff. “Of course there is. We just don’t tend to advertise it.”

“So you are.”

“Sure, if you want to call it that.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I hope Allah is listening when I pray, but I am not expecting much feedback.”

“So you’re just going through the motions?”

The bathroom light flicks off, and Nandor steps out, face a little red and freshly washed. “That is not what I said.”

“Right. Sorry,” Guillermo replies, focusing on the shoelace not again - damn thing is stubborn, refusing to cooperate. “I’m asking a lot of questions you probably don’t want to answer.” Stupid. Always running his mouth far too much, too curious about other people. Fuck.

He hears Nandor sigh and move to sit on the bed across from him. A large, disconcertingly masculine hand comes into sight, and Nandor gently taps three fingers on Guillermo’s knee. “Hey. Look at me.”

Guillermo forces himself to look up, keep his features schooled. Okay, Nandor doesn’t look mad. Maybe he’s just good at covering it up; but no, he’s seen Nandor mid-fight with Nadja. The man isn’t all handsome stoicism and occasional smiles.

“I think it is good to believe in something,” Nandor says, barely squeezing Guillermo’s knee with his fingertips. It’s a grounding point, and Guillermo feels the anxious patter of his heart slow down as he focuses on that point. “But it is hard. When my maman passed, everyone told me it was foolish to question Allah’s plan. Well, if cancer is Allah’s plan, then perhaps that plan is pretty shit.”

Guillermo stifles a laugh behind his hand; he can’t help it, even if he feels horrible a second later, doesn’t want Nandor to think he’s laughing over the guy’s dead mom. But the skin around Nandor’s eyes crinkles, and his lips quiver with a suppressed smile, and for a moment, the world outside of this room doesn’t exist. Just Nandor’s hand on his knee, and a foreign feeling in his chest; a tightness that isn’t because of anxiety. He thinks if he asked right now, if he came out and asked, Will you tell me why no one heard from you for two years? that Nandor might answer truthfully.

Before he can open his mouth, there’s a buzz from the side table, breaking the spell between them. Nandor sits back and grabs his phone, and Guillermo, having fixed the knot in his laces without noticing, slides his shoe on.

“You are ready to go?” Nandor asks. “Colin Robinson texted, said they are heading back to the van.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

They stand up at the same time, do the awkward dance of shuffling around each other to escape the small space between the queen beds.

As they head for the door, Guillermo glances back through the window overlooking the wide field. Outside, the waist-high grass rustles in the wind, and a sudden burst of crows rushes into the sky, muted caws leaking through the imperfectly sealed glass. He squints at the patch of grass they escaped from.

Two slit yellow eyes stare back at him.

Guillermo startles.

“Everything alright?” Nandor asks, hand on the door.

“Yeah,” he says, watching as the gray fox in the grass slinks out of view, appearing again at the edge of the tree line and disappearing into the woods. “A lot of nature out in this nature.”

“Don’t worry. Soon enough we’ll be back amongst the giant rats and cockroaches of the city,” Nandor snarks. “Come, we have a vampire to track down.”

The crows are all bunched on the roof above their room when they drive off. Guillermo tries not to think of it as an omen.

End Chapter 1

Meet the Crew!

art by Pejntboks

Chapter Text

July 12th, 2022

1:03pm

“Lift your chin a little, dear. There, thank you.” The woman with the kohl-smudged eyes and unnerving gaze who introduced herself as Nadja plucks at the third button of Jenna’s blouse, tugging it up a little, so she can clip a microphone onto the fabric. She seems quite focused, so Jenna sits quietly, stays as still as she can. She gets the feeling that interrupting Nadja about anything might get you a tongue-lashing, as evidenced by the snappy way she was telling off the tall Middle-Eastern man just a few minutes ago.

About ten feet away, the aforementioned man, Nandor, helps the other two men in the group set up camera equipment. Well, he helps one of them. The older one, Laszlo, is muttering to himself, fingers tapping against the wide bow of his lip. He seems lost in his own head. Nandor works with the younger one, Guillermo, following a step-by-step process: check the shot through the viewfinder, adjust the focus, Nandor takes a look and makes some comment, adjust it again. Repeat process.

Jenna watches them work, driven both by curiosity and the sense that it’s better to focus on what they’re doing, rather than how close she is to a woman who could have stepped off the page of an alternative lifestyle pin-up calendar. Goth girls? Hot. Older women? Very hot. Already being married to a squat Englishman? So not hot.

This is why she needs to get out of this town. New York City is probably full of women like Nadja, and Jenna wants to meet some of them. Like she’d told Coco-

No. Let’s not think about Coco yet.

“Done,” Nadja says, sitting back. “Darling, do you want a little makeup for the camera?”

“Um, I don’t usually wear makeup... Oh.” Jenna watches as Nadja digs into a makeup bag on the park bench next to her. The woman pulls out a fat, black eyeliner pencil and a skinny bottle of pinkish lip gloss. She holds them up, waggling them at Jenna, who stammers, “I- yeah. Sure! Okay.”

Nadja leans in again, cupping Jenna’s chin and commanding her to look straight ahead, which is basically right into Nadja’s eyes. Jenna curls her fingers into the cotton fabric of her dress and resists the urge to look away. She doesn’t ever do this with Shanice, so maybe this is just a thing for women who wear makeup. Faces inches apart, breathing each other’s air. Is it creepy to think that somebody’s breath smells really nice? It’s probably creepy. She won’t mention that. Fuck, she is too gay for this.

After a few expert swipes of the pencil and gloss, Nadja hands her a little compact mirror from the bag. “How is that?”

Jenna blinks down at herself, familiar and yet not. She was expecting something far more clownish, like the obvious makeup her aunt Rebecca used to wear; blush so bright you could signal a trucker at five hundred yards in the dead of night. Rebecca’s face is round like hers; Jenna’s mom always says she looks more like her aunt than her own mother. So that’s how she’s imagined she would look, but this is... nice. Simple. Brings out her eyes and the natural peach tone of her cheeks.

“This looks really good- thank you!” Jenna realizes how over-enthused she sounds as soon as the words leave her mouth. Nadja doesn’t seem to mind though, blood-red lips widening in a smile that reaches her eyes.

“You are welcome.” Nadja claps her hands together, then motions to her husband. “Now, do not be intimidated by Laszlo. He may come off as a bit abrasive, but behind that crusty outer shell is an ooey, gooey marshmallow of a man.”

“What are you telling her, darling?” Laszlo calls out. He no longer looks lost in his head, and is staring at them both.

Nadja gives him a cheery wave. “None of your fucking business, my sweet!”

Laszlo seems undisturbed by this, shrugging his shoulders and turning to say something to Nandor.

“Anyway,” Nadja says, turning back to Jenna, “have you ever been on camera before?”

“Um, not really? Like, Facebook videos and TikTok, but not a real movie.” The singular TikTok video Jenna had ever made happened when Shanice convinced her to perform one of the latest dance trends. Posting it had felt reckless; a moment of bravery quickly turned sour after a string of nasty comments. She’d closed the account a short time later. She’s still got the video though, goes back and watches it sometimes. Stares at the carefree expression on her face, and wonders where that woman came from.

Nadja nods at her. “Well, I will give you some tips, since you are clearly very anxious and intimidated.”

“I- I’m not-”

“One! Don’t look at the camera. Keep your eyes on Laszlo at all times. It is distracting for the audience if you do so, and I do not want to be cutting around your little baby bunny face all the time in the edits.”

Little baby what now?

“Two! Take your time. This is not live TV, so if you need a moment to collect your thoughts, then do it.”

“Okay... Anything else?”

“Hmmm.” Nadja squints, tapping a long, stiletto-shaped nail against her lower lip as she looks Jenna over.

The blood red polish on Nadja’s nails is the same kind that a diner customer wore two weeks ago, her smile cheery and kind as she thanked Jenna for bringing her a cup of coffee. Jenna tried not to spill the pot all over the table as she poured it. The customer had been part of a group heading down to the city for a concert, passing through this town and probably not giving it or the lonesome waitress at the counter a second thought once she’d walked out the door. Jenna had thought about her for three days, lying on her bed and refreshing her bank account app on her phone, as if her measly savings would magically grow another five thousand dollars and give her the means to leave.

Jenna is taking online college courses - double majoring in communication and creative writing. The former is on her mother’s insistence that she have a “marketable” career option. The latter is borne from a long love of fantasy novels (reminder: go to the library later and pick up the latest reserves from Mrs. Lazzarro). Despite how boring she finds half her classes, she can appreciate that getting a job will be easier in one profession over the other. Maybe someday she’ll write a novel, something to sit alongside authors like Terry Pratchett, Mercedes Lackey, or Anne McCaffrey. Then again, maybe she’ll spend the rest of her life in a cubicle, dutifully crafting PowerPoint presentations on how to market social media apps to whatever generation comes after Z.

“Ah, yes, one more point. Three, under no circumstances should you say the name Simon.” Nadja nods sagely, as if that makes any sense.

“I don’t know anyone named Simon?”

“That is very good, little chickadee. It would make this interview much more unpleasant for everyone.”

Wow. Nadja... really likes her nicknames. Jenna doesn’t mind having nicknames. Not at all.

They clear away extraneous equipment, and have Jenna scoot to the right side of the bench, angling her body to face the bench across the gravel path, where Laszlo settles onto the seat. Guillermo moves to stand behind the camera, and Nandor shifts next to him, close enough that their arms bump together. Nadja places herself on the other side of Guillermo, winking at Jenna.

When Jenna had gotten Laszlo’s first email, she’d pictured him as someone much older, his language esoteric, sounding like the writing from some of her overly pedantic classmates. Beneath the surface of words like loquacious and prurient , however, there was a kindness peeking through. The reports from newspapers who’d spammed her inbox for the first month after Coco’s murder had been much more aggressive, nearly demanding to be answered. But Laszlo had written I’d be honored to listen to your story and Jenna had believed him. So now she’s here, twisting her hands in her lap, looking at a stranger and hoping she hasn’t made a mistake.

Someone has to know the whole truth. Maybe not yet but... maybe, if this first interview goes alright.

Laszlo adjusts the collar of his shirt, gently tugging the panels apart, first two buttons undone. His body seems relaxed, but there’s a manic energy in his eyes. Excitement. He finally looks at Jenna, cutting through her nerves with an easy smile.

“Right then,” he says. “Shall we get started, young chappess?”

“Um, sure,” she says, straightening up. Mom had told her not to slouch, to act confident, self-assured. Like she has nothing to hide. That part is simple - Jenna has been good at hiding things about herself for most of her life. Her feelings, her hurts, her desires. Hiding isn’t the problem. Revealing is what’s difficult.

“Could you introduce yourself for our audience?” Laszlo asks. “Short and sweet.”

“Yes, I’m Jenna Feldstein? I’ve lived in Coventry my whole life. I, um, I work at the local diner owned by the Henderson family - Coco’s parents.”

“Lovely to meet you, Jenna. And I’m also led to believe that you are the unfortunate soul who happened upon the young girl’s body?”

“I...” She hadn’t expected him to get right to the point, and stops herself, glancing over to Nadja, who nods encouragingly. Right. She can take her time, so she thinks a moment before replying: “Yes. I was the first person to find Coco.”

Laszlo folds his hands and leans forward, his voice dropping a few decibels as he asks, “Could you tell us what happened? Whatever you’re comfortable saying, my dear.”

Jenna closes her eyes for a moment, to try and ease the nerves that have already started to crawl under her skin. This is a bad idea, dredging up the memories - blood and flesh and something she should not have seen -

“Sure,” she breathes, eyes jerking open. “I can tell you.

“I was working the late shift that Monday night, closing up around 2am. Coco had left about an hour earlier- owner’s daughter, y’know? Got some privileges the rest of the staff didn’t- not that any of us minded, really! She always did her share of the work when she was around. So, uh, I’m the last one to leave that night, and my car was the closest to the woods. That’s the only reason I saw it.”

“It?” Laszlo asks.

“Yeah. The blood. A trail of it, leading back into the trees.” Flecks peppering the cracked concrete, staining the early summer grasses with drops of congealing red fluid. She remembers one small drop, long and curved, jutting out at a sharp point; almost like a boomerang - or an arrow - pointing towards the woods. “I don’t really know why I followed it? Like, it’s the middle of the night, and I was alone. It could’ve been from an animal. I just- something felt. Wrong.”

She swallows, wetting her suddenly dry throat. The air around them is still, the leaves of the oak trees in the park hanging like limp fingers off of limp branches. A car horn goes off somewhere in the distance, though the direction is impossible to ascertain.

Laszlo shifts, and the sound of his slacks against the rough-hewn wood cuts through the roaring silence like a shot going off. “But you did follow it.”

Jenna nods. “I think, if she’d been much farther into the woods, I would’ve stopped at some point and gone for help. But she- she wasn’t more than fifty feet into the tree line. It was like whatever took her didn’t care how quickly she was found.”

“You say whatever ,” Laszlo points out. “The police are saying this was likely an animal attack, but some of the locals believe a far darker explanation.”

“The vampire.” She nods again. Digs her nails into her palms when the memories try to intrude upon her hard won equilibrium. “It’s always been a town legend. Every half century or so, somebody dies. I have a friend- his grandfather was the last person to go.”

Laszlo’s eyebrows dart up for a brief moment, before his expression settles back into a more neutral one. “You saw the body. Do you think the rumors could be true?”

Jenna smooths her hands over her lap, picking at an errant string frayed loose on her dress. She figured he’d ask about this, and since she agreed to this interview, she’s been trying to decide what she’ll say. Even today, waiting for Nadja to clip her mic on, a certain answer eluded her.

When she opens her mouth, the words that come out are: “No. It was an animal. I’m sure of it.”

Laszlo holds her gaze for a moment, and Jenna knows he must be searching, watching for any sort of facial tic that would give her away as a liar. He won’t find one. The police chief had looked at her the same way the night of Coco’s death, and even through her fear and exhaustion, she’d somehow managed to keep it together. If she could reveal nothing then, she would reveal nothing now.

“Of course, there’s another explanation entirely.” Laszlo slouches back against the bench, folding his arms casually - though not so casually that he disturbs his mic, she notices. It’s an artful slouch, intentional. She’s gotten very good at reading body language, and some of the old men in this town will sit that way in the diner booths; the ones that call her sweetie and honey and whose eyes follow her around the room, fixing her with a pleasant smile whenever she notices them noticing her. Now, the action puts her on edge. Laszlo continues: “You’ve been under investigation as a possible suspect, correct?”

No point in denying this; it was all over the town papers. “The chief said that they had to consider the possibility, since I found her body. When the autopsy happened, they determined it was likely an animal attack. I mean, like, look at me!” She spreads her hands, letting out a high, tittering laugh. More nervous than she wanted. “I couldn’t hurt anybody! It’s- it’s silly.”

“You did have a motive, though,” Laszlo presses. “According to the papers, it was pretty well known that you had a history with Coco. She was quite the bully to you, wasn’t she?”

Jenna tugs so hard at the string on her dress, it breaks off. “That was just high school bullshit. Oh- can I curse?”

“Of course; you clearly haven’t seen my earlier work.”

“I haven’t.” She’d looked him up on iMDB a few weeks ago and quickly closed the tab. She’s no innocent, but watching two hours of genitals being slapped against or into other genitals strikes her as out of her comfort zone. “But, yeah. After high school, she was fine. I think there’s a difference between bullying a fellow kid and bullying a coworker, especially when your parents own the business.”

Laszlo raises an incredulous eyebrow. “I would think one might feel freer to get away with that kind of thing, if you’re mommy and daddy’s child who can do no wrong.”

“It wasn’t like that- the Hendersons aren’t like that,” Jenna insists. “Like, of course they loved her. But they’ve always been very nice to me, and they expected a lot out of Coco.”

“Such as?”

Jenna opens her mouth, then closes it, hesitating. Perhaps she shouldn’t elaborate. But if she doesn’t, that might look like she’s hiding something, and she doesn’t need Chief Delmonico breathing down her neck again. “Uh, well... I think they wanted her to take over the business someday, but I don’t think she wanted that. I heard her arguing about school with her dad once. Sounded like she didn’t like her major.” Jenna can relate, unfortunately. “But I don’t know for sure! That’s just... the impression I got.”

There’s a long pause. Laszlo looks like he’s thinking, his own hesitance giving Jenna a moment to glance away, looking behind the camera. Nadja leans forward, giving her a little thumbs up and a smile. Nandor has leaned down farther into Guillermo’s personal space, mumbling something to him. The camera man stands stock still except for his head, nodding along to Nandor’s words.

For a moment, she’d forgotten they were even there. Laszlo has a way about him, drawing you in, the outside world fading away. Now, he pulls her back by clearing his throat, and when she looks at him, he asks, “So the relationship Coco had with her parents wasn’t quite as perfect as it seems. Did she confide in you?”

“No,” Jenna lies, a little too quick with an answer. Laszlo frowns. Shit. Backpedaling, she continues, “I mean, we’d talk, sometimes, but never about anything deep.”

“Did you hear any other arguments between Coco and her father?” Laszlo probes. “And the nature of these arguments, were they angry? Did he shout at her, or become violent in any way?”

“What? No!” She realizes what he’s hinting at, and the early lunch in her stomach curdles sourly. “He’s a very nice man.”

( the man in the woods had not seemed very nice at all )

“Can we take a break?” she squeaks. “I think I need a break.”

“This is a good stopping point,” Nadja calls from behind the camera. “Gizmo, shut it off.”

Jenna sits back against the bench, taking a deep breath. She can feel her heart hammering in her chest, threatening to burst out and roll away down the sidewalk, picking up dirt and stones like that children’s song about a lost meatball. Across from her, Laszlo seems a complete, relaxed contrast.

“Quite alright there, young lady?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” she says. Might as well keep lying.

“You did well. And if it helps, off the record, I believe you.” He winks. “Must keep objectivity up for the camera’s sake, but you seem to lack the propensity for homicide.”

“Darling, that was wonderful!” Nadja’s voice trills in the air, and Jenna looks over, meeting her eyes for a split second, only for the woman of her dreams to spring over to the other bench and pepper Laszlo’s cheek in kisses.

Jenna looks down. She wipes the pink lip gloss off on the back of her hand, and then rubs it away, leaving only a faint residue behind.

~

5:23pm

“Well?” Shanice asks. “Tell me everything!”

The front of the diner - aptly named Henderson’s , of a long family lineage - is starting to fill with customers; the regular evening rush. Jenna bustles past a family seating themselves, her arms loaded with three plates for table twenty-four: baked flounder, chicken marsala and a full turkey dinner. Her apron - polka-dotted with little red hearts - catches errant flecks of gravy as she ducks a child who has come running down the path. Behind her, Shanice trails along, scowling at the oblivious parents of said child.

“It went how we thought - here you go, Mr. Edwards, Mr. Davison, Mr. Sandiford.” Jenna plasters on her work smile, sliding the plates onto the table in front of the men. “Just wave me down if you need anything else.”

Shanice clocks out of Peterson’s Convenience at 5:15pm on the dot every evening, and the walk from the store to the diner is barely five minutes. Usually, Jenna works late, and Shanice hangs out for an hour or so before departing for her own house. It’s harder to find time to spend every waking moment together, now that they’ve moved into the working world. Lately though, she’s been staying longer. Jenna suspects Shanice is worried about her - it’s true that she was kind of a wreck the first few days after Coco’s death. She didn’t talk much. Stayed in her room, ate very little. It took at least a week before she stepped outside again, and then the calls from reporters started. Shanice has made her promise to only answer known numbers after the fifth phone interrogation left her in tears.

Shanice is perceptive, always has been. About Jenna, especially. When your first introduction to someone is dumping a castle’s worth of sand over their head in the kindergarten sand pit, and they laugh instead of socking you in the mouth, you’re pretty much bonded for life. It means that she’s very good at wheedling information out of Jenna, and that’s a problem. There are some things Shanice doesn’t need to know. Things that could end friendships, if they were found out.

“Oh come on, don’t bullshit me,” Shanice drawls, tugging on the lacy sleeve of Jenna’s seafoam green dress - standard uniform of women at Henderson’s . She ignores the warning glare of Patricia Smith, stuffed with her husband Stanley and their five yowling children in a booth seat, and follows Jenna up to the front counter. “I want details! You’ll tell me if anyone was mean to you, right? I can hex them.”

“I don’t need you hexing anybody,” Jenna argues, tapping on the screen of the restaurant’s point of sale machine. Shanice got into paganism three years ago, and her solution to all their social woes since then has been to hex whomever is bothering them. “Besides, isn’t that like, against your religion or something?” She’d given Jenna a speech about some arcane rule towards the beginning of this occult obsession; Jenna’s eyes had glazed over five minutes in, and she’d nodded mutely through the rest.

“Pshhh. Babies care about the Rule of Three. Adults don’t believe in that karmic crap.” Shanice leans over the counter, wriggling like an excitable puppy. “Fine, I won’t hex them. But you gotta give me more than that!”

Jenna keeps her gaze locked on the touch screen. “They were... nice. This pretty lady with dark hair did my makeup, and then her husband asked me questions.”

“Pretty lady, huh?” She can see Shanice smirking at her out of the corner of her eye.

Jenna bites back a smile, blindly reaching out to gently shove at her arm. “Shut up. Look, it wasn’t a big thing. I told them exactly what I told Delmonico.”

“And me,” Shanice points out. “Although I’m still not sure I believe you.”

“Oh, come on.” Jenna laughs nervously. “Don’t I tell you everything?” She finishes entering the order and turns, walking towards the double doors that lead to the kitchen. Shanice goes with her - the kitchen staff are used to her presence, and she’s adroit enough to have avoided the wrath of the head cook, lest she be thrown out.

“It still doesn’t make sense,” Shanice continues. “If Coco got bit by a panther, why was she missing so much blood, and no flesh?”

“I’m not a pathologist, Shanice,” Jenna replies. One of the cooks, Daniel, calls her order up, and she gives him a casual smile as she picks up another set of plates: one order of chicken fingers, and one of the Coventry Burger (a bison patty smothered in ketchup, mayo, mustard, pickles, onions, lettuce, and cheese sauce.). “Maybe it got interrupted?”

“That doesn’t explain the missing blood.”

“It soaked into the ground, duh.” Jenna can feel her left eye twitching.

Shanice snorts. “Okay. You and I both know there’s a more obvious explanation-”

Something in Jenna snaps. Maybe she’s just tired after both an intensive interrogation, and a full day’s work, but she suddenly would rather be anywhere in the world than with Shanice, having this conversation. She whirls around - though slow enough to avoid jostling all the food off their plates - and fixes Shanice with a choleric eye.

“I really don’t wanna talk about this anymore!”

The kitchen goes quiet; only the sounds of sizzling pans and the ever present murmur of the restaurant crowd remain. Shanice stares at her, gobsmacked, her lips parted ever so slightly. Jenna realizes how loud that came out, and immediately, the hot flash of an oncoming blush creeps its way up her neck.

“You should probably go,” Jenna says, glancing down. “Mr. Henderson will be by soon.” He’s not exactly Shanice’s biggest fan, and the feeling is mutual.

“Yeah... okay.” Shanice folds her arms, backing towards the exit. “I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

Then she turns and walks out, the plastic doors swinging in her wake.

Slowly, the sounds of the kitchen start up again.

Another cook, Samantha, calls, “All right there, Jenna?”

Jenna nods slowly, swallowing back the fatigued tears that threaten to make their presence known. She’s so tired. She’s been so tired since that night in the woods, standing over the broken body of her former coworker, former bully, and tentatively-new friend, staring into her blank, lifeless eyes. The same eyes Jenna sees every time she lays down and closes her own to sleep. She’s started asking other people to take over dumping trash on the nights she’s been assigned, because the dumpsters are right by the side of the parking lot where Coco’s blood was scrubbed from the concrete, a faint stain still remaining after two months. At least she thinks of Coco’s eyes when she’s awake. When she’s asleep, the nightmares come, and another set of eyes - feral, predatory, no humanity within - stare back at her.

“I’m alright,” Jenna lies. She hasn’t been alright for quite a while now. “Table fifteen is going out.”

She gives it ten more seconds, then heads out through the doors.

Chapter Text

1:47 PM

Nandor knows many things have recurring patterns in life. The seasons change, but always swing back around. Cicadas burrow into the ground, only to reemerge fourteen years later, to fuck and die, and repeat the cycle all over again. The 31 bus will always arrive twenty minutes late, and the Yankees will suck for a few years every decade or two before finding the perfect pitcher or batter to carry the dynasty forward.

And just as the sun rises and sets, Laszlo Cravensworth will drag him into another crazy filmmaking disaster, and Nandor will follow, eyes open and head first.

Because Nandor loves pointing it out, he was actually Nadja’s friend before Laszlo came into the picture. They met in the very first class of the very first year, after both of them fiercely defended John Waters as a more interesting and transgressive filmmaker than W.S. Anderson. When the class had ended, Nadja had walked up to him, looked him right in the eye, called him “a freakishly tall homunculus with good taste in movies,” and dragged him out of the room, demanding he come watch Pink Flamingos back in her dormitory.

At first, Nandor thought Nadja’s attention might have been romantic in nature, but she’d disabused him of that notion rapidly. It only took one awkward, sharply-rejected drunken pass at her for Nandor to realize that he fell far outside of the bubble of her taste in men. Still, she seemed more amused by his antics, and what could’ve turned into a mortifying memory of a friendship lost instead became a running joke long after she and Laszlo had pledged themselves to one another.

Nandor did not meet Laszlo until the second semester of that year, in a class on filming stage productions. Laszlo did a presentation on ways to shoot Hamlet that brought out the subtext of the homoerotic relationship between Hamlet and Horatio, and he did it with such a vivacious charm and quick wit - ill caring about their professor’s distaste for non-traditional readings of the text - that it left the students rolling with laughter in their seats, Nandor included. He’d gotten top marks on that assignment, and Nandor had trailed him out of the classroom, making an off-the-cuff remark about wondering if he could pull off the same trick discussing Mercutio and Romeo. Laszlo had simply smiled, and offered to provide a demonstration in his dorm room, if Nandor was up for it.

Just as Nandor knew Nadja first, Nandor slept with Laszlo first, fingers twisting in the sheets of Laszlo’s rickety dorm room bed as the silver-tongued fellow gave him incredible head, and immediately asked if he had any drugs on him when they’d finished. Their affair ran hot, burning rapidly through the next several weeks. Laszlo was the first man he’d ever been with - the first for a lot of things, considering his insatiable lust for sexual variety. But like all fast fires, it could only last so long. By the time Nadja stormed into Nandor’s room a month and a half later - demanding to know why he’d been ignoring her texts, and finding the both of them caught mid-coitus - Nandor could see the threads of this torrid romance all but unraveling.

Lucky, then, that Nadja had not been put off by the man driving his prick into her close friend’s ass. Somehow, they’d exchanged numbers, and it had only taken two weeks before Laszlo was coming to Nandor, metaphorical hat in hand, apologizing in a mournful voice that he could not continue as Nandor’s paramour, for his heart had been taken by another. It had hurt far less than Nandor was expecting. Laszlo, though full of ten-syllable words and concerning levels of sexual stamina, was too wild, and Nandor needed a softer touch.

Still, Nandor supposes he’ll always be a little bit in love with the man - it’s the only explanation for why Laszlo can drag him off on another impulsive adventure, and he’ll go with little argument. Nadja, thankfully, has a more sensible head on her shoulders, bringing them both to heel when needed.

Both of those things - Laszlo’s persuasive nature, and Nadja’s shrewd intuition - meant drastically severing his relationship with them had been required, after The Argument. Nandor doesn’t like to think much on The Argument nowadays. It was a painful moment that came before an even more painful period of time, one which ended the delusion that Nandor’s sensitive heart could ever be enough for anyone.

Those two years without Laszlo and Nadja nearly broke him, and taught him that nothing in the world could ever be worth giving up their friendship again.

Nandor thinks, sometimes, that Laszlo and Nadja are out of their minds, for what they’ve put up with from him. What kind of person opens their door at three thirty in the morning, welcoming in a man whose last contact had been a screaming match two years before? Nadja and Laszlo had seen his suitcase and the dark bags under his eyes, and shown him in without hesitation. When he had sat down on their couch, they’d said nothing, wordless as he sputtered out an explanation that left him bawling into his own hands, their arms coming to hold him up when he thought he’d collapse.

And then they kept doing it, over and over, in different ways, for the next six months.

He doesn’t deserve them. He doesn’t deserve a second chance, even if they’re willing to give it to him. Maybe that’s why, when Laszlo had started talking about his next project as if Nandor was going to resume his regular role of filmographer, Nandor had flailed about with excuses for why they should hire someone else. It’s been too long. I haven’t worked in two years, I need to readjust. You should really hire someone with more experience, now that you have all this studio money. Nothing seemed to change their minds, until the suggestion that they hire someone fresh, and Nandor could act as a kind of supervisor, shaping his protégé’s skills while also taking the pressure off of all the work. Nandor could step into sound production, his secondary love, since their old sound technician, Benjy, decided to move out to LA last fall.

Finally, Laszlo and Nadja had taken the compromise, on the condition that Nandor find someone suitable. He’d reached out to professional contacts, asking for names of newer cinematographers, working for maybe two or three years, tops. He did interviews over video call, scratching divots into Laszlo’s old college desk as he asked the same questions, searching for that intuitive spark that would tell him this was the right one.

Nobody clicked; everyone was just a little too far to the left of what he was looking for. Nandor found himself shuffling through resume after resume, the prospect of not finding someone, of having to hold up his end of the bargain - find someone, or take the job - looking bleaker by the day.

In a fit of desperation, he called up an old professor, making poor excuses for having kept out of touch, but hoping she would have some names to pass his way. Dr. Wood listened to his plight, thought for a moment, and said she had a name, but maybe a fresher face than he’d expected.

Then she’d sent him a video file, and everything clicked.

“Earth to Nandor; are you in there, major Tom?”

Nandor is pulled from his thoughts by Laszlo’s voice, in tandem with a sharp jostle of the van as they hit a pothole. He lifts his chin from where it had been resting against his propped up hand and looks over at his friend. “What is it? Can’t you see I am thinking deep thoughts right now?”

“Exactly why I’m talking to you.” Laszlo flicks the turn signal of the van on, ignoring the worn stop sign to turn them smoothly onto the main road of town. “When you get in your head like that it spells bad news for all of us.”

“Not all of us feel the need to say every passing thought aloud, Laszlo. Perhaps you should try a little introspection sometime.”

“Ouch. Who pissed in your cereal this morning? And since when do you use big words like introspection ?”

Nandor wants to say, I’m not the same person you knew two years ago, I have learned many things , but then again, whose fault is that? His own. So he bites back a sharp response and simply answers, “I am just tired, okay? It was a long drive.”

“You spent a good half of it dozing in the back seat,” Laszlo points out. “You’re always tired, it seems like. Perhaps a trip to a physician is in order.”

“I’ll pass.” Internally, Nandor admits that Laszlo is right. Every day feels tiring; he can’t remember the last time he felt energized about most anything. But he’s not about to give Laszlo more reasons to mother-hen him to death. “Were you just talking to talk, or did you have something specific to talk about?”

“What do you think of him, so far? Gizmo.” Laszlo’s hands are steady on the wheel, his eyes focused on the road. But Nandor has had years to learn to read his friend, and the overly cheery, light tone of his voice suggests the question has deeper implications than he’s letting on.

“Guillermo,” Nandor corrects. “What do I think of him...?”

At first, the quiet, nervous man who’d greeted Nandor at the door of his college dormitory was nothing like Nandor’s expectations. He’d asked Guillermo to show him what he thought was his best work, and when he’d seen the familiar grainy opening of the video he’d already watched three times - the same one Dr. Wood had sent - he had smiled. Whatever Guillermo’s confidence was in his own abilities, he seemed to have an intuition of what he did well. Nandor had pulled out the paperwork, and that was that.

Nandor knows that Guillermo didn’t grow up well off, sharing a tiny apartment with his parents and four brothers and sisters. He knows that Guillermo’s favorite movie, the one that drove him into filmmaking, is Interview with the Vampire . He knows that Guillermo surprises himself sometimes with his own boldness, making suggestions and immediately seeming like he wants to backpedal or crawl under the couch in Laszlo and Nadja’s apartment. Nandor also knows that he can be funny, and kind, and maybe a little naïve, but in a way that makes you feel like the center of the world when you open his eyes to something new. At least, that’s how he makes Nandor feel, every time.

“He’s a little green, but I think he’ll do well,” Nandor asserts. “You said you trusted my judgment.”

“And I do. Most of the time.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

Laszlo glances over at him briefly, before looking back to the road. “I think you know.”

Ah. That. “What does that have to do with Guillermo?”

“You’ve gotten quite close with the lad, haven’t you.”

“Laszlo!”

“I’m just saying- look, Nandor, I know how you are. It’s a knowledge I’ve acquired over multiple years of your friendship, to my chagrin. You tend to pour yourself into a person and end up a wreck when it ends. Even before-”

“Don’t. Laszlo, I do not want to talk about this.”

“Fucking fantastic, Nandor not wanting to talk about something. Just like old times. I suppose I’ll drop you off somewhere, then, so you can leave and not have to talk about it for another two years?”

“ What the fuck ?” Nandor gasps, because even for Laszlo, that’s a low blow. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he looks back out the window, nails scraping into his denim jeans as he swallows down a clawing hurt.

The van is silent for the rest of the drive, which is thankfully only another minute or two at most. Laszlo pulls into the smoothly paved lot for Coventry’s police department, parking and shutting the engine.

“Come on, then,” Laszlo says, opening his door. “Let’s be quick about it.”

The inside of the station is a sickly green painted concrete that reminds Nandor of dimly lit truck stop bathrooms. There are benches lined up against one wall, a reception desk at the far end, and cork boards on the wall opposite the benches, pinned with faded papers listing town events. Nandor clocks a yellowing drawing on one board, a childish attempt at a police officer, body a simple distorted oval, face a circle with two dots and a curved smile line. There are smaller stick figures surrounding it, their little stick feet resting on a green line that goes from corner to corner, flowers budding up from the intended grass. Above the bodies, in a child’s jagged lettering, are the words TANK YOU .

Nandor shivers in the overbearing cold of the station’s air conditioning, and follows Laszlo up to the reception desk. He stays quiet as the receptionist asks after their purpose for being there; Laszlo tends to do all the talking anyway. Glancing around, he takes in the open air bullpen beyond the reception desk. There are a few unmanned work desks in the middle of the space, covered in papers and brown file boxes, stickied with all manner of notes. He can see nothing through the blinds covering the glass windows of the offices that rim the rest of the room. File cabinets line the office walls, and a half-wilted plant sits between two of them, its leaves in a slumped, sorry state, like the depressing state of the station is making it contemplate suicide.

“... have a note here about your permits,” the woman is saying to Laszlo, flicking through curling pages on a notepad. “You’ll just need to speak to the chief first - have a seat and I’ll go get him.” She stands and glances at Nandor, holding his gaze for just a second too long to be comfortable as she moves into the bullpen and leaves them to sit awkwardly on the opposite ends of the same bench. It creaks unnervingly, the sound of it echoing like a shot inside the poorly insulated space.

“Why would we need to speak to the chief for some basic film permits?” Laszlo is muttering, leg jiggling as he taps his heel over and over on the floor. Nandor isn’t sure whether he’s expecting an answer, but if so, he’s not getting one. Not from Nandor, at least. He’s just as in the dark about this as Laszlo.

Nandor idly flicks through the news on his phone, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. He hasn’t cut it at all in the last six months. It’s nice to be able to grow it back out; there was a time where that choice felt out of his hands. Possibly another reason why he’d ended up at Laszlo’s doorstep.

One of the heavy metal doors to the station swings open, two men in forest green uniform shirts and wide-brimmed beige hats step into the building, their shoulders adorned with patches identifying them as Coventry PD. They are talking convivially about something Nandor doesn’t care to spend the brain power focusing on, and one of them glances at Nandor, then Laszlo, then back to Nandor, before turning and muttering something low to his partner as they move past.

Hmmm.

Both Nandor and Laszlo look up when one of the office doors opens, the receptionist and another person stepping out. The man following her, likely the aforementioned police chief, is shorter than Nandor, taller than Laszlo, round-faced, with over-gelled curly hair and a scraggly beard that refuses to claim one color - some combination of dark brown, light brown, grey and white. There’s this relaxed smile on his face, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Said eyes land on the newcomers, and he waves them over. “Come on, come on in, just have a few questions and then we can get you set up with your permits.”

Nandor and Laszlo glance at one another, briefly, and then get up and follow the man into his office.

The space inside feels crowded, not because of the inherent smallness of the room, but because of the oversized desk, the half-dozen file cabinets, and the floor-space on the right side taken up by what looks like a practice putt-putt green, several golf clubs lined up against the wall. Behind the desk, there are several dozen plaques, framed certificates, and pictures of unknown people shaking hands with the man. The desk is tidy; Nandor hasn’t seen a computer monitor that boxy since the Bush era, and a few smaller picture frames face outwards, the faint dust patterns underneath showing they must have been turned around recently. Nandor stares at one as he sits down in a lumpy gray chair; it’s of the man, a demure, tiny woman, and a younger man between them who wears a graduation gown - the colors of the local high school, if Nandor isn’t mistaken. The younger man is pumping two fists skyward as the other two stand on either side of him, looking appropriately proud.

“A man of sports, are you?” Laszlo opens, motioning to the putt-putt green.

The chief sinks into his own chair, folding his arms and leaning back. “You play, Mr. Cravensworth?”

“Oh, I’m far too English for that,” Laszlo jokes.

“It’s a beautiful sport, you should try it sometime. Just you, a little ball and wide open greenery. We’ve got some lovely courses in the valleys, family owned for generations.” The chief nods towards Nandor. “How about you, Mr. Jayhan?”

“It’s Jahan,” Nandor corrects. “And no, I do not play.” From what he can gather, it’s a sport of men with too much time and money to waste, but he’s smart enough not to say this.

“We’ve got some gorgeous courses out here,” Delmonico repeats, as if saying it twice will really sell the idea. “Quintessential American sport.”

“I thought that was baseball?” Nandor says, frowning.

Delmonico doesn’t reply, instead motioning to the framed graduation photo. “My boy and I love to play; great father and son bonding experience. But he’s off at Lehigh now; decided to stay for the summer, something about investing and entrepreneurship.”

Laszlo clears his throat. “Captain Delmonico, I hate to interrupt this riveting topic, but we are on a bit of a timeline. People to meet, interviews to be had.” If you don’t know Laszlo, you might miss the subtle inflection on the word riveting ; Nandor knows him well enough to hear the irritation in his voice. “You wanted to speak to us about these permits?”

Delmonico nods shortly. “Now, your crew knows Ms. Henderson’s death continues to be an active police investigation, I’m certain. As the chief of police, it’s my job to ensure that this investigation remains uncompromised, and anyone who interferes with discovering the truth will be held liable for their actions.”

“Of course, captain. If you’re concerned about our interference, rest assured that we too wish to know the identity of whomstever murdered the poor girl. Perhaps our journalistic endeavors will provide some clues to that effect.”

“Pardon my saying so, but I sincerely doubt it.” Nandor’s grip on the arms of the worn chair tightens as Delmonico’s eyes briefly flick to his, before looking back at Laszlo. “The thing about a small town like this is that people tend to view outsiders with suspicion. Nobody with a genuine interest in the truth will want to talk to you.”

Laszlo shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Well, we’ve heard from a few people; Ms. Feldstein, Mrs. Lazzaro, a gentleman named Claude-”

“Like I said,” Delmonico interrupts. “Nobody with a genuine interest in the truth. Now, if you want to hear some loonies yammering about ghouls and ghosts and all sorts of supernatural nonsense, you’ve found the right people.”

“You do not believe in the vampire,” Nandor says.

Delmonico barks out a laugh so loud, Nandor and Laszlo concurrently jump in their seats. “I don’t know what your people believe about vampires, Mr. Jayhan, but in this town, we like to use something called the scientific method. So, no, I don’t believe in some cockamamie legend about Dracula living in our wilderness. What I do know is that folks around here get very heated about their personal opinions on the vampire legend, and when folks get heated, I start having to do more paperwork for assault charges.” His gaze is pointed when he meets Nandor’s eyes. “So, just a little friendly advice. Watch your step around here and avoid stirring things up.”

Nandor feels a prickle of cold down his spine. The chill in the air isn’t just from the HVAC system anymore.

“We certainly aren’t looking to put more work on your plate,” Laszlo says, drawing Delmonico’s attention back. “Certainly, if we learn anything relevant to your investigation, we shall let you know.”

“That’s what I like to hear, boys.” Delmonico draws a sheaf of papers out of a folder on the desk, flicking through them and signing a few pages before holding them out to Laszlo. “Everything’s in order. I’ll see you both out.”

The noises in the bullpen die down as they step out of Delmonico’s office. Nandor can feel eyes on the back of his neck as he and Laszlo make their way out of the building, Delmonico shaking their hands at the front door.

When Nandor goes to pull his hand away, Delmonico’s grip goes iron, holding on. “Fashionable little bracelet you’ve got there,” Delmonico says, frowning as he motions to the amber tesbih beads around Nandor’s wrist. “They mean anything?”

“A gift from my mother,” Nandor replies, meeting his eyes with a level gaze. “They are for prayer.”

The moment seems to last an eternity before Delmonico releases his grip and gives him a tight smile. “Stay safe, and keep out of trouble.”

Nandor’s breathing is heavy as they pull out of the parking spot and turn back onto the road, away from the station. He fingers the beads around his wrist, hands trembling, a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

“A bit gruff, but about what I expected from small town cops,” Laszlo is saying, fiddling with the radio. “I don’t prefer sharing our film with the authorities, but perhaps it would get him off our backs. Maybe we could take him up on his offer, muster through a round of that bloody awful sport, just to grease the wheels. What do you think? Well? Nandor?”

“Whatever,” Nandor says, swallowing and looking out the window; the land to their right is paved over with cracked concrete, new plant life forcing its way up through the cracks. “Just leave me out of it. Take someone else with you next time.”

“You look as though somebody told you horses just went extinct,” Laszlo jokes. “Come on, he wasn’t all that intimidating, was he?”

“He was something, alright,” Nandor mutters. “Take someone else - not Guillermo, though. The little guy is anxious enough.”

“Fine, fine. Not you, not Guillermo, for some blasted reason. You know, you’re very protective of him.”

“Somebody has to be,” Nandor mutters, folding his arms and tilting his head back, eyes closed. “Wake me up when we get to the cemetery.”

Chapter Text

July 12th, 2022

3:13pm

The day has gone appropriately overcast by the time Guillermo and Nadja reach the Coventry cemetery. The faint scent of afternoon rain builds in the air, the humidity threatening to finish ruining the delicate curls that Nadja managed to iron into her hair this morning. She eyes their fresh-faced cinematographer, who looks lost in thought, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. Pah. Whatever he’s thinking about, Nadja can guarantee it’s nothing in comparison to the thoughts currently occupying her mind.

Nadja has always considered herself a woman not given to fits of indecision. When her high school maths professor had insisted her friend Judith remain after school for “private tutoring lessons” despite having top marks in the class, she’d taken a baseball bat to his windshield without a lick of doubt, ensuring there were no witnesses. It’s hard to come back from the whole school getting an eagle-eyed view of your car with the words PREDATOR scraped across the side, and he’d voluntarily retired less than a month later. When she’d seen Laszlo Cravensworth in the campus commissary - three days after finding him bent over her best friend, giving him an objectively enjoyable looking fuck - she’d gone up to him, demanded he buy her lunch, and then made him sit with her for forty-five minutes as she interrogated his intentions towards Nandor. The conversation ended with the certainty that the relationship wouldn’t last, but the additional certainty that Laszlo was exactly her type, and it would behoove Nandor if she took him off her hands.

Nadja’s mother was married to a boor of a man (aka, her father), and spent a majority of her time deep in bottles and wistfully looking out windows for a version of herself that never got the chance to exist. From a young age, Nadja had promised herself that she’d carve out a life much different, discerning wheat from the chaff, refusing anything but the highest quality of existence. It’s what makes her a bloody amazing editor, long hours in the booth producing a Scorsesian level of art that hasn’t gone unnoticed.

The irony, then, of a decisive career suddenly cast into the waves of uncertainty.

There are two missed calls and five unopened text messages on Nadja’s phone, and they are all from the same number. Nadja isn’t procrastinating, because only donkey-brained dullards bother with such childish tactics. No, Nadja is calculating. Hypothesizing. If anyone were to suggest that her lack of response has anything to do with worry, or fear, that she is trying to delay an inevitable consequence, well, she played lacrosse in her junior and senior year of high school, and those sticks hurt like a bitch to get hit with.

“Gizmo,” Nadja snaps, eyeing her lambkin crewmate as he unscrews and rescrews the cap over the camera lens for the fifteenth time. “That equipment costs more than your entire career’s paycheck, stop fucking around.”

Guillermo’s gaze returns to the present moment, and he sheepishly tucks the camera back into its carry bag. “Sorry. Weren’t Laszlo and Nandor supposed to be here by now?”

Nadja shrugs, leaning against the rusted wrought-iron fence at her back. It surrounds the cemetery’s perimeter, clumps of overgrown grass and weeds pushing up through the dirt around each fence post. Beyond the gate, they can see rows of crumbling headstones and a few larger crypts built into the rocky ground; there must be at least a hundred, maybe two hundred corpses who’ve made this place their final residence. “We said around three, and it’s not even a quarter after.”

“Yes, but we told Mrs. Lazarro we’d be here at three fifteen sharp, and if she gets here before them, what are we going to say?” The answer to this question seems bafflingly out of his reach, as though the concept of running late or having to stall for time is foreign to his experience. Nadja’s been married to a man for the past seven years who views contractually obligated deadlines as mere helpful suggestions. She’s handled worse. Guillermo’s visible nervousness is as unimpressive as his resume.

“What, are we just the eye candy? You need a big strong man to come save you from the scary historian?” Nadja snorts. “You signed onto this project to learn, yes? Well, If you can’t smooth talk a potential subject for a few minutes, you might as well pack your things and fuck off home.”

Guillermo mumbles something inaudible, jamming a hand into his pocket to fuss with whatever he’s got hiding in there.

“If you’re going to insult me, at least say it so I can hear it, come on.”

“I didn’t- I just said, there’s a reason I’m behind the camera and not in front of it.” He shrugs, starting to lean back against the fence next to her, before seemingly realizing that he’s got a shit ton of camera equipment in the backpack he’s wearing, and casually twisting to the side so his shoulder hits the iron instead. “I’m not good with small talk.”

“Then learn.” The slight wince and shift of his eyes away makes her pause, considering the way she’s speaking to him. Perhaps she’s... slightly irritable, today. Perhaps his incessant queries only deserve seventy-five percent of the level of vitriol she’s currently giving him.

It isn’t really the boy’s fault that he’s getting the brunt of her wrath. Nadja didn’t want him here, arguing up and down with Laszlo in a series of screaming fights about the stupidity of bringing on someone who hadn’t worked a day in the industry. And even Laszlo wasn’t truly who she was mad at, but fighting with Laszlo was the better option than turning her sights on the real culprit.

The familiar hum of an engine makes them both look towards the road, their van bumbling down the street like a care-free tourist, little stops and starts that speak to manual shifting on a poorly-maintained small town road. Behind the van, a sleek red Volkswagen putters along, and through the tinted windows, Nadja can see the outline of a curly-haired woman that looks suspiciously similar to the picture of Barbara Lazarro that exists on the town’s dinky little library website.

“See? Perfect timing,” Nadja says, motioning towards the vehicles. “Start unpacking what you need, and I’ll go do the hard work for us.”

Laszlo greets her with a kiss, muttering an apology for the slight delay, as Nandor gets out of the passenger seat and wanders off towards their neophyte cameraman, like a duckling who’s imprinted on the first human it’s laid eyes on. It’s pathetic, and the only reason she hasn’t put a stop to it already is the profound effect Guillermo’s had on Nandor’s mood. For the first four months of his return, Nandor moped around their apartment, a sad shadow of his former self. When he’d met the nervous little cameraman, something had changed. Nowadays, he still has long stretches where he seems unreachable to anyone, but there are times when she sees him talking to Guillermo, and vestiges of the old Nandor - the one she misses so badly - peek through.

Barbara Lazzaro is an irascible, no-nonsense woman of an advanced age, the kind of woman Nadja hopes she will be in thirty years. She’s been Coventry’s librarian slash historian for going on four decades, and if anyone can give them a clear explanation of the town’s local legends, it will be her. She’s agreed to give them supervised access to the town archives, but for today, she’s invited them to the cemetery to discuss its founding and the important characters involved in the vampire story.

While Laszlo chats the woman up, turning on his effervescent charms, Nadja pulls Nandor and Guillermo aside. She addresses Nandor with a direct look. “Give me an idea of how you plan on shooting this, so I can give you some direction. I’d like to be efficient in the editing bay.” She’s no Colin Robinson when it comes to being a stickler for the budget, but she’s not going to have to wade through hours of bad footage if she can help it.

Instead of answering, Nandor looks to Guillermo, nodding. “Go ahead, Mister Cinematographer.”

“Sure, uh. Well, there’s a long row that passes by some of the crypts- the town founder’s included. I figured we could do some walking shots, make our way towards his crypt, and if Laszlo plans it right, by the time we reach the building, they’ll be on the subject of Albrecht himself.” Guillermo adjusts his glasses, glancing with an obvious hesitation at Nadja. “Sound good?”

“Acceptable,” Nadja replies. He’s at least thinking outside the box of your usual documentary talking head.

“Perhaps we shoot from the back, instead of the front,” Nandor suggests. “Nadja, you join Laszlo on camera for this. Give the audience a sense of being a member of a tour group.”

Guillermo nods. “There’s a little clearing near Albrecht’s crypt, and we could speed up the camera and come around on the approach to end in front. We’ve got the rig, right? So, one take, no cuts.”

Nadja motions to the ground they’d be walking across, which is distended, full of little craggy holes and bumps of dirt. “You’re going to keep your balance with one eye on the shot and one on the ground? We don’t need broken equipment, that rig is expensive.”

Before Guillermo can answer, Nandor places a firm hand on his shoulder. “I can manage the boom and guide him at the same time. It is a good shot, Nadja. You will like it.”

Hmph. She doesn’t like this two against one shit at all. If Guillermo thinks he’s got a good idea, he’s going to have to learn how to defend it himself. For now, she nods, ignoring the moony-eyed look Guillermo is giving her friend, and turns towards the indicated path. “Come on then, let’s not waste any more time.”

The sky overhead has developed a muzzy coverage of gray clouds, signaling that rain is likely to come, so they’d better get a move on this shoot. There are storms expected over the next several days, but Nadja likes the idea of the ambiance it will bring to the outdoor shots. This isn’t a warm and fuzzy tale, after all, so if Mother Nature wants to give them gloomy weather, then she’s only matching the reality of the situation; a clear and sunny summer, suddenly overcast, like a quaint little town suddenly overwhelmed by a horrifying murder.

They begin at the edge of the cemetery, on a loose dirt path that rests lazily between two rows of gravesites. The cracked facades of weather-worn marble show up crystal clear in their 4k cameras; even with the graying skies, Nadja will be running these shots through muted color palettes later. Barbara stands to the left, clad in a loose peach blouse draped with a white summer shawl, resting back on one heel and giving off the energy of someone who’s about to begin a well-known story she’s told a thousand times before. Laszlo stands to the right, his white button-down faintly damp with sweat - he never did do American summers well. Behind them, Guillermo is strapped into the stabilizer rig, an obscene monstrosity of a pseudo-backpack that keeps the camera steady. He adjusts the viewfinder on the lens, and gives a quick glance to Nandor, who has the boom mike wedged underneath his armpit; the boom isn’t very heavy, but wielding it deftly with one hand is still impressive. His other hand rests against the place where Guillermo’s shoulder blades meet, fingers pressed firmly into Guillermo’s shirt. Nadja stands behind them all, weighing the shot with a director’s eye and an editor’s sense of uncertainty about long takes.

“We can start,” Guillermo says, giving Laszlo a thumbs up.

“Perfect. Barbara, after you,” Laszlo says, motioning a hand towards the path and giving a little deferential bow to his interviewee. “Now, where shall we begin in terms of Coventry’s history?”

“The best place to start is back at the beginning.” Barbara starts up a stroll at the perfect pace, slow enough to allow for her to get out the whole tale, but fast enough to not be boring. Nadja suspects she’s had to give the same tour many times before. “Way back in the 1700s. Coventry was founded by some of the earliest settlers in the area of Essex County. The area we are in lies close to Lake Placid, a little ways from Mount Marcy, which is the highest elevation in the state of New York. The geography didn’t provide well for farming, but lumber and mining have been staple industries of the region for hundreds of years. There are extensive caving systems in the area, and most of our tourism comes from spelunkers.”

“Yes, we’ve heard that plenty of local wildlife tends to make their homes inside the caves,” Laszlo says. “People have also insisted that whomever or whatever is killing the townsfolk lives within the caves.”

Barbara shrugs. “Possible, but people have been exploring the systems for decades, and I’ve yet to hear of anyone meeting their demise within them due to some mysterious creature. We’ve had one or two cavers die by their own stupidity, getting stuck in little passageways and the like. But nothing supernatural. Some folks want a tale like that silly horror movie about the cave vampires, and they’re disappointed when I tell them there’s just no evidence for it.”

“You mean The Descent? Fantastic film, and I can see the connection.” Laszlo nods. “That’s the geography, but what about the town itself?”

“Well, the first settlers were about a dozen family groups, led by a man named Johann Albrecht. He was a German immigrant who came sometime in the 1730s. The families were all Lutherans who had come over as redemptioners - they agreed to work for a period of four to seven years in exchange for free passage to America for themselves and family overseas. Once their contracts were up, they were free to go where they wanted, and the group left New York City in the late 1740s to come upstate to ‘uninhabited’ land for settlement.” Barbara makes air quotes around the word uninhabited.

“Of course, there were local indigenous tribes already living here,” Laszlo agrees.

“Yes. They got along decently; the Germans were smart enough to keep to themselves, though sometimes they would offer trades. One of the Iroquois tribes in the area actually came to their assistance after the earthquake.”

“Tell us about the earthquake - it seems like the inciting incident for how this all began.”

They’ve made a long headway down the trail, and Nadja gives Nandor a little hand signal to indicate that they should begin picking up the pace. Nandor nods back, his fingers digging gently into Guillermo’s spine and urging him to the side. Guillermo goes easily with him, maneuvering the equipment with a surprising deftness, his usual nervous demeanor having vanished. There’s a look in his eye, a single-minded focus on the shot, leaning into Nandor’s touch as if the trust between them has had ages to percolate, as if he can be comfortable in concentrating on the task at hand because there’s another steady hand guiding his motions.

It’s... unexpected. It gives Nadja pause, makes her wonder if she’s been too cautious in her assessment of their relationship.

“So, April 2nd, 1763,” Barbara says, coming to a halt next to an ancient crypt, the largest and oldest looking in the cemetery. The stone building stands out among the headstones, about seven feet high, five feet wide, and the double iron doors are solid and locked with a large padlock. Little white flowers that look like upside down bells sprout around the edges of the crypt. Above the archstone, hewn into the rock, is the name ALBRECHT. Barbara continues, “A massive earthquake hits the region; it’s estimated to be a 7.2 on the Richter scale, based on records of what kind of damage the quake did to buildings. Now, this happens on a Friday afternoon, the Friday before Easter, so anyone in the town is going to be at the Good Friday mass. About fifteen or twenty of the townsfolk have gone down to the Iroquois settlement for trade that morning, and when the quake hits, the mountain road is destroyed. It takes them three days to get back to Coventry. When they arrive, the town is completely silent. Half the buildings have collapsed. And at the center of town, the large church where they worship has been burned to the ground.”

Barbara turns to the doors of the crypt and fishes out a key, pushing it into the padlock. The doors squeal and creak as she pulls them open, musty air from within the crypt flowing out, the scent of decay hitting Nadja’s nose.

“If you’d like, we can go inside, and I’ll finish the story there? Usually it adds a little bit of ambiance when I do this with other tours.”

“Magnificent,” Laszlo says. “Shall we?”

Nadja takes a step forward, but comes up short as Guillermo blocks her way, failing to move forward. Her momentary aggravation is redirected when she realizes that Nandor has shifted his hand to dig into Guillermo’s shoulder, keeping him still. The look on Nandor’s face is disquieted. Unsettled.

“What?” Guillermo asks.

“I said, I do not think we should go down there,” Nandor says, eyes shifting between Guillermo and Nadja.

“Why the fuck not?” Nadja has gotten used to Nandor’s moping, morose expressions, but this is different. His body is ramrod straight, a sharp line of tension flowing through his form. Like something about the situation frightens him. And though she could stop to consider why, it’s getting in the way of their shoot. “We don’t have time for whatever bloody nonsense this is. Move your ass.”

“I would prefer not to,” Nandor insists.

“Nadja.” Guillermo takes his hands off the camera, reaching over to gently tug the boom mic out of Nandor’s hands. “You can do sound tech, right? If Nandor wants to stay out here, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“...Fine,” Nadja growls, ignoring the palpable relief on Nandor’s face as she takes the mic from Guillermo. “If you’re going to be a giant baby about the whole thing, give Colin Robinson a call and tell him we’ll be heading back within the next hour.”

“I can do that,” Nandor says. He glances over to Guillermo and gives him a toothy little smile. “Thank you,” he says, softly.

Guillermo smiles back.

Nadja avoids the urge to vomit.

Down they go into the crypt. Sometime in the last century, little LED lights were installed along the floor, lighting their path down a flight of stairs that leads into a large, round antechamber. The walls of the chamber are smooth as glass, the floor a crisscross of broken square stones. There’s an elevated dais in the very center of the chamber, atop which lies a large stone coffin, mounted on a stone platform and layered in a fine dust. Three other stone coffins sit back against the walls, forming a triangular shape around the central one: one slightly smaller, and two very small ones, no more than a child’s length.

Barbara and Laszlo stand on the dais as Guillermo and Nadja shoot them from the front, the large coffin looming in the background. Barbara motions one hand around the space, and continues her story. “This is the grave of Johann Albrecht, his wife Lina, and their children, Emilia and Sebastian. Their bodies were recovered from the church fire, along with every single other townsperson who remained in Coventry on that fateful day. Based on the disturbed ground around the church site, the tall piles of gravel and rock, it was presumed that the earthquake both began the fire and trapped the people within the building. Forensic technology was non-existent back then, so of course, we can’t be certain. But no one survived who could tell us more.”

“Half the town was wiped out in a single incident.” Laszlo shakes his head, resting a hand on the coffin. “Truly tragic. Yet they did not abandon the place?”

“They chose to rebuild,” Barbara affirms. “Coventry had been their home for going on a decade and a half. Better to salvage what they could.”

“Alright, so we’ve lost half the town in a community that has never had a murder before. Barely a violent incident. That changes after the earthquake.”

“Yes. Many of the people who died were wives and children, and the grieving men of the town started growing more hostile towards one another. Fights broke out. They were still searching for bodies weeks after the fire; imagine pulling your dead child out of the rubble. It was all very nasty.

“Now, one of the few families to survive was the Schmidt family. The father, Uwe, was a stonemason and helped build most of the structures in town. He was also close friends with Johann; Albrecht was the one to pay his family’s passage over to the Americas. There’s actually speculation on how close that relationship became.”

“Are you implying what I think you’re implying?” Laszlo queries. He gives a long look at the camera, raises his eyebrow, lip quirking in the slightest of smiles.

“Speculation,” Barbara repeats. “Anyway, Uwe was adamant that they construct the very crypt that we’re standing in, to honor the memory of his late friend. Most of the masonry here is his doing. When the bodies of the Albrecht family were found, he insisted they be kept in his cellar until the crypt was ready, to slow decomposition. He chose this location for the cemetery because there was already a small cavern in the ground here. Made the whole job easier. So, when the crypt was finished, they interred the bodies in a small ceremony, and that was the last night anyone saw Uwe alive.”

“What happened?”

“His wife said he’d gone out that night after the ceremony, and never came back. When they opened the crypt, they found him slumped at the foot of the coffin, his throat torn out.”

From a distance, Nadja stares at the tiny square crosses hewn into the lid of the coffin, dark specks in the grooves of the stone. Perhaps just some dirt, perhaps something more sinister. But that would make no sense, it was hundreds of years ago...

She shivers, and swears she feels a chill wind ghost across her cheek.

“This is where the start of the vampire legend begins, isn’t it?” Laszlo taps twice on the lid of the coffin. “They thought Uwe had been hiding something, keeping Albrecht’s bodies in his house. Some kind of sinister ritual to bring his friend back to life.”

Barbara nods. “Uwe had become distant from many of his friends and family after the earthquake. When the idea of an unholy resurrection got around town, they uninterred the bodies of the whole Albrecht family. The thing was, they were all still as badly decomposed as when they’d gone into the tombs, but the townsfolk didn’t want to take any chances. A pyre was constructed, and the bodies were all burned to ash. All of these coffins are empty.”

“Fascinating.” Laszlo motions back towards the door. “Let’s finish this up outside - oh, Gizmo, stay back get some B-roll from in here.”

“...By myself?” Guillermo asks, looking as nervous at the idea as Nandor had at going in.

Nadja rolls her eyes. Leave it to the menfolk of their group to be the fraidy cats. “I’ll stay, get some audio. A place like this, we might get some spooky sounds to layer over other shots.”

The crypt has some overhead lighting in the antechamber, but there are still corners too dark to capture properly without the help of the light Guillermo has fitted to the rig. As he moves about the space, Nadja stands at the center, back to the coffin, hoisting the boom mic.

“Guillermo, stop moving for a second,” Nadja orders. His soft-soled shoes still on the stone floor as she closes her eyes, slowing her breaths, and listens.

Air. There’s air flowing. Probably from the wind picking up outside. And... water dripping. Also probably from the clouds finally giving up their rain.

She sighs, opening her eyes. “Pointless.”

Guillermo steps up onto the dais and approaches the coffin. He rests a hand against the lip of the lid and gives a little shove - it doesn’t budge. “Probably took four men to lift this thing,” he comments idly, glancing at Nadja. “You think we could get some shots of the inside if we asked nicely?”

Nadja raises an eyebrow. “Who do you think is opening this among our crew? Nandor’s the strongest one and even he couldn’t move it.”

“He does have some big arms,” Guillermo mutters, drawing his fingers across the edge, where the lid meets the casket. Suddenly, he winces and snatches his hand back. “Shit.”

“What is it?”

He turns over his hand, and Nadja catches sight of a small jagged point on the lip of the lid, the stone glistening with shiny red. A small piece of the edge must have broken off sometime in the past. There’s red welling on the tip of Guillermo’s thumb as well, and he stares at it, then darts his tongue out between his teeth, lifting his finger as if he’s going to lick it clean.

She smacks his hand away. “What are you doing? You have no idea what kind of bacteria is on that thing. We have a bloody first aid kit for a reason!” Scowling, she grabs his wrist and tugs him towards the stairs. “Idiot. Let’s go.”

Nandor is standing just outside the doorway, a look of relief blooming on his face when he sees them coming out. “I spoke with Colin Robinson. He said the storms will be arriving shortly, and if we have not finished by now, we need to pack it in and shoot the rest of Mrs. Lazarro’s interview somewhere indoors.”

“I thought the rain had already started...” She shakes her head, yanking Guillermo forward and lifting his hand up for Nandor to see the bloodied thumb. “Go get the first aid kit before he tries to lick it again. And get that mother-hen look off your face, it’s just a damned scratch!”

“I am an actual adult, you know,” Guillermo says, as Nandor ushers him away. “Like, I pay taxes and everything!”

“And yet I find myself needing to treat you like a toddler!” Nadja calls back.

She turns her face towards the sky when she hears the first crackle of thunder. There’s a clear view beyond the graveyard that lets her see for miles over the mountains. In the distance, a literal wall of rain falls from a darkened cluster of clouds, growing perceptibly closer. The sight is so stunningly uncommon for a city dweller such as herself, that she stays by the door of the crypt, admiring the power of nature for a brief moment.

A hundred feet away, Laszlo and Barbara are chatting by some gravestones near the cemetery entrance. Beyond them, Nandor is gently pushing Guillermo to sit on the edge of the van trunk as he unlocks the top of the first aid kit. Guillermo is waving his uninjured hand enthusiastically and yelling about something, and whatever he says, it causes Nandor to let out a burst of laughter, and shake his head.

There is no one nearby. No reason for her to sense another person.

And yet, she feels a presence.

Nadja learned from an old science teacher of hers once that, in actuality, human senses cannot be simplified down to the basic five. Sight, sound, touch, taste and smell. These are the most obvious ones. But there are more primal ones, even beyond those. Instincts, awareness of the space around you.

In the dark of a winter’s night, you may not be able to see the wolf, or hear its padding footsteps, or feel the brush of its fur against your skin, or smell its earthy musk, or taste its flesh against your tongue. But if you want to live, you must know the wolf is there, before any of those senses can activate.

Before it can make its move.

Nadja’s back is to the crypt. It takes half a second for that deep, primal activation of fight or flight, and she spins around to see-

Nothing. Just darkness.

A wall of darkness.

And the light from the LEDs - and anything beyond it - completely vanishes when it hits that wall.

Nadja reaches forward and slams the doors of the crypt shut, jamming the padlock closed. She stumbles back, panting. She can feel an animalistic fear crawling up her spine, and she takes several further steps back, eyes locked to the door.

Nothing happens.

She doesn’t understand what she just saw. The light should’ve gone beyond that inky blackness, brightened the rest of the stairwell, but it almost seemed absorbed by it, in a way that is neither natural nor physically possible.

Her heart jumps into her throat as she hears a loud cry, but it’s only her name, and she turns to see Laszlo jogging over to her. “Darling? Are you alright?”

As soon as he’s close, she grabs his arm and pulls him right back in the direction he came from.

“I am fine!” she lies, glancing back over her shoulder. The crypt door remains closed, no sign of anything trying to get out. “Just getting the creeps from this place. Let’s head out.”

It was a trick of the light. Nothing more. Of course her brain latched onto an unnatural explanation when she couldn’t immediately rationalize what she was seeing.

Anything to suggest otherwise...

No. Just silly ghost stories.

That’s all.

Chapter Text

July 12th, 2022

8:03pm

“That will be fifty-seven sixty three. Please pull around to the second window. ”

Guillermo leans back into the passenger seat of the van, fiddling with the crew credit card as he considers how to convince Colin Robinson it would be in their best interest to revise his “cheapest possible food” stance for the duration of the shoot. A week straight of Wendy’s drive thru runs sounds like it will eventually lead to mutiny. It doesn’t matter that they have the best French fries of all the major fast food chains. Even Frosties can get old by day four.

In the driver’s seat, Nadja shakily maneuvers the wheel and stick shift, the van galloping in shuddering starts as they drive around the side of the building, coming to a stop behind three other vehicles. She’d said she could drive stick, but is clearly less practiced at the task than Laszlo. 

Outside, rain pelts the hood of the van in a steady beat, drumming in inconsistent splatters against the thin sheet metal. It’s an unpleasant night to be on the road, but necessary to their operation; the two of them are picking up food for the rest of the crew. Guillermo was dragged along to be the man carrying the bags. He’d expected Nadja to take Laszlo or Nandor, but the former is on a Zoom call with Colin Robinson and some studio executives Guillermo has never met, and the latter came down with a mysterious ‘stomach issue’ when Nadja had asked for his help. 

So. Here Guillermo is. Stuck inside a poorly-soundproofed vehicle, the driver next to him mumbling death threats to the three cars ahead under her breath. As long as she isn’t directing them towards Guillermo, he has no complaints.

After the cemetery, they’d decided to cut the interview short, and made an appointment with Barbara to visit the archives tomorrow afternoon. This would give Mrs. Lazarro more time to gather historical artifacts related to the killings; she’d promised plenty of juicy material for perusal. She was also concerned that, if they continued today, their meeting was going to run into her 6pm yoga class. 

Never get between an aging white woman and her yoga class.

They parted from Barbara and headed back to the hotel, Laszlo dismissing them for the next two hours. Guillermo got a 45 minute nap, passed out face first on his queen bed while Nandor watched low-volume TV and played some kind of horse-raising sim game on his phone. When he woke up, his body felt well rested, and he blinked his eyes open to find Nandor watching him quietly. It had only been a moment; the other man quickly looked away once he realized he’d been caught, mumbling something about making sure he was still alive over there.

Whatever the reason, it left something warm and fuzzy in Guillermo’s chest, and it’s been sitting there ever since.

“Come the fuck on, why is no one moving! This is why I hate the sticks, no sense of urgency...” Nadja taps three fingers in a steady rhythm against the steering wheel, watching a group of teenagers bolt from the restaurant doors towards their cars, jackets held over their heads, laughing carefree as they try to escape the rain. “Oh, by the way. You’d better make sure Nandor takes a lactose pill, even if we left the cheese off his burger. I’ve slept in the same room as him, his night farts could kill a full-sized human.”

“Can’t be worse than my uncle Miguel,” Guillermo comments. “My tia Maria kept bulk size antacids and bottles of Beano in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Couldn’t even fit them in the medicine cabinet.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Guillermo’s been working up the courage to broach a certain subject with someone on the crew, and while Nadja isn’t his first choice - the order goes: Nandor, Nadja, and Laszlo, from most to least likely to give him a truthful explanation - she’s at least in a semi-amicable mood right now. And present. That’s always important.

Nadja sighs. “Since we are in line at the slowest Wendy’s on the fucking planet! Then sure, why not. I need something to distract me.”

She’s actually going to indulge him? Wow, she must really be bored. Pulling conversation from her in the past has been like pulling teeth. “Okay. I don’t know if there’s a better way to say this, but... Nandor said you were his best friend, but you’re always fighting, and you seem extremely angry at him. Why?”

“Are you a fucking therapist or something?” Nadja scowls, smacking a hand on the wheel and glaring at the car in front of them. “Let me guess, your parents argued constantly when you were a child and now you’re uncomfortable with conflict.”

“Ouch? Who’s the therapist now...”

“Nandor is my best friend. He is also a donkey-brained idiot. These are not mutually exclusive traits.”

“Sure, but you strike me as a woman who doesn’t tend to suffer idiots. At least, not if you weren’t already friends with them when they started being idiots.”

“What are you implying?”

“You had a falling out, right? And now you’re all working together again. If you’d hashed out all the things that drove you apart, I don’t think you’d be so mad at him. So what’s the deal?”

The car at the drive-thru window finally moves, allowing them to pull up closer. Nadja is silent as she jerks the van forward, her mouth a thin line. The only sound is the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers. Guillermo wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the vehicle. It’s a twenty minute walk back to the hotel, and he’s not looking forward to doing it in the pouring rain. Does anyone in this town drive Uber? Maybe she’ll be merciful and just shove him into the trunk.

“...Nandor was not himself before our falling out,” Nadja says, quietly, as if admitting this threatens to strain the fabric of spacetime itself. “He was becoming less sure of himself, isolating. I did not like to see it. Laszlo did not either. We tried to convince him to- to change a certain something in his life, but he did not respond well. He was too far gone by that point. Maybe if we’d intervened earlier, or maybe if we had not been so wrapped up in our own lives to see that he felt excluded...”

“You were worried about him,” Guillermo realizes.

She neither confirms nor denies this - which is as good of a confirmation as any. “Many things were said that night, when we fought. Things I have not forgiven him for, and he has not apologized for. I do not like feeling that way. I do not like seeing my husband that way. So yes, I am still angry with him.”

Guillermo feels the energy in the vehicle shift as Nadja turns to face him fully, the icy look in her eyes dropping the temperature twenty degrees in the van.

“Now, I am tolerating these questions because, for some reason, that little manchild seems to have taken a shine to you. But understand something.” She jabs a nail into his chest. “If you fuck this up for Laszlo in any way, you will come to regret it, deeply. I do not understand what got into his head to hire a baby out of film school for a million dollar studio project, but my job is to make sure his asinine decisions don’t tank his ambitions. So I will be watching you, very closely. Very closely .” She leans in for emphasis. “And if I see you becoming a liability, I will ensure you are on a bus back to New York before the end of the day. Do. You. Understand. Me?”

Guillermo gives her a slow nod, swallowing down the tight knot that’s forming in his chest. It’s not that he thought himself worthy of being anywhere near this shoot, but to have it confirmed... Well, that’s one way to make him feel shittier about himself. Clearly, Nadja is the sensible one of the couple. Guillermo has somehow managed to fool Laszlo and Nandor about his competency, but at least Nadja knows what she’s doing. 

He admires her honesty, at least.

Nadja apparently isn’t finished. “The same goes for Nandor. Break his heart, and I will break you .”

Okay, that one, he wasn’t expecting. 

He blinks, stammering out, “I don’t- we’re not-”

“You think I am stupid, Guillermo?”

“What? No!”

“Then why are you trying to lie to me?”

“I’m not! Nadja, I- I really just think you’re reading into things more than has actually-”

“ No .” Nadja jabs her nail even harder into his sternum, and he lets out a little grunt of pain as it digs into his skin. “I know what it looks like when Nandor likes someone, and I also know what happens when he gets taken advantage of. You have something very precious in your hands right now, so I suggest you take care of it.” She hesitates, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of doubt in her features. “Maybe you can give him something we can’t.”

She turns away, shifting back into gear as they finally come to the front of the line. Guillermo looks down at his hands in his lap, clenched tightly, and relaxes his grip. Takes a deep breath, tries to push the nervous tension out of his body. Fails. Discreetly, he dips two fingers into his pocket, tugs out the little pill he squirreled away earlier, and when Nadja gives him his drink, slips it between his lips to swallow. Then he closes his eyes and waits for it to take effect.

Nadja’s just given him far too much to think about. Still more questions than answers, but he’d rather have more knowledge without context than no knowledge at all. What she said though, doesn't make sense. What could he possibly do for Nandor that Nadja and Laszlo couldn’t?

You know exactly what , his traitorous mind supplies, and he clenches his fists again. If you weren’t such a coward, you’d tell him.

No, that’s not fair. Nandor is clearly hurting, and if he’s clinging to an unstable mess like Guillermo, that’s only because his relationship with Nadja and Laszlo is still fucked up. Give it time, and they’ll probably get back to normal. Then Nandor will realize how little capacity Guillermo has for managing his own shit, much less another person’s. He can’t even have an uncomfortable conversation with a coworker without resorting to medication to ease his nerves. 

Really, Guillermo would be taking advantage of Nandor if he gave into that impulse. He’d be focusing on his own selfish need to be wanted, to feel desired, even if it’s to the detriment of the other person. It’s for Nandor’s own well being that Guillermo doesn’t say anything.

It’s hard to get the voice yelling that he’s a coward out of his head, but when the meds kick in, they do it for him.

The rain has kicked up to a pounding storm by the time they drive away, the clouds overhead casting the world around them into a deeper night than would usually be seen at this time of day during this time of year. Nadja flicks the wipers up to full gear, muttering something about hating driving in storms. As if Guillermo can really help her with that. The radio is sputtering static, the weather probably interfering with the signal of the last New York City area station they managed to find.

“Find us a different channel, would you?” Nadja says. “That is highly distracting.”

Guillermo reaches out, idly twisting the knob and listening to the static rise and fall, ticking over into faint hints of other stations, but nothing substantial. “We might be out of luck,” he says, pulling his hand back.

The sudden squeal of the audio is deafening, filling the space with a painful high-pitch that makes Guillermo wince and slap his hands over his ears.

“Turn that fucking thing off!” Nadja yells over the din.

Guillermo lunges for the knob, slapping it down into the off position. 

What should silence the radio completely has no effect.

“It’s not working!” Guillermo yells back.

Nadja turns her eyes from the road for a brief moment to stare at him. “What do you mean it’s not working-”

“BRAKE! ” Guillermo screams, as a large moving object swoops in front of the vehicle, a looming shadow at the edge of the headlights.

Nadja slams on the brake, and Guillermo finds himself whipped forward, the food bags flying out of his lap and splattering against the dash, then whipped again to the side and into the door as the vehicle hydroplanes, skidding sideways on the road. 

He can feel the moment two of the wheels on the left side leave the ground, and he knows they’re going to flip over, knows without a doubt they’re about to become paste on the pavement, the consistency of the chili in Laszlo’s order. 

His shriek is not a conscious thing, but something deep in the primal brain that happens at the moment of impending doom.

Then the wheels touch ground again, a loud, heaving sound as the old vehicle creaks dangerously. Nadja turns the wheel into the skid, foot coming off the brake, and only when the tires catch the pavement again does she bring them to a stop, turning a complete 180 on the road.

It’s silent inside the vehicle, that’s the first thing he realizes. No more squealing noise. The freezing cold of spilled soda soaking into his lap only registers a few seconds later. 

“Jesus Christ!” he pants, hands clinging to the armrest and the handle of the door respectively. “Fuck!”

“What the shit was that?” Nadja’s hands are clenched around the wheel, and she’s looking a little shaky. “I didn’t get a good look- with the rain-”

“Did we hit it?” From his position in the van, he can’t see any signs of damage at the front of the vehicle; no obvious dents or stains, though the rain is obscuring his view. He looks out the rear-view mirror, but sees nothing behind them.

They’re on a stretch of road that’s a little ways into the woody areas of the town; surrounded by tall trees, no houses or buildings, but not more than a quarter mile from the nearest neighborhood. The hydroplane spin sent them onto the shoulder, out of the line of traffic, the woods on Guillermo’s side of the vehicle. 

“What are you doing?” Nadja asks when Guillermo starts to open his door. “Are you stupid? We have no idea what that was, it could’ve been a bear, or a panther, or- or-”

“Or a person?” Guillermo raises an eyebrow. “If it’s a person, they might need help. You can stay in the van if you want.”

When challenged to remain and let Guillermo be the brave explorer, Nadja scowls and grabs her black hoodie out of the backseat, zipping it on and pulling the hood up. Mournfully, Guillermo isn’t as smart, and he’s only in a T-shirt. Well, it’s only a little rain, after all.

They dig out the two flashlights in the glove compartment and step outside, coming around to the front to check the bumper. Clean, no dents. Guillermo turns and sweeps the pavement with the beam of his flashlight; they’ve gone past the place where the shape moved across the road, so if they did hit something - or someone - it should be nearby. But the light doesn’t reveal anything besides trees and pavement.

“Hello?” Nadja calls out. “Is a human and not a bear somewhere out here?”

Nothing answers. There is only the steady beat of the rain.

Even with the stillness, the hairs on the back of Guillermo’s neck are starting to stand up. It’s the feeling of being watched, a sixth sense of another presence nearby. And he doesn’t think it’s just Nadja he’s reacting to.

He swipes his hand across the lenses of his glasses to try and clear off the water, and when he pulls his fingers away, he swears he sees something... shift in the tree line.

“We should go,” Guillermo says, that sour fear taste in the back of his throat. “Nadja, we should-”

“Then get in the bloody van!” she snaps.

They slam their doors shut at the same time, and Nadja immediately puts the van into drive, shuttling them away as Guillermo digs a handful of napkins out of the crushed bags of food so he can wipe his glasses and face off. Inspecting the bags, it looks like most of the orders (minus Laszlo’s chili) made it through the almost-crash, but they’ll be feeding quarters into the drink machines outside the motel for the rest of the night.

Guillermo rubs his right arm, feeling the start of a bruise forming on his shoulder where it hit the door. “You alright?” he asks, because even if Nadja doesn’t like him very much, they just went through a kind of traumatic thing together, and she’s as human as he is.

“Fine,” she answers in a clipped tone. She glances at him briefly. “You as well? You hit the door pretty hard.”

“Shoulder, not head.” He flexes his arm, twisting it in every way he can think of; there’s an ache, but no sharp pain. “Don’t think I broke anything. I’ll still be able to hold the camera, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I wasn’t!” If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think she was offended at the suggestion she was asking for some other reason besides his well-being. Frowning, she shifts the gear into 2nd. “I have plastic sandwich bags in my travel bag, you can get ice from the ice machine and make a cold pack.”

“...Thanks.”

~

9:34pm

“You are just picking up injuries this trip, aren’t you, Guillermo?”

Guillermo rests back against the pillows of his motel bed, pressing his makeshift ice pack against his arm. Beside him, Nandor has decided that Guillermo’s bed is a suitable place to sit and play his phone game, cross-legged. Their knees are almost touching. Guillermo feels a normal amount of emotions about this.

“I said I was accident-prone. I almost fell off the GW once.”

“You willingly walked to New Jersey? Fucking lunatic.”

Guillermo grins, shoving his shoulder playfully. “I have family over there, you know. It’s not all rich Republicans and Bruce Springsteen fans.”

“Ehhhh, sounds fake.” Nandor wavers his hand side to side. Guillermo hears the tiny whinny of an 8-bit horse through the tinny phone speaker. “Ah, Maribel is ready to give birth.”

“The target demographic for that game is 9 to 14 year old girls, you know.”

“You have your ways of dealing with stress, and I have mine.”

Guillermo frowns. “Who said I was stressed?”

Nandor snorts. “You are a twenty-five year old fresh out of film school on your first major studio shoot. If you were not stressed, I’d be concerned I accidentally hired a sociopath.”

“I can manage it,” Guillermo grumbles.

Nandor glances up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Did I say you could not?”

Okay. Fair point.

“You seem a lot more confident in me than some of our other crewmates,” Guillermo points out, not wanting to seem like he’s complaining, but also definitely complaining.

“If you are talking about Nadja, she questions Laszlo’s competency on most days, much less a man she has barely known for a few months.” Nandor frowns down at his phone, tapping rapidly. “This stupid fucking mini-game... I better get a good foal color out of this.”

“And what about Laszlo?”

“Laszlo trusts my assessment. Maybe not in all things, but in finding talent, yes.”

“But not in all things.”

Nandor gives a grunt of affirmation, then throws himself semi-dramatically back against the pillows, sighing. “Another brown mare, fantastic. When will you give up your gold-colored horses, Dream Diamond Stable - what? Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing! Nothing,” Guillermo says, except that getting the wrong color pony is such an absurd thing to be mad about, and Nandor’s pout might be the cutest possible expression he can make, and Guillermo would really like to- well. Do something that would jeopardize his job, probably. It’s been a while since he’s found himself drawn to another person in the way he’s drawn to Nandor. Certainly nobody at college held his attention for so long, with such intensity. Not that Guillermo didn’t have some fun at school, but... nobody there could get him to give a shit about a children’s horse game.

Nandor rises as dramatically as he fell, sweeping around the bed and rummaging through his suitcase on the table. “How bad is the water pressure in the shower?” he asks, tugging a white t-shirt and black cargo shorts out of the bag.

“Somewhere between a Ramada Inn and a Hilton,” Guillermo comments. He licks his lips, the salt from his french fries a reminder that his throat is very dry right now. “I’m gonna go get a drink from the machines. You want anything?”

“Water is fine,” Nandor replies. “Maybe if you bring enough bottles back, I can dump them over my head and have a real shower.”

“You convince Colin Robinson to let us bill for that, and I will.”

Outside, the night is quiet, the rain having turned to a gentle patter over the course of a few hours. Guillermo’s boots crunch loudly in the parking lot gravel as he makes his way towards the little alley between the two halves of the motel, the buildings connected by the flimsy metal roof that covers the space. Several vending machines and an ice machine huddle towards the center, and there’s even a genuine pay phone still hooked up, with a phonebook from 2007, if Guillermo’s quick, curious skim is accurate. The back side of the alley leads to a small patio space, some chairs and tables set up for guests who want a place to smoke, and beyond that is the wide field that sits between them and the tree line.

Guillermo fishes his wallet out, humming an old Broadway standard under his breath as he plucks two single dollar bills from the leather pouch. If he was back in Brooklyn, he’d probably need another seventy-five cents to get a single bottle for himself, but small town prices mean the drinks in the machine are a dollar each. Not everything is better in the city. Just most of the things Guillermo cares about, like wifi and non-discrimination laws.

The machine is picky about taking his money, but after he rubs each dollar against the edge of the machine to smooth it out, they are successfully registered as regular American currency, and two bottles - Dasani and Cherry Coke Zero - thud their way down the exit tube in succession. Being in no rush, Guillermo tucks Nandor’s water under his arm and uncaps the Coke, strolling lazily towards the back patio.

The moon is waning, casting a fuzzy bluish light over the grassy field. The sky twinkles with more dots of light than Guillermo is used to seeing in the smog-choked atmosphere above the city. He can hear insects chirping, owls hooting, the occasional rustle of wind moving through the trees. 

Ahhh, nature. As a concept? High praise. As a factual reality? Guillermo is mosquito catnip and tends to stay indoors during the summer months. 

Still, the stars are nice to look at, and the quiet isn’t all bad.

He raises the Coke bottle to his lips, tipping it up and taking three large gulps, the cold liquid instantly washing away the dry salty residue of french fry breath. The top of the bottle blocks his sight for a moment, but when he lowers it, there’s some new shape in the distance. Indistinct, a shadowy round lump underneath a tree two hundred feet away. It becomes less of a lump very quickly, rising like a snake, vaguely humanoid but far too tall.

When it disappears into the tall grass, the hairs on the back of Guillermo’s neck stand up.

He fights the instinct to turn tail and run, instead forcing himself to keep his eyes on the grass, body facing the tree line as he takes rapid steps backwards, past the drink machines, the payphone, all the way to the end of the alley, where the bright overhead lights of the motel sign cast the wet gravel in a shiny red hue. He can hear a rustle in the grass, and feel his heart pounding out of his chest, free hand digging into his pocket for anything that could serve as a weapon. An odd heat tingles in his muscles, goosebumps raising on his skin.

There’s a moment of stillness. Nothing emerges from the grass.

Guillermo takes a sharp, tentative breath.

Then the lights above the patio flicker off.

And at the back of the alley, where he was standing not ten seconds ago, by himself, something moves .

Guillermo runs. Boots slamming into the ground, he takes off like a gazelle on the savannah, leaping up onto the wooden walkway that lines the front of his half of the motel. His breath comes in shuddered gasps, and the sound of his feet thudding on the creaky boards makes it impossible to hear if anything is following him. If he looks back- no, he can’t look back, don’t look back, just run, Guillermo, run !

It’s maybe forty feet to his room. He covers the distance in a few seconds, even though it feels like an eternity, like time has slowed to a near halt. He grabs the door handle and wrenches it to the right, praying it opens.

And bless his past self, it opens freely. He bursts through the door, slamming it shut behind himself, and immediately twists the lock on the knob. Then he slaps the privacy lock closed as a secondary measure.

He backs away from the door, panting, listening for any noises from outside. The loudest thing he can hear is his heart pounding in his chest. It’s so loud, it needs to be quiet, what if whatever was looking for him out there can hear it?

“Guillermo?”

He does not shriek when he hears his name being called, he does not, because shrieking is what children and wild animals do. He might spin around, clutching the two drink bottles to his chest, eyes wide, breath heaving. But the noise that emerges from his throat is not a shriek, and he will go to the grave insisting as such.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Nandor asks, standing at the door of the bathroom, bare-chested, a big brown towel around his waist. His hair is dripping water onto the carpet, not even a little bit dried, as if he’s just rushed out of the shower. He definitely just rushed out of the shower. Shit. Nandor continues, “I heard slamming.”

“Saw something,” Guillermo says, slowly lowering the drink bottles and trying to keep his thoughts rated PG-13 at most as he stares at Nandor’s chest. God he’s… broad and hairy and if Guillermo put his hands on that chest he bets it’d probably be very, very firm - His emotions start flipping rapid-fire between horny and scared, and as his brain helpfully supplies the memetic reference, he says, “It- it was big. Looked kind of human-shaped but... wrong.”

Nandor’s expression goes from concern to confusion as he registers what Guillermo is saying. “You saw a human-shaped thing? Was this human-shaped thing possibly... a human?”

“No, you don’t understand- I was by myself, on the patio, and then something was coming at me through the grass, and when I backed up, there was suddenly something else on the patio that looked... human-shaped.”

“Like a... human. Who is also staying at the motel and wanting to use the patio.”

“Nandor,” Guillermo says, feeling a little hysterical. “You’re not getting it. If it was a human, I’d say it was a human. This thing was like, human-adjacent. Somewhere in the family tree, but not the same branch.”

“Guillermo,” Nandor says, looking a little exasperated. “Are you sure you are not letting the local legends get to your head? It feels like if something is human-shaped in a place where there are many humans, the most likely explanation is-”

“Look, I know, alright?” Guillermo glances back at the door. Listens, still hears nothing. 

Maybe... maybe Nandor is right. In fact, there’s like, a ninety-five percent chance that he is. Guillermo is tired, and after the almost-crash earlier this evening, he’s on edge.

“Do you want me to go check?” Nandor asks, stepping towards him. “I am a pretty big guy, and if someone is trying to scare you, they may reconsider if they see me.”

Guillermo shakes his head rapidly. “I don’t want you going out there,” he says, the idea of sending Nandor out into the night to check for some kind of possible danger activating his internal alarm bells.

Nandor regards him for a long moment, and then turns, moving to the window. He yanks the yellowing, moth-eaten drapery aside, squinting out into the night.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for the scary monster that chased you in here. Oh, I see something on the patio-! Wait. No, those are just little bunny rabbits.”

“You’re patronizing me.”

“Maybe a little.” Nandor glances back, a wry smile peeking at the edge of his mouth. “Do you want to come see the bunny rabbits? I don’t think they’re vicious killers, but they can be tricky creatures.”

“Fine, I get it. You don’t believe me.” Guillermo slouches onto his mattress, kicking his shoes off. “Sorry I interrupted your shower, you can go now.”

He feels so stupid. Nandor is absolutely right; there’s other guests at this hotel, and the logical explanation would be that one of them was just coming to get a drink, even if there aren’t any rooms on the backside of the motel, or anyone on the patio at this time of night. Stupid brain and stupid vampire stories and stupid anxiety. 

He always does this; always overreacts and makes himself look crazy over all these little silly worries. Maybe that’s why the number of people who signed his college yearbook could be counted off on one hand and still leave enough fingers to turn the pages. That’s why he has little half white, half-yellow tablets tucked into every suitcase and knapsack and jacket pocket he’s worn since he was 16, why his first and only boyfriend called him a “fucking psycho” when he ended up in the hospital with chest pains that he was so sure were a heart attack, until a doctor sat him down and gently explained what a panic attack was. Nadja is right; he’s a liability, he’s going to fuck it up like he always does and she should fire him and he’s not built for this and-

The bed dips as Nandor sits on the edge, shocking Guillermo out of his spiraling thoughts. The man looks unnervingly calm about his near nudity being all up in Guillermo’s Catholically-repressed face. He is holding Guillermo’s backpack, and he holds it out, like a peace offering. “Your little pills, they are in here?”

Guillermo flushes, taking the bag, any hopes of retaining his dignity dying an undignified death. “Yeah- but I took one a couple hours ago. Too soon.”

Nandor nods agreeably. “What else can we do, then?”

“We?”

“You are unnerved. I want to fix it.”

“Maybe put a shirt on first...” Guillermo sighs, making a fist and pressing it flush to his sternum, right over the spot where the tightness always builds. “Pressure right here helps. I’ve got a weighted blanket, but it’s back home. Grounding exercises too. My therapist always suggests I give someone a call; talking to someone about something completely unrelated is a good distraction, but there’s only so many times you can dial up the same two cousins before they stop answering.”

“That is all? Easy. One moment.” Nandor claps his hands together, then rises and disappears into the bathroom for a few minutes. 

Guillermo takes the opportunity to scoot up against the pillows, keeping his fist to his chest as he practices breathing exercises. It helps, but only slightly. Two frights in one night have left him frazzled.

When Nandor reemerges into the bedroom, he’s wearing an oversized maroon t-shirt, and his hair is pulled up into another loose bun that Guillermo aches to fix - but then, Nandor’s the one who wanted to do the fixing tonight. He settles on the bed next to Guillermo, pulling out his phone. “I am going to teach you everything there is to know about Dream Diamond Stable , and I want you to ask me many, many questions. Then we are going to put the app on your phone and I will send you a friend request, and give you all the requisite materials to upgrade you to the big barn. It’s a hassle to do by yourself.”

“...What exactly is this going to do for me?” Guillermo watches in fascination as a little pixel horse, the color of seafoam and speckled rocks, gallops across Nandor’s phone screen.

“You said you needed a distraction. This will be your distraction.”

“This feels like a blatant attempt to seduce someone else into your horse game addiction.”

“Oh ho ho! Someone with an embarrassing number of Disney DVDs is too good for a little G-rated fun?”

“Those are classic 90s movies! We studied some of them in my animation course. Besides, who doesn’t love Howard Ashman?”

“Would it make you feel better if we pretended this was a Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron simulator?”

“That’s a Dreamworks movie. And give me that,” Guillermo scowls, only it’s more like the scowl of an actor trying to read some cringe-worthy lines, unable to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up. He pulls Nandor’s phone out of his hand, only noticing how warm Nandor’s skin is from the shower a little bit, and taps on the big PLAY button on the app. “If I’m going to play this, I want the pick of any horses in your stable.”

“Not Jessica!”

“Even Jessica. Jessica, and Jamessica.”

The horrified look on Nandor’s face sends Guillermo into a laughing fit. It’s not the first burst of giggles he’ll have that evening, and it won’t be the last. After he reassures Nandor that he’s only joking, that he’s not going to steal Nandor’s beloved Jessica (or Jamessica), they spend the next two hours curled up like two 9 to 14 year old girls, playing this dumb little horse game, and at some point, Guillermo notices that tightness in his chest has faded, and he feels a sense of peace he so rarely accesses.

He doesn’t remember drifting off, only remembers stirring a while later as the mattress shifts and, a few moments later, the lights flick off. He can feel the weight and warmth of the comforter over his sleepy form, but doesn’t know how it got there.

Nandor’s low timbre beckons him, “ Sleep ,” and he does.

Chapter Text

July 12th, 2022

7:34pm

Derek Sandiford isn’t one for brilliance, according to the comments on most of his grade school report cards. His teachers found his laid back attitude, weird sense of humor, and eccentric taste in clothing to be annoyances more than interesting affectations, pigeonholing him as an impulsive collection of ADHD symptoms and adverse childhood experiences, lost to “negative influences” (aka Gucci Mane and Lil Nas X). 

Derek’s mostly gotten over the hang-ups this caused him, with time and an introduction to Ta-Nehisi Coates. He doesn’t think himself particularly brilliant, either, but there are three things that Derek Sandiford knows with perfect clarity:

1) Coventry is a place where the truth is less important than pleasant, reputation-saving fictions.

2) His father is probably insane.

3) He is in love with his lesbian best friend, and has been for years.

Derek takes these facts as the boundaries within which to develop his personal values, the only ones that make sense in the face of uncomfortable realities. Last summer there were more Blue Lives Matter flags on his block than Black families in the town, so he met Claude at the old factory, got super high, and they took turns smashing glass bottles with Derek’s dented metal baseball bat from his short-lived high school career. This week, his father had gotten into a shouting match with the Smith family at the Aldi’s on Westhampton, and on the drive home, instead of the same pointless arguments they used to have when Abraham got heated in public, Derek turned on his headphones and tuned out of reality for a while. This morning, Shanice had sent him a cute video of couples on a bridge somewhere in France, clipping heart-shaped locks to the railings covered in them. Derek tried not to read into the line of triple hearts that accompanied the message, texting back a very neutral We’ll have to check it out whenever we go!

Tonight, Derek is going to attempt to broach Knowledge Item #2, for two reasons. One, because for the last month and a half, his dad has spent most evenings in his office, preoccupied with the object Derek has come to know as The Corkboard. The Corkboard has been a staple of the household since Derek can remember. It is a literal corkboard, nailed to the office wall and covered in scraps of paper and red strings, a mess of information about the murders of Coventry townspeople over the centuries. Photos, newspaper clippings, obituaries, research articles, letters. Pepe Silva would blush at the way it screams conspiracy theorist .

There’s a new picture on The Corkboard, which leads into reason number two he’s going to talk with his dad: Nobody knows who killed Coco Henderson, but Jenna Feldstein has been dubbed suspect numero uno by the media at large. She is Shanice’s best friend, Derek’s good friend, and completely innocent. Derek supposes he can’t know that with a hundred percent certainty, except he’d be willing to add it as Knowledge Item #4, with even more confidence than Knowledge Item #2.

Abraham had told him not to respond to the email requesting an interview from Laszlo Cravensworth. Derek was initially shocked, because when did his dad not want an opportunity to scream from the rooftops about the murder of Derek’s grandfather, Solomon Sandiford, and Abraham’s conviction that he’d seen a true blue vampire standing over his father’s body when he discovered it some fifty years ago? It was the subject of weekly dinner table discussions when Derek’s mom still lived with them - before she’d realized Abraham’s obsession would forever taint his ability to be a good partner to her, and pulled up roots to move to Keene Valley. After she’d left, Derek was the one mostly subjected to his father’s regular rants: about Coventry’s police force, the cover-up of the truth, the way Abraham’s testimony had been dismissed as the ravings of a troubled teen.

Initially, Derek had agreed to ignore Mr. Cravensworth’s request. Happily; the less he had to talk about the unfortunate circumstances of his grandfather’s death and the subsequent damage his dad had done to the Sandiford name before Derek was even born, the better. But then he’d heard Jenna was going to be talking to them, and it piqued his interest.

“I feel like I should,” she had told him, voice hesitant, kicking dry grass tufts in the sand as they sat on the rickety swings in the park. “Maybe it’ll get people off my back for a while.”

“Take it from someone who’s spent his whole life as a media pariah by virtue of association,” Derek had suggested. “It’s not gonna help.”

She had shrugged, the look in her eyes one of someone with ulterior motives. “And I- I think I should do it for Coco too.”

“I thought you hated her,” Derek had pointed out. He had been two years senior to Jenna and Shanice at school, and so had escaped some of the cruelty meted out by Coco’s little gang of sycophants.

“People change,” she had replied, leaving it at that.

Now, Derek wonders if she meant Coco, herself, or both.

Derek doesn’t think her plan will work, not without help. It’s the reason he’s willing to stand at the door of his father’s office, hand pressed to the jamb as he watches Abraham fiddle with a new red string, pinning it to Coco’s picture and then pressing the other end into an article about the LaCroix murders in 1927. There are so many strings: definite connections between pieces of evidence that, in reality, probably have nothing to do with each other.

“Hey,” Derek says, “Can I talk to you?”

“Busy right now,” Abraham says, stepping back from the board and picking up one of the half-dozen notebooks off his desk. “This an emergency, or...?”

“So, look,” he says, thinking of the memorized mental script he’d prepared for this conversation. “I’m really worried about Jenna; Delmonico’s been up her ass for weeks, and she’s not the greatest at handling pressure.”

“He wants to solve the case; look like a big man in front of all the other piggies.” Abraham flicks the notebook open, scribbling something on a page that already looks stuffed with words. “You might not wanna come to the council meeting tomorrow; if he tries to smooth talk Barbara or John into increasing the police budget, it’s gonna get ugly.”

“We both know she didn’t do it, and I wanna help her. Don’t you?”

“Course I do. Why do you think I’ve been at this so hard lately?” He motions to The Corkboard. Derek bites his tongue to avoid a loud sigh, because of course his dad would think his fucking personal vendetta is helping.

“I think there’s a better way, though. Jenna talked to that film crew from New York this afternoon, and-”

“No.” Only now does Abraham bother to look at him, face set in hard lines. “I told you, that’s only inviting trouble.”

“Jenna said they were very nice,” Derek argues. This is only a little bit of a lie, because when he’d texted her How did it go? earlier, her reply was Good and nothing else. Making assumptions based on minimal evidence is a shared family talent. “But you know not a lot of people are gonna wanna talk to them. If they don’t interview anyone else who knows she’s innocent-”

“Derek, I said no, and I’m not changing my mind.”

“Why not?” His voice sounds petulant, reverting to the dynamic of an overbearing father and needling son that cropped up in the years after his mom left, and that Derek’s been trying really hard to break - online therapy has been a revelation. He takes a deep breath, telling himself to chill out a little, man. “What’s different about telling a film crew what you tell everyone else around here?”

“You just said it. Everyone around here. Don’t need some outsiders looking for a salacious story coming in and feeding off our trauma.” Abraham snorts, turning back to the board, even as he keeps talking. “I looked at a picture of that Laszlo guy, read about his career. Big Hollywood sleaze, just like the rest of ‘em.”

Derek thinks that’s pretty unfair; just because the guy made a movie about porn, doesn’t make him a sleaze. That’s the Baptist coming out - after Solomon died, his dad got really into church, a place where the supernatural still reigns supreme and his insistence that something evil lives in Coventry wasn’t wholesale rejected. He still drives over to Ticonderoga every Sunday, spending two hours sitting on a pew in an unairconditioned hall. Derek stopped going with Abraham after his mom left. Even if he misses that sense of community, he can’t enjoy it while listening to his dad spout off prayers, asking for a revelation about the thing that has caused every single miserable thing in Derek’s life.

“So we’re just gonna let Jenna go to jail?” Derek folds his arms, trying to look a little imposing, to stand in pretend confidence. “You always said you wanted people to believe the truth. You want Delmonico to sell everybody on this lie?”

“Enough!” Abraham smacks the notebook down on his desk, and Derek flinches a little. “The answer is no. Leave it alone.”

“She’s gonna take the fall, and it’ll be your fault!” Derek doesn’t wait to hear his dad’s response, turning and storming down the hall. He’s out the front door in a moment, onto the covered porch, grabbing his bike helmet - even if it’s nerdy, he knows his mom would worry if he didn’t wear it - and wheeling his trusty six-gear speedster down the front steps. He can hear Abraham calling for him in the house, but the rain is pouring down, so it’s muffled. By the time his father will make it to the front door, he’ll be long gone down the street.

Derek rides into the stormy darkness, wind whipping his white t-shirt as he smacks the handlebars three times in quick succession, letting out a frustrated yell into the rain. 

It’s not fair. After all these years putting up with Abraham’s bullshit, after dealing with all the kids in school who shoved him into lockers and called him “psycho spawn” - amongst the many less creative, more standard slurs - after a lifetime of his father’s shadow casting a wider span than Derek ever felt he could escape, the one time Abraham could do him a solid, and he refuses.

There’s a path through the woods that leads over to the other side of town, to the sleepy cul-de-sac where Jenna and Shanice’s houses sit. It crosses the single road that snakes its way through the woods, but there are rarely any cars on it, most people preferring to take the longer but smoother roads around the outside of the tree line. Derek has taken the path many times through the years. It’s instinctual to turn onto the worn dirt trail at the edge of Stoker Street, the trees swallowing up any trace of him from the road in a few moments.

Shanice and Jenna have talked about moving to the city, but Derek doesn’t think he’d ever do that. Unlike them, he enjoys the quiet of nature. Fewer people to stare and know and judge you out here. Even the few times he’s gone to a concert in New York have left him overwhelmed and overstimulated by sensations, and he needs days to recover. Trying to live there... yeah, he’s a suburban kinda guy at best. So this ride through the woods has always been a pleasant, momentary peace; he knows the trail like the back of his hand, knows exactly where it dips and rises, the places where creeping roots push up through the dirt and have sent him tumbling, head over heels, into the foliage. Knows that when he passes the oak tree carved with little hearts and initials of Coventry’s past teenage romances, he’s a third of the way through, and when he hits the road, there’s only another third left.

Tonight, the storm makes it hard to see much of anything, but Derek flicks on the little headlight that he’s mounted on the handlebars, casting the path ahead in a short but navigable glow. Now that he’s been out in the rain for several minutes, he’s starting to regret running out too fast to grab a jacket; the storm has given the air an unseasonable chill. The wind batters him and when it hits his bare skin, goosebumps rise like little mosquito bites up and down his arms. He’s going to need a towel off when he gets to the girls’ houses - can’t say which house it will be, because he never knows which one they’ll be at when he shows up.

His mind isn’t even on the ride tonight. Too angry, too frustrated. So much for his well-rehearsed arguments. If his dad won’t do anything to help, then Derek’s just going to have to find a way. Claude asked him to be there tomorrow when the slayer club talks with the film crew, and he’s much more inclined to do so now.

Derek has lived in Coventry his whole life, has had years to get used to the sounds of its woods, at any time of day, in any kind of weather. Most people doing what he’s doing right now would probably be wigged out at the idea of riding his bike in the dark, in the middle of a thunderstorm. But anything big enough to be a danger is probably taking shelter in the caves or the hollow of a tree, and the canopy is tall and crowded, making the chance of getting hit by lightning slim to none. So he’s not expecting to run into anything out here.

Of course, he isn’t expecting a cat.

He skids to a halt on the path, nearly going over the handlebars as his lights illuminate the shape of a fluffy cat sitting in the middle of the dirt path. The creature doesn’t move, even as the tires squeal and he stops a mere two feet from where the animal sits.

Derek wipes rainwater off of his glasses, panting as he examines the cat. The creature’s thick, poofy gray fur is shockingly dry, considering it’s out in the middle of the woods in a rainstorm. Its beady little eyes blinking back from a white-muzzled face. 

The cat sniffs at him, and then meows.

“Oh, buddy, you don’t wanna be out here,” Derek says, scooting a little closer and bending over to hold his hand out. “There’s plenty of things that could eat you. A hawk or a falcon.”

The cat puffs up its fur as his hand draws closer, growling under its breath and hissing. He decides to give it the room it’s requesting, sitting back on the bike seat and inspecting the creature. It doesn’t look like any of the local family pets that roam the town, and there’s no collar around its neck. A stray? But it looks well-fed.

“You really should go back to town,” Derek says, feeling a little crazy for talking to a cat. “If you wanna hop on, I’ll take you to the cul-de-sac.”

The cat stands up, and Derek watches as it trots around his bike, up the path he’s just come from, disappearing into the darkness. He squints, trying to see where it went. Maybe he should go after it? Keep somebody from losing their family pet...

Derek knows these woods, knows when everything is as it should be, and when something is amiss. For instance, there’s a spot up the path, maybe a hundred feet back. A pothole in the dirt that’s easily avoidable if you know where you’re going. Something is moving inside that hole, a dark, formless, shapeless thing, and for a moment Derek thinks the cat has decided to curl up and take a nap there.

But when the formless, shapeless thing begins to grow out of the hole, broadening, rising like a bread dough, till it’s as wide as the path, and then keeps going, up and up, so tall as to block out any hint of fading light, Derek knows it’s not a cat.

He doesn’t wait to find out what it is, shoving his feet into the dirt and launching the bike forward. For a heart-stopping moment, his shoes kick and flail at the pedals, till they strike them true and then Derek is going, he is gone, racing down the path, switching through the gears as fast as he can.

Going this fast at night in the rain is dangerous, but probably not as dangerous as whatever the thing behind him was. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t need to; he can hear hissing and the steady beat of something hitting the dirt behind him. He swears the hissing sometimes flickers into a garbled, low kind of cackling, but any attempt to discern what kind of creature makes that sound is less important than the need to pedal as fast as his legs can handle. Thank God he knows the path, knows instinctively where to twist and turn the bike, even in the darkness. 

To his horror, the pounding sound is getting louder, and he can’t make himself go any faster. Oh God, oh God, what the fuck is that thing? Could it be a cougar or a wolf? But no, that doesn’t- not important right now, it’s on his heels. 

He imagines it tracking him easily, hearing his panting breaths, smelling the fearful sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. A predator that isn’t slowing, knows that if it just keeps following, it can overtake him.

Up ahead, there is a break in the tree line. He can see the cracked concrete of the thoroughfare road, fifty feet away. He can’t tell how far behind him the creature is, but he swears the hissing is less than a dozen feet from his back.

Forty feet from the road, and the thing behind him lets out a shrieking howl. Derek finds some hidden strength that keeps him moving, knowing that if he stops, he’s going to die.

Thirty feet, and Derek can feel the thumps vibrating through the dirt behind his back, the creature’s feet striking into the earth.

Twenty feet, and he wonders if Solomon felt this way too, fleeing from whatever horrific thing that hid in Coventry’s woods until it found a chance to kill.

Ten feet, and as the trees fall away, he sees the headlights of a vehicle lighting up the pavement, driving right towards where he’s going to cut across the road.

Derek isn’t one for making crazy, reckless decisions, but in the choice between dismemberment via a monster and getting hit by a van, he’ll take the van.

Time seems to slow as his tires hit the concrete. He ducks his head forward, tucking himself in like those professional cyclists he’s seen on TV, and feels a sharp rush of wind above his head.

As he passes across the sight line of the headlights, he hears the stuttering squeal of brakes, but doesn’t stop, keeps going...

And then he is off, back onto the dirt, into the woods on the other side.

For a while, he keeps pedaling, long after he realizes that whatever was following him isn’t there anymore. It’s only when he hits Jameson Street and sees the glowing lights of the houses up ahead that he lets out a hysterical kind of laugh, bending over the handlebars and gasping for air as he pauses his feet on the pedals and lets the downward slant of the road carry him all the rest of the way to Shanice’s house.

Derek makes three sharp raps on the door, resting against the side of the house, and when Shanice answers, she takes one look at him and says, “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Long story,” he replies. “Can I come in?”

She nods. “I’ll get you a towel.”

Shanice’s mom is in the living room, watching something on TV. She doesn’t even acknowledge their presence as Shanice and Derek pass the doorway, taking the steps two at a time up the landing. Derek pauses in the doorway to Shanice’s room, which is empty of other people. This is unexpected. “Where’s Jenna?”

“Her mom says she’s not feeling good,” Shanice answers, plopping down onto her bed. “I’m calling bullshit. Something’s up with her.”

“Did she say how the interview went?” She tosses Derek a thick beige towel, and he tries as best as he can to dry off, but his shirt and jeans are completely soaked through, and he shivers in the cool air of the house.

“Not really. She didn’t want to talk about it. Yelled at me in the middle of Henderson’s kitchen.”

“Seriously? That’s not like her.”

“Yeah. Hold on, you look freezing. I’ll grab some of Daniel’s old clothes, he left a ton of shit here when mom kicked him out. Take those off and we’ll put them in the dryer.” Shanice leaves the room. He feels a little awkward about stripping, but she said it was okay, and thankfully his boxers are only slightly damp. Shanice keeps this big fluffy brown blanket on her bed, so he wraps himself up in it and waits for her to return.

When she comes back, she’s got a navy blue t-shirt and gray sweats, and she quickly whirls around when he goes to slip the blanket off his shoulders. “I talked to my dad,” Derek says, tugging the pants up and sighing happily as his core body temperature jumps at least ten degrees. “He’s not budging. Looks like we’re on our own.”

“Delmonico is going to keep putting the pressure on until she caves, and we both know Jenna’s the type to take the blame for things, even if she’s not guilty.” Shanice has got her arms wrapped around herself, and even from the back, Derek can imagine her pensive face, chewing on her lower lip, the worry knitted in her brows. All the micro-expressions she exhibits and he catalogs away and never comments on, because revealing he thinks about that kind of thing reveals other things: dangerous things that could crack the foundations of their hard-fought friendship. “We have to find an answer, and soon.”

“On top of all that, I just got chased through the woods by something.”

“What? Are you- okay...” When he tugs the t-shirt down, he sees that she’s turned to face him. She looks flushed, and wide-eyed, and he appreciates that his fun little bike ride for his life is being met with this level of shock and awe.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He rubs the towel through his hair again, then lets it drape across his shoulders. “Almost got hit by a van too.”

“Jesus... You think whatever chased you was the thing that went after Coco?”

“Maybe. It- it was weird. I couldn’t tell what it was. Just like a shadow, a big shadow, bigger than any bear I’ve ever seen. I don’t think anything local to these woods looks like that.”

“Did it look... human?”

“Not really.”

“Claude will want to know.” She folds her arms, leaning back against her desk chair. “This could be the break we need. According to the lore, vampires can transform into things.”

“Like cats?” Derek frowns. “There was a cat, I didn’t recognize it from around here. It showed up and disappeared right before the shadow.”

“Definitely.”

Derek sighs, dropping onto the bed. “I still don’t know if I believe any of this.” Even after that horrible chase, he still wants to believe there’s a logical explanation.

“You don’t want your dad to be right.”

“Can you blame me? Dude made my life a living hell my entire childhood, and what, he gets to gloat? Point to some supernatural menace and go I told you so to my face? Not looking forward to that.”

Shanice moves to sit beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You can be right and still do wrong trying to prove how right you are.”

He can’t help but smile, focus on the point of her warm hand, and how much he’d like to hold it, tug her a little closer, and... and what? Creep his best friend out? Be the stereotypical straight guy, put his feelings on her? Nah, he’s not about that. If Derek’s learned one thing in life, it’s that when you steamroll other people in the service of your own needs, they tend to grow to hate you. Shanice’s friendship is too important to him to risk that.

“Do you mind if I crash here tonight? That guest bed is calling my name.”

“Yeah, just let me refresh the sheets.”

As she leaves, Derek pulls out his phone and sends a short message to his father:

Staying at Shanice’s tonight.

The single thumbs up emoji he gets back is about what he expected.

Chapter Text

July 13th, 2022

8:34AM

One thing that sets Nandor apart from his friends is the comfort he takes in a regular exercise schedule. While Laszlo hears the word “gymnasium” and begins espousing on the traditional Greco-Roman meaning, and Nadja prefers tearing the still beating hearts out of studio executives for a bit of light exertion, Nandor rises like clockwork at 8AM sharp, pulls on his basketball shorts and a t-shirt, and heads out onto the streets of his neighborhood. He traces the same two mile route every morning, waving to the same shopkeepers opening their stores, letting the physical motion calm whatever thoughts begin swirling around his head as soon as he wakes up, beating them into the pavement beneath his sneakers.

There are no city sidewalks this morning as Nandor shuts the door of the motel room - gently, because Guillermo is still asleep and had such a fright last night, Nandor wants to let him rest. In the bright morning sun, the woods that seemed so impenetrable last night open up, trees spread far enough apart that he can see at least a hundred feet into the tree line. He gets a view of the field and the woods behind the motel as he jogs towards the through road that leads to town. No scary monsters in sight. Funny how a little light can change your perspective.

The through road is two lanes wide, a little shoulder on each side, with dented traffic barriers curved around the bend in the road. Leaves from last fall’s shed can still be seen mixed in with the undergrowth at the edge of the concrete, one or two scattering out as Nandor runs heel to toe down the left shoulder, hopping over the occasional bit of broken concrete. It’s closing in on rush hour, and yet without a single car on the road, the only rush Nandor feels is the breeze flicking errant strands of hair out of his messy bun.

When Nandor was gone those two years, he lived in a place where he could run down roads like this regularly; far from the city streets, the comfort of people and familiar places. He’s never been the biggest fan of rural areas, preferring known quantities, unique building fronts instead of endless rows of interchangeable trees. City living is what he’s used to. He never expected that to change.

It wasn’t his choice, back then. He recognizes now how a person can swallow up the version of themselves that is displeasing, unwanted, and put on the mask of someone else’s desire. By the end of it all, he was so good at pretending, he almost lost himself.

Sometimes he wonders - sitting on Laszlo and Nadja’s rickety guest bed, scrolling through photos he should’ve deleted a long time ago - whether he actually did.

Nandor doesn’t use the noise canceling feature on his earbuds, even when he is in familiar territory. It’s important to be aware of his surroundings, in case some twitchy Brooklyn hipster decides the big Persian guy wearing a BARC animal shelter t-shirt is a threat. So, even with System of a Down screaming through the tiny speakers, he can hear the smooth thrum of a car engine approaching him from behind.

Glancing back, Nandor spots a forest green sedan, emblazoned with the logo of the Coventry PD, the emergency lights off. Shit , he thinks, turning his head forward and continuing to jog. Maybe they’ll just pass him by.

He hears the tires slow, the sound of a window sliding down. Of fucking course he’s not that lucky. 

“Morning, Mr. Jayhan!” comes a familiar voice, and Nandor groans internally, putting on a neutral expression as he looks left and sees Captain Delmonico cruising beside him, doing that kind of brusque smile-grimace-wave and head dip that white people love using as a “funny seeing you here!” kind of greeting. “Morning run?”

“Uh huh,” Nandor says, keeping his breathing steady, controlled, trying to exhibit the stamina of a man who could definitely outrun any cop in this podunk town. “Just enjoying the nature.”

“Fantastic, we’ve got some wonderful views around here. So, how’d your talk with Barb go? She’s quite the character.”

“Yes... very lovely woman.” He’s started to slow down, but keeps his feet moving, trying to give the indication that he’s only partially willing to engage in this conversation - and hey, maybe interrupting someone in the middle of their exercise routine is a little rude? “Is there anything I can help you with, Captain?”

“No, no, just checking in. Gotta make sure the stranger running down the street is a stranger I recognize. Part of the job, and all. Well, enjoy your run.” Delmonico does that little grimace-wave again, and speeds up, disappearing around the bend further up the road.

Nandor waits until the car is gone to come to a complete stop. His heart is beating fast, and it’s not just because of the exercise. Cops make him nervous in general, but there’s something about Delmonico that adds an extra layer of menace. He’d probably have relished a career as the local witchfinder back in the day, but now there are things like “due process” and “a fair trial” that sometimes get in his way.

After Nandor takes a few deep breaths, he twists around, and heads back towards the motel. Maybe his run can be a little short today.

By the time he opens the door to his room, Guillermo is awake, sipping awful-looking coffee from the ensuite maker. “Don’t think they’ve got a Starbucks around here,” Guillermo says, eyeing Nandor up and down as he crosses the room to grab the bath towel he used last night, wiping the sweat off his brow. “You want a cup?”

“I would rather drink horse piss,” Nandor comments, off-hand, and Guillermo snorts into his cup. Jokes on Guillermo though; Nandor’s been around horses enough to unfortunately know what that tastes like. Alfalfa, mostly. “Any word from the others?”

“Nothing yet. I think Laszlo mentioned last night that Claude is supposed to give him a call this morning, tell us where we’re going to meet the Coventry Slayers.” Guillermo smirks after saying the name. “A whole band of small-town vampire hunters. Now I’ve heard of everything.”

“I ran into the police chief on my run,” Nandor says. “Trying to decide whether it’s better he recognize my face or not.”

“I’d prefer not to be known by Coventry’s Finest,” Guillermo mutters. “Hey, thanks, by the way.”

“Hmmm?”

“For last night.” Guillermo glances down, and is... is that- is he blushing? Wow. Okay, wow. Not expecting that. Nandor’s going to have to use the cold water in the shower this morning. He continues, “I know I kind of freaked out, and I appreciate your attempt to try and distract me.”

“It is nothing,” Nandor says, shrugging. He’s not going to tell Guillermo that watching him stew in his anxiety stirs a kind of protective feeling in Nandor’s gut, and that scares him, because it’s the most powerful feeling he’s had in months. Maybe years.

Nandor’s emotional range was only allowed to hit certain beats for so long: happy, acquiescing, ashamed. Anything else ended up in the pile of Things Nandor Feels That He Should Not, and it was always explained to him exactly why that was so, and at first, the explanations did not make sense, until one day they did, if only because things would get worse if he failed to understand.

One thing he understands now is that he’s lucky, so lucky that he left when he did. Lucky that he had friends to fall back on, that he hadn’t reached a point where nobody would take his calls, that he’d retained his autonomy in some shape or fashion. Lucky enough to wake up one day with the absolute certainty that if he did not throw whatever precious things he wanted to keep into a suitcase, change the passwords on his email and banking accounts, and return to New York, then he might never have the courage to do it again.

It’s a horrible kind of thing, to want someone to show you the worst of themselves, and yet, some days, Nandor looks at Guillermo and thinks, not without guilt, I wish you’d let me see all of your darkest shadows, because maybe then I’d have the courage to show you mine.

His baba gets this kind of worry in his voice sometimes, just barely noticeable through the fuzzy static of an international call. The man had moved back to Iran a number of years ago, to help care for Nandor’s aging mamani, but he still calls Nandor weekly, bringing news of their extended relatives and asking about Nandor’s life. Nandor’s replies are getting better, richer, not the clipped, vague answers that he was giving before. But he knows the man worries about him, knows he feels some guilt about what happened. Like if he’d been here, things would have been different.

Nandor hasn’t mentioned Guillermo to the man, yet. He’s not sure how to broach that topic- what would he even say? Baba, there’s a person that makes me feel all the things I’d forgotten how to, but I think I’m too much of a mess to ask him for what I want- yes, by the way, it’s a him. I’m bisexual. Hope you’re not on speaker, I’d rather avoid giving mamani a heart attack.

“Nandor?” Guillermo is looking at him, and he realizes that he’s just been standing there, staring out the back window for at least thirty seconds. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Nandor huffs, turning towards the bathroom. “Can you pull everything we shot yesterday onto the storage drives? I'll hand it off to Colin Robinson after my shower.”

Standing under the mediocre spray of water in the tub, Nandor considers what he’s going to do after this film shoot. He’s been thinking about talking to Nadja and Laszlo, telling them that it’s time he moved on, moved out. This job should give him enough money to find a small room, or a place with four other roommates - probably named Steve, Steven, Stephen, and Stephan - so that the Cravensworth-Antipaxos household can return to its semi-peaceful state. He knows Laszlo said he could stay as long as he needed to, but lately, it feels like he’s outstayed his welcome. 

Something has changed in the way they all interact with one another. Sometimes it’s hard to believe they don't hate him.

To be fair to them both, he’d said some pretty shitty things during The Argument, things he’s tried to apologize for - not with words, obviously, because the prospect of a truly vulnerable conversation with either of them sounds terrifying. Impossible. But he’s tried to show his remorse in other ways, like agreeing to be the sound tech for this project, even when he didn’t really feel able to manage the responsibility, because he hadn’t wanted to let either of them down. He thought that maybe, if he just went along with things, whatever weirdness between them would eventually vanish. It hasn’t. His conversations with Laszlo remain stilted, halting. He and Nadja regularly get into spats that don’t touch on any of the real hurt between them. 

Nandor is starting to wonder if he’s truly crossed the line, and there’s no coming back.

Guillermo hands the drives off to him when he gets out of the shower and says, “Laszlo texted. One of the slayers is going to come by and drive us over to their meeting spot. Should be here in twenty minutes.”

Nandor nods, vision going dark as he drapes the towel over his head and scrubs his hair to dry it. “I tried to leave you some hot water, but I am a big man and it tends to take a lot of water to get me scrubbed clean.”

The sound Guillermo makes is not unlike a duck hitting a windshield on the highway, and Nandor pauses, drawing the towel off his hair, but Guillermo has disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door with a quickly spit out “ CoolThankYouSeeYouLater! ” 

Huh. Is he that upset about the hot water?

Colin Robinson’s room is a door down from Laszlo and Nadja, and when Nandor knocks, he hears a muffled “ Come in! ” Oddly chipper for a man who holds the entire responsibility of managing their studio budget on his shoulders. 

Nandor is used to dead-eyed studio men with dour faces, and while Colin Robinson would never be described by someone as “emotionally expressive,” he lacks the usual reek of despair and cocaine. This morning, he’s seated at the table in his hotel room, in an ivory button-up shirt and beige tie combo that’s suspiciously similar in color to yesterday’s outfit. He’s still typing away on that laptop of his, but he does look up when Nandor enters.

“Good morning, Colin Robinson. I have the footage from yesterday.” Nandor holds up the drives.

Colin Robinson’s eyes light up, almost literally. “Oh, perfect. You know, I love the power of technology and how much easier it’s made it to travel light and efficiently on these docu-dramas. No more big wheels of film; now everything’s digital, although there’s plenty of argument in the industry about whether that’s really a good thing. After all, we can still enhance old film grain from movies in the 30s and 40s to beautiful high definition format, but anything digital is locked into that format for all of eternity. Makes you really wonder what we sacrifice with the cost of letting formats go obsolete. There was a big uproar with the Polaroid enthusiast crowd when they stopped producing instant film back in the late 2000s-”

“Yes, um, all very fascinating. Here you go.” Nandor shuffles awkwardly over to the table, placing the drives on the worn wood and plastering on his attempt at a friendly smile instead of immediately fleeing out the door. “Will you be staying here again today?”

Colin Robinson leans back in his chair, arms limp at his side like a marionette with its strings cut. “I’m considering joining the gang for today’s escapades. Laszlo’s a real ar-teest, yanno? I’d love to see how he works out in the field, chasing down a story. To tell you the truth, when they first assigned me to this production, I thought I’d been demoted. I’ve been working on these big, billion dollar budget movies for a decade, and then suddenly it’s ‘we’d prefer to utilize your skills on productions that take you far, far away from the office,’ and I’m packing most of the things I own into two suitcases and heading all the way across the country to the big En-Why-See.”

“In this, I can relate,” Nandor admits. “It was not so long ago that my life was mostly in suitcases.” Now it’s mostly in the dressers Laszlo saved from their senior year college apartment.

“Oh yeah, you went no contact for two years and then just showed up again; what’s that about?”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Right, right- let me guess, lady problems?” Colin Robinson grins widely, raising his eyebrows, and Nandor realizes he thinks he’s actually being friendly instead of extremely obnoxious. “Yeah, I’ve got me one of those back home. Evie’s always got one tragedy or another going on; last week she had to put her cat down, and the week before, her brand new car got totaled as she drove it home from the dealership. She’s gonna be doing PT for the next two months.”

“Shit,” Nandor says, because that sounds genuinely horrible. “Give her my condolences for the cat.”

“Eh, she’s resilient,” Colin Robinson says, waving him off. “Only called me crying twice last week, which is an improvement. So, what’s going on with you and Gizmo? You bang out all that spicy U-S-T last night?”

“Oh look at the time, I need to be going,” Nandor says, turning around and heading for the door.

“You’re not wearing a watch.”

“Talk to you later, Colin Robinson!” Nandor flees before he can say anything else.

Laszlo is stepping out of his hotel room as Nandor shuts Colin Robinson’s door. “Managed to escape the clutches of our walking encyclopedia, did you?” Laszlo quips, pulling out an extremely poorly rolled joint. He goes to light it, only for Nandor to snatch it out of his hand. “Hey!”

“This is a no-smoking motel. The last thing we need is an excuse for Delmonico to have another chat with us.” Nandor pockets the joint, ignoring Laszlo’s incredulous glare. “Besides, you’re a shit interviewer on substances. I remember the hell we had trying to cobble together something usable for the junior year documentary assignment because you got baked off your ass before talking to our interviewee.”

“You need to learn how to lighten the fuck up,” Laszlo grumbles, rolling his eyes. “That assignment turned out just fine and honestly, you needed a challenge. Should be thanking me for the bloody opportunity.”

Nandor follows Laszlo towards the van, intent on getting his point across. “I am not looking for a challenge today, Laszlo. I just want us to do our jobs without stirring up any trouble.”

“Bah. You used to love it when I stirred up trouble. Now you’ve just got a stick up your ass all the time.”

“I do not have any sticks up my ass! That is a blatant mischaracterization of my-”

“Yes, yes, alright. Chill the fuck out.” Laszlo seems about done with the conversation. “Look, keep the blunt and give it a try. Worst thing that’ll happen is you buy out the dairy case at the local Quick-Stop to feed the munchies, and kill Gizmo with your cheese farts while he’s sleeping.”

By the time Guillermo joins them outside, laden with their equipment bags, there’s an ancient-looking Dodge Caravan with honest-to-God wood paneling pulling up beside the van. 

“I ran out of hot water halfway through,” Guillermo says to Nandor, but he looks less annoyed and more amused.

“Guess you’ll both just have to share next time,” Laszlo comments offhandedly.

Neither Nandor or Guillermo can seem to meet each other’s eyes after that.

The young man who steps out of the car is willowy, dark skinned, hair cropped short. He’s wearing coke-bottle bifocals, a black Childish Gambino tour shirt, beige khakis, and unseasonably calf-high Doc Martens. “Documentary crew?” he asks, eyes darting nervously between each of them.

“That’d be us, yes.” Laszlo sticks a hand out. “And you are?”

“Just call me D,” the young man replies, taking Laszlo’s hand and shaking it. “Is this everyone who’s coming?”

“It is bloody not!” Nadja stomps down the one step from the motel patio to the dirt parking lot, which kind of kills the intimidation factor. “Laszlo, I told you to let me know when our contact was here.”

“He just got here, darling,” Laszlo answers, sharing a look with Nandor that has over a decade of history behind it, so no words are needed. “So, D, anything we need to know about the place we’re going to?”

“It’s not that far, twenty minute drive at most.” D motions to their van. “That thing can handle poor road conditions? The pass hasn’t been paved in several decades.”

“We’ll manage. Shall one of us ride with you, just in case we get lost? I do need to drive, but I’m sure you and Gizmo would get along just fine.” Laszlo motions to Guillermo, who looks highly uncomfortable with the idea of riding with a stranger to a desolate secondary mountain location.

D says, “I don’t really think-” at the same time Nandor jumps in with, “I will go with him.”

“Perfect,” Laszlo says, clapping his hands together. “It’s settled. Nandor and Gizmo will ride with D, and Nadja and myself will take the van.”

“Don’t forget me!” Nandor bites back a groan as Colin Robinson steps out from behind the van. He’s wearing a shockingly slick pair of amber aviators, suit coat draped casually over one shoulder. “I’m joining the gang today- for budgetary reasons, of course. Gotta make sure we stay on target.”

Nandor isn’t a hundred percent sure what great expenditure they’re going to incur talking to a bunch of 20 to 30 somethings for an hour, but whatever floats his boat.

Guillermo takes the passenger seat in D’s car, and Nandor slides in back. He gets the sense that Laszlo was right about D getting along with Guillermo, seeing as they look to be close in age. This is immediately confirmed when D starts playing music through the little Bluetooth speaker he’s got tucked into the cup holder, and Guillermo’s face lights up, saying, “Oh, Bad Bunny, nice!”

Nandor feels all of his 32 years in that moment.

The Caravan’s engine sounds ten seconds away from blowing up at all times. D doesn’t seem troubled by the noise, babying the pedals as he takes them up the winding path out of town. They’ve yet to go beyond the limits, but Nandor has a decent idea of where they might be going, based on the maps of town Guillermo showed him earlier. The farther they go, the worse the paving becomes. You can practically tell the decades going backwards, as darkened concrete and yellow lines turn to crumbling gray and streaks of pale goldenrod.

“So how do you know these slayers?” Nandor asks, interrupting a conversation about musical genres that he tuned out five minutes ago.

D glances back at him through the rear-view mirror. “Oh, friends of mine. Claude’s parents and mine went to the same church, and I know Shanice from high school.”

“Are you part of their group?” Guillermo asks.

D shrugs. “Ehhhh, I guess you could say that. Not always sure I believe in what we’re doing, but it’s hard when your friends are all convinced of something and you’d rather... not be.”

“Sounds as though you have doubts about the existence of the vampire.” Nandor isn’t the interviewer Laszlo is, but he can certainly prod a potential interviewee to see what makes them tick. They got through their junior year project somehow , after all.

“Dad taught me it’s important to keep an open mind. Hey, you talked to Jenna yesterday, didn’t you?” Oh. Seems D has decided to do some fishing of his own. “What’d you think of her?”

“She seemed nervous,” Guillermo admits, his genuine concern shining through in the way it always does, impossible to mask. “It’s gotta be difficult, finding a dead co-worker and then having everybody think you killed her.”

“So you don’t think she did it?”

“We do not have the benefit of an opinion here,” Nandor points out. “She was a very nice girl, and I hope she’s innocent, but we can only work with the evidence we’ve been given.” Something in D’s line of questioning is triggering a thought in his head, and he voices it. “D is short for Derek, isn’t it?”

D is quiet, seemingly contemplating how to answer. Nandor doesn’t blame him for the whole smoke and mirrors bit, but it was only going to hold up so long. “And if it is?”

“If it is, then I shall call you Derek,” Nandor says, leaning back into the seat. “And that is all it has to be, if you want it to.”

Laszlo is a smart man. Nadja could’ve driven that van, and Laszlo could’ve been here, grilling Derek Sandiford for information about his dead grandfather, why he didn’t want to talk to the crew, what he knows. But he sent Guillermo, who is kind and non-threatening, and in doing so, knew Nandor would tag along. Nandor, who has had a lifetime of invasive questions and assumptions thrown his way, who wants to do a good job but has lines he won’t cross. Two people far less intimidating to a kid like Derek than Laszlo and Nadja would be.

Somehow, after all these years, Laszlo still finds a way to impress him. And infuriate him.

“I wanted to email you guys back, you know,” Derek says, answering Nandor’s question by proxy. “Dad wasn’t having it, but now, with Delmonico breathing down Jenna’s neck... well, somebody’s gotta say something.”

“We really would be honored if you’d sit for an interview with us,” Guillermo says, falling perfectly into an Oscar-worthy supporting role. “It sounds like you really want to help your friend, and any information exonerating her would surely be worth discussing, yeah?”

Derek nods, his hands clenching around the wheel and his voice growing a little louder as he insists, “Jenna didn’t kill anybody. No way. She’s the dictionary definition of harmless. If she says Coco was dead and whatever killed her was gone before she got there, then I believe her. But Coco died in a very similar manner to my grandfather, and I think that’s worth talking to you about.”

“So what does your schedule look like?” Nandor asks. “We can surely find time to meet with you this week.”

“No,” Derek says, shaking his head. “Not later. Now. When we get to the factory, when you talk to Claude, I’ll tell you everything I know. You’ll need it to understand why people around here are so touchy about the vampire.”

As Derek turns onto another winding road with a dilapidated sign reading Coventry Mill Ahead , Nandor pulls out his phone and discreetly sends a message to Laszlo:

next time you want to send me to do your job, tell me first

Laszlo’s reply is blunt:

you can order me around when you’re willing to do your job again. until then, you get the grunt work

Fucking guy.

Chapter Text

July 13th, 2022

10:34AM

Laszlo Cravensworth is a man of many passions. Cinema being the top of the roster, outside of his darling wife Nadja, of course. From a young age, Laszlo’s creative ambitions rose head and shoulders above his peers, though they drew little esteem from a father who wanted his son to follow in his career as a cardiologist. Laszlo is keenly aware of matters of the heart, but the only kind of guts he’s ever wanted to rummage around in are the inner workings of a camera. It was an issue that drove a wedge between Laszlo and his family, a posh Tory household from Birmingham, and when he’d announced he was going to America to study film theory at university, he’d done it after coming into the possession of his late grandfathers’ inheritance for him. The rift became even more pronounced upon informing them that he was to marry a Greek woman with no great reputation (in the eyes of the British aristocracy- in Laszlo’s eyes, her reputation was impeccable). Laszlo keeps in irregular contact with his mother, and hasn’t spoken to his father in years. Probably for the best; they’d almost certainly get into a shouting match about Brexit and the “mobs of refugees coming over from the Middle East and turning Britannia less British” or whatever horseshit the Defense MP had prattled on about to The Sun last week.

This is part of the reason Laszlo has never introduced Nandor to any of his family. He knows exactly the kind of treatment the man would get: the stares, the subtle comments, and inevitably, a good old fashioned English shunning. Nadja, bless her, has been completely capable of holding her own on the few occasions she’s met the fam - Lucretia still won’t speak to him after their shouting match in 2017 - but Nandor would pretend a great show at indifference, only to crumble like a soggy house of cards the moment he was alone again. Even if Nadja hadn’t come along and swept up Laszlo’s heart, his short-lived tryst with Nandor would’ve likely ended in a poor outcome. The man needs someone a bit softer, less vicious.

Of course, Nandor never seemed to understand how easily his good nature and eagerness to please could be taken advantage of, hence the whole business with The Argument and two years of no contact. Laszlo prides himself on being able to set boundaries, putting a limit on how much emotional turmoil he’s willing to experience before he drops a relationship like a hot potato, but this went out the window with Nandor. He’d put on a good show of indifference, he thought, until the fifteenth unanswered text message in three months. 

When he’d found himself getting teary-eyed in Nadja’s arms, as she’d stroked his hair and murmured that she missed Nandor too, Laszlo had thought, why’d you have to go and weasel your way into my heart, you fucking twat.

The relief in Laszlo’s body when Nandor had shown up at their door was a physical release of two years of tension. But the Nandor that came back to them was different, and not in a good way. Given to regular fits of crabbiness and dour moods. Pouring out incomplete details about what had happened during the first night, but then refusing to discuss it further on any attempt afterwards. Finding squabbles to start over the mildest of innocuous comments.

If Nandor is inclined to pretend there isn’t a great weight on his heart, then Laszlo is inclined to let him; he’s doing the same, after all. He’s an expert at pretending something doesn’t hurt him. Got plenty of practice growing up with a family that rejected his passions at every turn. That doesn’t mean he’s heartless. Nadja is a keen observer of his moods, of understanding what’s really going on behind all the bluster, and Laszlo had thought... he’d thought Nandor was too. Yet, over the last six months, Nandor has shown himself to be rather thoughtless, fixated supremely on his own feelings. It isn’t a good look for him.

Things are starting to change, though, Laszlo can see it. At first, he could admit to a smidgen of jealousy in the way that Guillermo had so easily ingratiated himself into Nandor’s life; echoes of the time when Laszlo and Nandor had shared that same kind of instant kinship. But Guillermo is good for him, truly good. Kind and smart and patient, if a little skittish. Talented, too, even if he doesn’t see it yet. 

Would Laszlo ever tell Guillermo this? Fuck no! But as a documentarian, it’s his job to understand the subject without applying undue influence on them. Not that he doesn’t plan to apply any influence, as demonstrated by his chat with Nandor yesterday. Laszlo is a pragmatist at heart. The two of them need to get their shit together before their unresolved sexual tension combusts the camera equipment.

“Unbelievable,” Nadja snarls, tossing Laszlo’s phone into the cup holder after transcribing his response to Nandor’s text, and probably adding her own personal flourishes. “I’m going to claw his eyes out, Laszlo, I swear to fucking shit.”

“Now, now, darling. You can kill him after we finish the documentary, though perhaps leave him enough alive so that Gizmo can pick up the pieces.” Laszlo steers them down the road to the factory, trailing D’s car - D, who is almost certainly Derek Sandiford, and whose guard was brought down enough by Nandor and Guillermo for Laszlo to wiggle his way in later - as it rumbles up a craggy path through the trees.

Nadja glares over at him. “You enable Nandor far too much, you know that? Letting him get out of being the cinematographer, keeping around a poor substitute who’s in over his head, because he’s taken a shine to him.”

“Oh, that’s a completely wrong-headed way of looking at things. As loathe as I am to admit it, Gizmo’s doing well for someone in his position. Follows directions, gives his opinion when prompted and without being an arrogant git about the whole thing. Knows the equipment in and out. We haven’t had a bad shot yet.”

“Give it time, he’s going to fuck up, I’m certain of it. I still do not understand why you let Nandor talk you into a newbie.”

“Maybe I wanted him to remember that somebody cares about what he has to think. That his needs are important to somebody. Have you ever considered that?”

“Of course I have! I’m your bloody wife and his bloody best friend, you soft-hearted donkey. But couldn’t you have done that with something a little bit smaller? Like not a huge opportunity that could make or break your career?”

Laszlo reaches out blindly, finding Nadja’s hand across the van and giving it a squeeze. “My career is bound up in the both of yours. It wouldn’t feel right to forge ahead without you both at my side.”

She doesn’t say anything, but he can feel a tension, a dissonance in her opinion of the matter. It’s been in the air between them for weeks, and Laszlo has no idea why. But for Nadja, he can be patient. She’ll tell him when she’s ready. He’s trying not to consider the worst possible outcomes, but whatever comes, he’s sure they’ll overcome it together.

“What a team you all make, even with the deep emotional scarring! I just love to see the process in action.” Colin Robinson has jutted his body out between the seats, a floating head in the periphery of Laszlo’s vision. “I haven’t felt this kind of on set tension since being the mediator between two lead male actors on an undisclosed Marvel movie that may or may not have already played in theaters.”

Colin Robinson is a fucking enigma. Cheerily chattering at Laszlo about his girlfriend’s latest tragedies, no filter and no sense of social cues. Laszlo thinks he’s bloody hilarious, and is the only one on their team who’s willing to spend more than five minutes alone with the man, happily listening to Colin Robinson pick apart all of the deepest insecurities of the execs on the Zoom call yesterday when they tried to pick apart Laszlo’s reasoning for doing a complete 180 in genre (going from porn to a true crime fanatic’s version of porn: murder .)

Laszlo gets the sense that the man doesn’t have many people willing to put up with him, and frankly, that’s a shame. He’s not so bad, once you get to know him. Laszlo is quite willing to get to know him - this was certainly a shock at first, until he considered what he likes about Colin Robinson. For instance, his lack of filter means Laszlo has never had to guess at the man’s true opinion on anything. The same can’t be said about Laszlo’s family, a cesspool of passive aggressive statements and decades of built up resentment. He’s also a proverbial sponge of odd quotables and factoids, launching into eager explanations at a rapid pace. Whatever one thinks about the topics, Colin Robinson seems to find it all fascinating, and Laszlo has always had a soft spot for anyone who shows a bit of passion. That ability to find passion in something means he’s perfectly suited for this team, even if the others can’t quite see it yet.

“What do you think, then, Colin Robinson?” Nadja turns a considering eye towards their studio man. “Surely you can see the potential for disaster ahead?”

Colin Robinson shrugs, seemingly nonplussed. “I’ll admit to some hesitation hiring the G-man, but I wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of the artist’s vision. As long as said vision keeps us under budget. The good thing about hiring newbies is that they come cheap. Hell, maybe you should try to be less successful on this one? Gizmo’s pay is going to double if this gets the reception that Shagged did.”

Nadja looks like she’s changing targets from Nandor, and will now be clawing Colin Robinson’s eyes out. To prevent any contract-voiding violence, Laszlo loudly announces, “Oh look! We’re here.”

The Coventry Saw Mill hasn’t been in operation since 1994, according to what they learned from Barbara Lazarro. Buried behind an overgrown part of the forest, the only buildings still left standing in the complex are the mill itself and the back office, dilapidated and half-standing, but still present. The other buildings were condemned and demolished long ago. Somewhere along the line, a buyer had come along who planned to turn the spot into a cabin retreat for tourists, but that was back in 2007, and there has been no movement on the property since then.

There’s a tall chain-link fence surrounding the property with a No Trespassing sign, and Colin Robinson gives him a hesitant look as they pass through. Laszlo supposes he’s the type to want to keep everything by the books, and knowing Nandor, his friend is also sweating bullets right now. But Claude had reassured him that nobody comes to the mill anymore, by virtue of its distance away from the town, and the rumors that the mill, which was built in the late 1800s, is haunted by the ghosts of men who’d died on the job, including Derek’s grandfather. Lots of superstitions in this part of the state, it seems. Laszlo can’t imagine what myths abound about the caves around here.

There’s a pale, youngish looking woman with short cropped hair standing by the wide, barn-sized doors at the front of the mill, and she waves them over, pulling the doors open to give them entry. “Welcome!” she calls, nodding as Laszlo eases the van into the building behind the Caravan.

Most of the mill equipment itself was sold off when the factory shut down to cover the bankruptcy expenses of the owner, a one Mr. Harrelson, except for a squat-looking machine with a square frame and roller wheels across the top, making Laszlo think it probably had logs rolling across it at one time. Therefore, the inside is quite bare, but for a small set up of tables, chairs, and a rolling whiteboard against the far wall. There’s a stout, tall, dark-skinned man with the hint of an afro sitting in one of the chairs, tipped back with his arms behind his head and his ankles resting on one of the tables, affecting a casual, relaxed appearance.

He moves when the doors of the vehicles open, standing up and coming over to shake Laszlo’s hand. “Yeah, you’re the documentary folks, right? I’m Claude.”

Laszlo nods. “That we are! Lovely to meet you. Quite the little hideaway you’ve got going on here. You’re certain we won’t have any curious sheriffs poking around the premises?”

“It’s cool,” Derek says, coming up next to Claude and giving him a simple fist bump for a greeting. “When we started using this place, Claude and I set up a camera about a mile down the path. If anyone is coming, there’s a back road we can use to get out.”

“Are we alright to begin setting up equipment?” Laszlo motions to Guillermo when Claude nods. “Gizmo, set up three chairs so the whiteboard is at an off-angle behind the interviewees, and that square thingy-”

“The trimmer?” Derek asks.

“Yes, in the background of my shot, if you would. I’d like something besides bare walls and wide spaces. Nandor, give him a hand, would you? Darling, you’ve got-”

“Prep everyone and makeup, on it,” Nadja says, already gliding past.

“Lotta OSHA violations at this site,” Colin Robinson says, strolling up to Laszlo as the rest of the crew gets to work. “Does that ceiling look stable to you?”

“The building’s stood through the worst of what the mountain weather has to offer. I’m sure it’ll alert us if it’s about to collapse in the next hour or so.” Laszlo pats Colin Robinson on the back affably. “Chin up, old chap. True art doesn’t tend to happen in climate-controlled hotel rooms or office buildings. Why, I almost broke my leg falling through the floor of the condemned BDSM club from the 70s when I made Shagged ; still have scars from where the wood pierced my calf.”

“Gnarly,” Colin Robinson says, and he sounds like he means it. He points to Guillermo, who is fiddling with a tripod and swaying dangerously close to a pile of wood beams with nasty-looking nails jutting out. “How do you think he’s gonna fare with that kind of spatial awareness?”

“Shit, Nandor !” Laszlo motions to Guillermo when Nandor looks up, and Nandor immediately walks over, grabbing Guillermo’s arm and pulling him away from the wood pile. “Perhaps one of us should have a word with him about situational awareness.”

Colin Robinson nods. “Chewing people out is my specialty, I’ll do it.”

It takes twenty minutes to do the set-up and prep work, and Laszlo reviews his notes while it happens, considering his questions, what he knows about the interviewees. The short woman who introduces herself as Tonya is pretty quiet, and her social media is sparse other than an Instagram of workout videos at the local gym. There’s a lesbian flag patch on the arm of her jean jacket, and he overhears her mention someone named “Meg” while she chats with Derek. As for Claude, he’s mentioned several times that he moved to New York City a number of years ago, and seems insistent on making that a personality trait, though why he moved back home is anyone’s guess. He’s got a private Facebook with a single public picture of himself kissing the cheek of an older woman who resembles him, and there’s an article in the local paper from 2019 about area crime that mentions him getting picked up on a charge of assault, and another one from 2021 that says he was acquitted.

Claude mentioned another slayer named Shanice in his texts, but she doesn’t seem to be present, and when Laszlo asks, Derek shrugs and says she had work. As for Derek himself, he’s got a public Twitter that’s mostly retweets of accounts in the “Actual Play” community, which seems to be a subset of Dungeons and Dragons nerds. His only followers are Jenna and an account whose profile picture is a young woman cosplaying some sort of medieval rogue warrior, with the username “rya_goldenhand,” which Laszlo suspects is likely Shanice. Derek’s name also pops up in articles about Solomon Sandiford, mostly to mention him being Abraham Sandiford’s son. Abraham spent the fifty years after the case was closed demanding it be reopened. He has never wavered in his conviction. Laszlo can respect that kind of dedication.

Finally, with everything ready, Laszlo takes his place across from the three slayers, leaning back and draping one leg over the other. Guillermo calls, “ Action ,” and the world seems to shift for Laszlo, his normally manic energy settling into the quiet comfort of knowing exactly what he’s doing.

“Thank you all for speaking with us today,” Laszlo starts. “Now, you’ve told us there’s another side of the story of this town that exists outside of the official records; I think we can all agree that the vampire legend is not viewed positively by many members of the town, but perhaps you could shed some light on why you all believe it to be true?”

“I can take this,” Claude says, the other two seeming in no rush to answer. “So, what you’ve gotta understand about Coventry is that people like to think of this place as peaceful, far away fromthe chaos of the big city. That kind of ‘we’re just simple folk, no big problems here’ attitude, and it’s pretty easy to do that if you cover your ears and close your eyes and bury your head in the metaphorical sand. But us, we can’t do that.” He motions to Derek and Tonya. “All of us, in one way or another, fit outside that perfect little picture.”

“You make it sound more like this was created as a social club for outcasts than with a specific vampire hunting purpose.”

“Nah, just easier to see the truth if you’re not allowed to be a part of the lies.” Claude folds his arms, raising a challenging eyebrow. “You did that documentary telling the truth about the history of porn, right? Bet not everybody liked what you found.”

“Certainly,” Laszlo agrees. He’s a little impressed that Claude went so far as to watch his last film, and the man has a solid point. His quest for objectivity (with the knowledge that true objectivity is impossible to achieve) set him at odds with people on either side of the pro-porn and anti-porn brigades. Arguing for a complex understanding of a polarized topic will net you enemies from every contingent. But if Laszlo gave a shit about pissing people off, he’d never get work.

“Well, not everybody likes what we’ve found, either. Tonya, you’re the record-keeper, you wanna fill them in on more of the history?”

“We’ve already heard a bit from Barbara,” Laszlo explains. “She told us about the town founding, the earthquake, and showed us Albrecht’s crypt.”

“So then you know Uwe Schmidt was suspected of trying to resurrect Johann Albrecht,” Tonya pipes up. “But did she mention that nobody in the record mentioned whether they burned Uwe’s body alongside the Albrechts?”

Laszlo raises an eyebrow. “She did not. Would that be important?”

“How much do you know about vampire lore, Mr. Cravensworth?”

“Pretend nothing, as our audience may be unfamiliar with whatever point you wish to make.”

“Well, vampirism is passed from a vampire to a human when that human consumes the blood of the vampire, in tandem with the vampire consuming the blood of the human. In the writings of the town doctor who examined Uwe’s body, he writes, ‘ and there was blood about the mouth of the deceased. ’”

“That seems like a reasonable injury for a man whose throat had been torn out,” Laszlo points out.

Tonya shrugs. “Sure. But there was no way of checking whose blood that was back in the day, right? And at the time, the assumption was witchcraft gone wrong, so there would be no reason to suspect Uwe had been infected. They might’ve burned him, or they might’ve just buried him somewhere outside the town limits. We don’t know. But if he escaped immolation, it’s possible that Uwe was reborn as a vampire.”

“Let’s say you’re correct,” Laszlo posits. “Explain how this connects to the murders of the townsfolk over the centuries.”

“Vampires need regular feeding in order to sustain themselves,” Tonya explains. “But ‘regular’ is a subjective term. Does that mean daily, or weekly, or monthly? For a creature who lives for hundreds of years, would it make sense that they’d need to eat so regularly? They’d burn through the population of whatever locale they live in like that.” She snaps her fingers. “We think it makes sense they can go much longer between meals, either as a regular aspect of their life cycle, or, what makes more sense, they can engage in periods of hibernation.”

“Hence the irregularity of the attacks,” Claude says.

Tonya nods. “So, according to the town archives, the first few years after the earthquake, there were three attacks. Elizabeth Wallace in 1769, Stefan Weber in 1774, and Günter Klein in 1776. All were presumed to be wild animal attacks, and to be fair, the local wildlife populations were much fuller back in those days, so it’s possible one or two of these were really mountain lions, but they always died by mutilation of the throat. Some had broken bones and bruising, but all survivable except for the neck injury. After that, the attacks slowed. The next incident occurred in 1822: a man named Stanley Barrens and his wife were found just outside the town limits; again, same injuries. Amy Quinn was the singular victim in 1874. 1927 was an oddity; the Lacroix family, consisting of Alexandre, his wife Louise, and his children Mathilde, Jean and Thomas, were all found mutilated in their manor home just outside of town. The only survivor of the family, Charlotte Lacroix, was away at college. It was a major scandal because Mr. Lacroix’s father had built this very saw mill, and it was operated by Alexandre when the family was murdered. Charlotte retained control of the mill until its closure and sold it to the developer before she passed away about a decade ago.”

“That brings us to 1973.” Claude nudges Derek, who looks like he’s been off in his own head. “Hey, man, you wanna jump in here?”

“Sure. So, yeah, I’m Derek Sandiford. My grandfather Solomon was the last victim before Coco. I obviously wasn’t even alive back then, but I’ve heard my dad tell this story enough times to have it memorized.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable telling us, Mr. Sandiford,” Laszlo says. He uses a softer, slightly higher register, knowing it tends to put people at ease.

Derek shifts in his seat, glancing at Claude and Tonya, before taking a breath. “Well, my grandfather worked the late shift at the mill, so he’d usually be home after midnight. But if he was going to be held up for any reason, he would also use the mill’s phone to call my dad and let him know he’d be late.

“So, early on the morning of May 15th, 1973, it was about three am, and grandpa still wasn’t home. Dad got worried, and called up my uncle Roy, and they headed up to the mill in Roy’s truck. Roy figured, maybe he’d had car trouble, and they found out later that the last guy who saw Solomon, Mister Lafayette, had left the mill about one-thirty in the morning, and saw grandpa in the driver’s seat of his car. By the time my dad and Roy got to the mill, the car was still there, but the door was open, and Solomon was nowhere to be seen.

“Keep in mind, it was raining that night, right? And my family has always had shitty eye-sight, and so when dad found Solomon’s glasses on the ground outside the car, he panicked. They had flashlights, and started making passes around the mill, calling for his dad. My dad noticed this opening in the bushes that looked like someone had crashed through it, and he decided to investigate.”

“Brave, or foolhardy, depending on whom you ask,” Laszlo comments.

“If somebody you loved was missing, would you worry about the danger?” Derek shrugs, casting his eyes down. “I think I’d probably do the same as him.”

“So your father, Abraham, he’s searching the woods. What does he find?”

“There was a path of broken branches and limbs, and he found pieces of my grandfather’s flannel shirt on the ground, so he knew he was on the right track. The police report said he made it about half a mile into the trees before- well, this is where we get into the part most people don’t believe.

“There was somebody on the ground, slumped up against a tree, about fifty feet ahead. It was dark, but dad could see the scraps of the flannel shirt, and knew it was Solomon. He went to run to his dad, but something- something came out of the trees. It didn’t look like a person, just a lump, until suddenly it did, but not like, a person like you or me. Its skin was gray and wrinkled, leathery. Pointy ears and, uh, fingers like claws. It had some kind of cloak on, but nothing else. So the thing grabbed Solomon’s body and started tearing into his neck, and my dad just started. Screaming. Roy swore he heard it plain as day, even though he was probably several hundred feet off.

“The creature heard it too. Turned to look at my dad, and he could see its eyes; yellow, slitted, like a reptile. Big, sharp fangs. Dad said it felt like they were staring at each other for minutes, but it was probably seconds at most. When the creature stood up, Dad ran.”

Laszlo nods. “Your father survived this, obviously. But how? If whatever killed the Lacroix family killed your grandfather, how did your dad manage to ward it off?”

“Well...” Derek lets out a little laugh, shaking his head. “So, my dad lived next to this little old Italian woman, Mrs. Romano, and she would cook for him and his dad a lot. She’s actually the one Dad stayed with after Solomon died. Mrs. Romano was one of those Italians who ate garlic cloves like candy, and every single meal had massive amounts cooked in. Dad said that if he ate one of her dinners, the next morning his room smelled like garlic. The night Solomon died, she’d made this spaghetti dish, and he’d eaten a whole bunch hours before.

“So, he was running through the woods, and something crashed into him, and when he went down, he let out another big scream right into the thing’s face. It immediately screeched and got off of him, and he managed to get up and get moving again.”

“Colin Robinson, do you think we can afford garlic cloves in the budget?” Laszlo tilts his head back, winking at the studio man. “Feels like a smart purchase.”

“Yup, already on it,” Colin Robinson replies, typing on his phone.

Derek shrugs. “That’s the funny bit of the story. The not-so-funny bit is the second time it attacked him. He didn’t realize the garlic scream was what worked the first time, so he didn’t think to yell, and ended up rolling all over the ground with the thing. It started tearing his clothes, and he was afraid and trying to protect his neck, but it seemed like he was gonna lose. There was no way Roy was gonna get to him in time.

“But then, as the thing shredded his clothes up, something weird happened. See, my dad has this old set of dog tags.They’re sort of a family heirloom. My great-grandfather was a soldier in World War II, and according to the family lore, he survived D-Day because a bullet deflected off one of the tags. You can actually see the divot in the tags where the bullet struck. After the war, my great-grandfather got them blessed and passed them down to Solomon, who passed them down to my dad. He always wore them, still does to this very day.”

“He hasn’t passed them on to you?” Laszlo asks.

Derek makes a curious sort of face. “He’s tried to. I didn’t really want ‘em. Bad connotations. Anyway, when the creature shredded his clothes, it got its claws twisted in the tags, and my dad swears its hand started to smoke. It shrieked again and threw itself away.

“One more time, he got up and ran. He knew he was out of tricks, and he was covered in scratches, bleeding, his wrist felt broken. But he kept going, and the next thing that crashed into him was his uncle. He started screaming again telling Roy to run, and they did, right back to the truck.

“Dad told him what happened, and Roy had a shotgun, he wanted to go back and save his brother. But I think my dad knew it was too late. He convinced Roy to drive to the closest house and call the cops. By the time they got to the spot my dad described, Solomon had been dead for hours.”

Derek sits back, and says nothing more. There’s a somber silence in the air, as if a spell has fallen over them all, a collective understanding of the gravity of what they’ve just heard. Laszlo notices Derek wiping at the corner of his eye, too quick to bear mentioning, just enough to be suspicious. But he doesn’t comment.

Finally, Claude breaks the silence. “I can take over, if you want, man.”

Derek nods. “Yeah, go ahead.”

“So, Derek’s dad swears up and down that he saw this humanoid thing kill Solomon, but the chief at the time, Captain Sloane, thinks he’s just spouting nonsense. He’d picked up Abraham and his friends on some minor pot charges earlier in the year, and you know those old school cops. Reefer Madness and all that bullshit. Solomon and Abraham’s wounds are consistent enough with wolf or mountain lion attacks that the coroner declares an animal attack as the cause of death, and Abraham gets shipped off to a home for delinquents because he won’t shut up about the case. He’s 14, and he doesn’t come back to Coventry until he’s 18. After that, like Derek said, Mrs. Romano took him in, and he never stopped pushing the department to reopen the case. Derek’s been hearing about it his whole life, haven’t you?”

“Hey. Does he need a minute?” Laszlo is surprised - and annoyed - to hear Guillermo pipe up from behind the camera, but he does have a point; Derek is staring at his hands, and Laszlo can sense the tension coming off him in waves.

Laszlo leans forward, holding his hand out. “Mr. Sandiford, thank you for your time today. Perhaps you should decompress a bit, yes? I’m sure your fellow slayers can carry the rest of the tale.”

Derek looks up, and after a long moment, takes Laszlo’s hand, shaking it slowly. He jerks to his feet, shuttling himself out of the building with wide, hurried steps.

“Is he going to be alright?” Laszlo asks.

Claude nods. “Yeah, nothing he’s not used to, but nothing he enjoys talking about. You gotta understand, his family’s been at the center of one of the biggest town controversies since before he was even born. After Solomon died, there was an outcry from the locals who did believe Abraham’s story, and the last group of slayers ended up killing a hiker by accident trying to track down the vampire. But we’re gonna avoid that fate.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because we know where the fuckin’ thing is.” Claude grins. “We figured it out. Tonya, you wanna give ‘em the details?”

Tonya draws out a large parchment, and Laszlo recognizes it as a map of Coventry as she spreads it out in front of her. There are little dots placed at specific points on the map. “We tracked all the kills throughout the centuries, and realized that most of them took place around the edges of this area of woods we call Hunter’s Grove. It’s a big, ten mile swath of forest that touches huge portions of the town, but there’s a river running on the other side of the woods that cuts it off from the rest of the valley below us. If you know anything about vampire lore, they can’t cross moving bodies of water.

“Well, there’s only one place in Hunter’s Grove where a vamp could conceivably hide.” Tonya points to a spot on the map that’s circled in bright red ink. “The Snare Hole.”

“It’s a caving system that’s been off-limits to spelunkers since somebody almost died in there in the 60s,” Claude continues. “It’s not particularly difficult, based on accounts from people who went in there before it was closed. Some dummy tried to go in during a raging thunderstorm, and they flood pretty quick. The PD also doesn’t keep anybody on staff who’s trained in cave rescue.”

Laszlo frowns. “If a vampire lived in those caves, wouldn’t we have heard about locals disappearing more often?”

“Not if the thing hibernates,” Claude argues. “Caving wasn’t a popular thing until the last century, and the caves in Essex County had just started getting explored when the Hole got closed off. It’s the perfect hiding spot for a creature who doesn’t need to breathe, can sleep for decades, and needs a dark place to hide out.”

“We’ve been practicing with a caving team upstate for a few months,” Tonya says. “Pretty soon, we’re gonna go in the Hole, find the vampire, and kill it.”

“And we’d love for you to join us,” Claude says, nodding.

“ No fucking way !” he hears Nandor snap, before he can say anything. “Laszlo, that is insanely dangerous, we are not doing it!”

It’s not Nandor’s fault that the way he says it hits on that gnawing little thread of rebellion, echoes the voice of Laszlo’s father, insisting his son be cautious and conservative in all things. All Laszlo knows is that he’s suddenly infuriated. Who the fuck does Nandor think he is, ordering Laszlo around like that? The fucking twat runs roughshod back into their lives, throwing Laszlo’s slowly healing emotions back into chaos, and now he thinks he’s the director?

Ignoring Nandor’s outburst, Laszlo hits Claude with a wide grin, and says, “Oh, yes we are. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

It’ll be a cold day in hell before Laszlo lets the inevitable climax of his story slip through his fingers.

Chapter Text

July 13th, 2022

3:21 PM

The muggy humidity of the mid-July air seems impossible to escape, even in the comfort of a climate-controlled home set to sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Guillermo can feel the sweat building up on the back of his collar as he carries camera bags into the Henderson house. Nandor begged off from the task to make a phone call, so he’s the only one doing all the manual labor. To be fair, he could probably be cooler if he chose to wear something other than dark colored t-shirts and dark colored jeans, but he’s not looking to emulate his Uncle Rodrigo, a man who always seemed to have his tits out, by virtue of wearing white t-shirts and tank tops in the sweltering summer heat in Oaxaca. Bless the man for not giving two shits, but Guillermo has a healthy amount of Catholic shame, thank you so much.

He almost wishes some of his fellow crew members had the same level of hesitation about showing off their massive, hairy, masculine chests that look like they would be extremely comfortable to press your face into and motorboat like a Girls Gone Wild video.

Almost.

The home of one John and Francine Henderson rests at the end of a well-manicured cul-de-sac, slightly elevated due to the natural sloping of the ground, which makes it stand out like the king of all the McMansions. Henderson’s Diner is one of the few mom-and-pop food joints remaining in Coventry, most going under in the face of corporate chains encroaching on their business, and the locals seem loyal to the place, so the semi-swanky digs make sense. Coco was also their only child; Guillermo thinks about his parents, trying to raise three kids on a retail-job budget in a continuously gentrifying neighborhood, and only feels the slightest bit jealous. Not that he’d give up his sisters for the world, but his ama loves to cook, and he imagines that, had they had the money to invest in a small business, her famous tlayudas or flautas could’ve given his family the same kind of benefits.

A sweet little beagle sat with its tail wagging at Francine’s feet when she answered the door, and it’s been following him back and forth from the van, curiously watching him work. Francine said Scooter was well trained and wouldn’t run off. Guillermo still makes sure the front door is securely shut after he’s done unloading the bags. This is when Nandor conveniently reappears, and Guillermo is only 60% suspicious of the timing.

“Looking a little sweaty there,” Nandor comments, and Guillermo wants to... to do something about the little smirk on his face. “Ah, and now you’ve gotten yourself a guard dog?”

“It’s the latest in anti-vampire technology,” Guillermo teases, squatting down to give Scooter a few head pets for being a very good boy, yes he is! “Forget stakes and holy water. Have you ever had to live next to a family with a hound? They don’t shut up; anything that moves sends them into a howling fit. Very good for vampire detection.”

“We never had dogs,” Nandor says, keeping a respectful distance from Scooter. “Cats though, plenty of cats. I had a one named Minnie who liked to shove her butt up against my face while I slept. Woke up very often to a mouth full of cat hair.”

“My abuelita had an old, fat Persian named Bruno. He didn’t like anyone but her, and would let you know it.” Guillermo taps on a faint line that runs an inch across the top of his arm. “This was him.”

“No pets for your own family, though?”

“Nah... too much money and time for my parents. I’d like to get an animal someday. Whenever I get my own place.”

Head pats successfully dispensed, Guillermo rises and follows Nandor down the hall towards the living room.

“And when will that be?” Nandor asks, continuing the conversation.

“Good question. Maybe after this job, I can think about getting a roommate. I’ve got some friends from high school who might be interested.”

“Ah.”

“What about you? You’re not planning on staying with Laszlo and Nadja forever, right?”

“No. But I would need somebody to live with. I’ve never lived alone and do not think I could; I’d never leave the house.”

“So you- lived with somebody.” Guillermo regrets the words as soon as they come out of his mouth, but he’s in for a penny, might as well be in for a pound. “When you were away.”

Nandor is quiet, and Guillermo is worried he’s overstepped as he watches the other man unzip one of the equipment bags.

“Yes,” he finally says. “I did.” He glances up, meets Guillermo’s eyes with a level gaze. “She was-”

“You’re still unpacking the bags?” Laszlo has the absolute worst timing, appearing in the doorway and frowning when he sees the state of the living room. “It’s been a good twenty minutes. Have you just been faffing about?”

“It is my fault,” Nandor says. “I was on a call. Guillermo is the only reason anything is done at all.”

Laszlo sighs. “Well, get a move on, then. We need to be out of here and on our way to the town hall by six at the latest.”

When he leaves, Guillermo pipes up, “Why’d you do that?”

“What?”

“Take all the blame. It was on both of us to stay on schedule, not just you. I could’ve asked somebody else for help if you were busy.”

Nandor shrugs, grabbing the back of an armchair and starting to move it. “It is not a big deal. He is my friend, better he be annoyed with me than you.”

There’s something off about the way he says it, like taking the blame is something he’s very used to. Guillermo feels like he keeps getting puzzle pieces of Nandor, but is missing the ones that would connect the others together.

Guillermo isn’t oblivious; he knows Nandor is protective of him. And he can’t say he doesn’t like it, sometimes. But in times like these, Guillermo really wishes Nandor would let him stand on his own two feet.

“If somebody’s being unreasonable, I don’t mind being defended,” Guillermo says. “But I’m never going to make it in this industry if I can’t take criticism for things when I mess up. So, let me take my share of the blame, okay? I’m stronger than you think.”

Nandor observes him with a curious look, and then says, “For the record, I think you’re plenty strong, Guillermo. But okay.”

Ten minutes later, they’ve set up their equipment, an enormous fireplace framing the background of what will be Francine’s chair. Laszlo eases back onto the couch, adjusting his usual neckerchief accessory - a paisley blue today - and chuckling at something inane Colin Robinson is showing him on his phone. Laszlo is supposed to talk to both of the Hendersons this afternoon, but when they got there, Francine said John had been held up with an issue at work and would be late in coming. Guillermo hopes the man isn’t too late. If he is, they might need to come back for a second part, and this has been the interview Guillermo has been dreading the most. It’s inevitable that one of the Hendersons will break down while telling their story, and Guillermo is bad at dealing with his own distress, much less someone else’s. He’d make a terrible therapist. Thank God all he has to do is make sure the cameras stay in focus, and keep himself calm.

Scooter takes a position right at Francine’s heels as she sits down on the armchair, adjusting her wire-frame glasses. Her blond hair has the kind of highlights you can only get at a salon, and she’s dressed in a navy pencil-skirt and white blouse, looking less like a woman on an extended sabbatical from work, and more like a professional on a lunch break. If Guillermo had to estimate, he’d say she’s somewhere in her fifties, though he’s heard that a personal tragedy can age somebody a decade overnight.

What must that be like, losing a child? Guillermo can barely handle animal death (RIP Bruno), much less the idea of someone who should outlive you. It must tear something loose inside of you, rend apart the pieces of your life that make it impossible to ever put them together again just as they were. You must become like a shattered porcelain jug, the shards carefully glued back in place. Resembling an approximate shape of the original thing, but when you try to contain everything you once could, it all starts to bleed out.

He muses this as Laszlo waves Colin Robinson off and starts to do his thing: putting on the charms and using reassuring words to prime his interviewee. Beside Guillermo, Nandor keeps checking his phone and sending text messages to someone. Guillermo feels such a strong urge to peek, to pry. (Is it the person he lived with?) But it’s not his place. (He’d said she , which could imply all sorts of relationships.) If Nandor wanted him to know, he’d tell Guillermo. (Could be a sister, a college friend, maybe a random roommate he found online.) It’s probably nothing. (He has pale skin around his ring finger.) 

Guillermo is definitely overthinking things.

(“He was different, before,” Nadja had said to him once, as they stood on the balcony of Laszlo and Nadja’s apartment, sipping cheap beer. “It’s like his body came back to us, but it left something behind.”)

Everyone except Laszlo and Mrs. Henderson crowd behind the cameras as Guillermo calls action. The first part of the interview contains nothing Guillermo already hasn’t gleaned together from the obituary, news articles, and testimonies of their previous interviewees. Francine reminisces over Coco’s life in the way only a parent could: “She was such a bright child, so kind to everyone. She’d see a stranger on the street and want to meet them, find out who they were, where they came from. I took a few years off from practicing law when she was born, and they were the best years of my life, even if half of my days were spent making sure she hadn’t run out the door to greet the mailman or our neighbors walking their dogs.” She smiles, drumming her nails on her knee as she looks off into her own thoughts. “I was probably a little strict with her, because John was always at the restaurant, but by the time she got to kindergarten she’d settled down. Model student, so well behaved. She tracked into honors and AP courses in high school.”

“Not a girl prone to late night retreats into the wilderness.” Laszlo posits. “At least, not as she grew older.”

Francine shakes her head. “She liked hiking the trails around Coventry - so do plenty of folks. But only in the daytime. Most teenagers, you’d expect to want to stay out until all hours of the night, but she was usually in the house at ten by the latest. Had to study for school, of course, but even on the weekends, she preferred having friends come over than going to their homes. She didn’t like the woods at night. That’s why...” Francine swallows, and Guillermo can see it, can see the cracks forming in her composure. “It didn’t make sense, to me, that she’d been found so far into the woods. She wouldn’t have gone out there without a good reason.”

“Like?”

“Like someone asking her to.” Francine dabs a finger under her eye, catching the single tear that’s been forming in the corner. “Somebody she knew, trusted.”

“This is where we get into a touchy subject, I suppose.” Laszlo shifts, leaning forwards onto his elbows. “I’ve been told that you and your husband have differing opinions on the validity of the animal attack theory. Perhaps, while we wait for him, you can give us an idea as to why?”

Francine nods. “I... We’re both devastated by this, but I think the animal attack is the explanation John can accept the best. Any other explanation brings up questions about whether he- we made the right choices.”

“I can presume you’re not speaking of the vampire theory.”

“Vampires,” she spits, eyes going hard. “That lunatic Sandiford has poisoned the minds of a bunch of impressionable youths and now they think they’re an army, defending the town from evil. Well, Mr. Cravensworth, Coventry’s already got a defender, and we do just fine asking him for help on Sunday mornings without those ‘slayers’ meddling in unholy practices. So when John told me he’d hired that Feldstein girl, I knew it could only bring trouble. I tried to convince him it was a poor idea, but he disagreed. So I let it go. And look what happened?” She sniffs, wiping her eyes again. “Now my baby is gone.”

Laszlo nods sympathetically. “So you believe Ms. Feldstein is responsible for Coco’s death?”

“Maybe her, or maybe one of her slayer friends got it in their heads that they needed to make some kind of sacrifice to appease the ‘vampire.’ Sandiford’s ravings already got somebody else killed- you know about Mr. Godfrey’s death, back in the 70s?”

“I do.” 

Guillermo had filled Laszlo in earlier on the research he’d done into each murder. After Solomon Sandiford’s death, at least a dozen or so townspeople started regular night patrols of Coventry’s woods, egged on by Abraham’s insistence that there was a vampire in their midst that would keep killing folks. The patrols lasted barely a fortnight before someone took a shot at Edward Godfrey, a local man who lived near the edge of the woods and who was known to enjoy late night walks along the trails. Godfrey died, the shooter was shipped away for life imprisonment in a federal facility, and the cops cracked down on the patrols, threatening harsh penalties for anyone who continued. That had been the last activity of slayers in Coventry before Claude resurrected the idea.

Francine gives Laszlo a curt nod, as if the point she’s making needs no further explanation. “That man should’ve stayed in the loony bin where they took him. If he had, Coco would be alive today. I just know it.” She’s stopped trying to wipe her tears away, hands shaking in her lap as Scooter noses at them and whines. “That’s why I agreed to this interview, Mister Cravensworth. I’m going to make sure my baby gets justice. I’m never going to shut up about what Abraham Sandiford did to my family, until he- until he gets what’s coming to him!” She presses a hand to her face, and finally dissolves into weeping.

Laszlo lets Mrs. Henderson’s impassioned words settle in the silence of the cavernous living room, her muted crying the only sound remaining. He makes no comment, merely keeps his head tilted, his expression neutral. To Guillermo, the quiet feels like a suffocating wall that goes on for eternity. He keeps thinking, surely, surely now Laszlo will say something, point out the irony of Mrs. Henderson’s words when placed next to Abraham’s own insistence on justice for his father. Yet the man says nothing.

Guillermo can’t understand it. Laszlo rarely shuts up and now he’s choosing to wait? Is he considering his next question? Is he milking the woman’s pain for artistic endeavor? Guillermo hasn’t felt this uncomfortable in someone’s home since his great aunt Maria pestered him into giving her his phone number to pass along to one of her friend’s granddaughters, her eyebrows high and hinting at expectations that he could not possibly fulfill. Thankfully, said friend’s granddaughter, Veronica, was very understanding and sympathetic when he let her know he didn’t bark up her particular tree. Amusingly, she could relate to his dilemma, as she did not bark up his particular tree either.

He doesn’t realize how badly he’s fidgeting on his stool until he feels a hand on his shoulder, grounding him in the present moment. Somebody shifts, leaning into his space. 

“It has been twenty seconds,” Nandor murmurs, breath ghosting against the shell of Guillermo’s ear, sending a shiver up his spine. “He will not let this go on longer than necessary. Trust him.”

When he plays the footage back later, he will realize that Nandor is right. Laszlo does not let more than thirty seconds pass, before he finally says, “I find it interesting that, despite the coroner’s report suggesting this was a panther attack, and no foul play occurred, the case remains open. In fact, most of the department’s focus seems to have been towards investigating members of the community, rather than attempting to track down the animal that may have killed Coco.”

The sound of weeping dies down almost immediately. Francine lifts her head, frowning and wiping her eyes again. “What are you suggesting?”

Laszlo folds his hands. “Mrs. Henderson, what is your relationship with-”

The sound of the front door slamming open makes everyone in the room jump, cutting off Laszlo’s sentence.

“The fuck is going on?” Nandor mutters, his hand still clamped to Guillermo’s shoulder as they twist to look behind them, down the hallway. 

The silhouette of a man stands in the doorway, the July sun behind him so bright that it blinds Guillermo temporarily. For a brief, frightening moment, Guillermo swears the outlined figure is not a man, but the thing he saw last night, stepping out of the shadows towards him.

Then his eyes adjust, and the floppy-haired, tall man Guillermo recognizes from online journal articles walks briskly into the living room. John Henderson surveys the scene, and says, “I’m going to have to ask you all to leave.”

“John?” Francine pushes half out of her chair. “What’s wrong?”

Laszlo frowns. “Mr. Henderson, couldn’t we have a brief chat-”

“No, I’m sorry.” He does look apologetic, at least. “Something’s come up. We can speak another day, but there’s something I need to discuss with my wife.”

Oh, that’s a juicy morsel of information that begs to be explored, but Guillermo suspects it won’t be right now.

“It is fine,” Nadja calls from her spot in a corner. Guillermo hadn’t even realized she’d moved away. She’s typing something on her phone, and he can see the screen well enough to know it’s a messaging app. Is everybody having side conversations today except him? “We will reschedule. Nandor, Guillermo, get everything back in the van.” 

She turns and walks down the hall before anyone can respond, eyes still locked to her phone.

“Whatever pleases you, mistress,” Nandor mutters. 

Guillermo smothers a laugh in his sleeve and pretends it’s a cough.

They pack quickly, managing to shove everything fairly neatly back into their bags. It seems a poor idea to tarry, considering the way the interview ended - suddenly, and with Laszlo hinting towards some assertion of ulterior motives. What had he been about to say?

“What do you think got Mr. Henderson so spooked?” Guillermo asks Nandor as they load the last bags into the van.

Nandor shrugs. “No idea. But in a town like this, I doubt we’ll have to go for very long before finding out.” He shuts the trunk door with a huff, wiping his hand up through his hair and trying to smooth down all the loose strands that have come out of the bun.

“Oh, just take the ties out,” Guillermo demands, holding his hand out. “I’ll fix it.”

“I thought you were supposed to be teaching me,” Nandor retorts, though he does as he’s told, raven hair cascading over his shoulders as he hands Guillermo the ties.

Guillermo rolls his eyes. “Another time, c’mon, vamanos.”

“Pushy, pushy.” Nandor smirks, sitting on the lip of the trunk. “I don’t usually let people get so up close and personal with my hair before at least the third date.”

“Shush,” Guillermo replies, though what he really wants to say is, Maybe you should. It’s an appealing part of the whole package.

Hair successfully fixed, Nandor hops to his feet and then reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone, which is vibrating. Guillermo catches sight of the screen, a brief name for the caller: J L.

“Need to take it?” Guillermo asks.

Nandor frowns. “Fuck. Yes, I think. Just, tell Nadja... tell her, ahhh...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Guillermo says with a smile. “You got me before, I’ll cover for you.”

Nandor’s answering smile is relieved. “Thank you. Be right back.”

Two letters, Guillermo thinks, watching Nandor walk away. Two letters, a pronoun, and a missing ring. 

It’s not much, but it’s a start. Coco Henderson’s death isn’t the only mystery Guillermo is interested in solving while they’re in Coventry.

Whether Nandor will let him close enough to do so, remains to be seen.

Chapter Text

July 13th, 2022

1:22 PM

“Order up! Jenna, your table’s in the window.”

“Thanks, Marco,” Jenna says, reaching to pick up Mrs. Bergen’s chipotle chicken salad from the warming shelf - grilled subbed in for the popcorn chicken, hold the dressing - and moving towards the door.

“Chica!” She glances back to see Marco’s face peering through the gap in the shelving, his expression concerned. “You okay? You’ve been off today.”

Marco is the oldest chef in the kitchen, a man in his 50s who gave up a corporate office job to become sous chef for a man two decades younger than him, without regrets. He’s always been nice to her, in that genuine kind of way that isn’t looking for anything in return. 

Jenna puts on the brightest smile she can, voice chipper as she replies, “Yeah, I’m alright! Thanks.”

The smile drops off her face as soon as she turns around.

Marco is sweet to be worried, but she’s not looking to go into detail right now. She just wants to get done with her shift, go home, and then try to figure out a good way to apologize to Shanice.

Jenna knows she fucked up. Shanice just wanted to make sure she was okay, and Jenna had a crazy overreaction to that. She appreciates Shanice’s concern, even if it’s not going to solve the crux of Jenna’s problem, which is that half this town thinks she’s a murderer. Because if you find a dead body, apparently you put it there, or something.

If she’d known it would lead to being a murder suspect, Jenna probably would’ve never applied for this job. Working at Henderson’s is far from her first choice, but jobs in Coventry are few and far between, and she isn’t about to drive half an hour to another town just to make minimum wage. She’d initially been wary, because of the whole “ Coco Henderson is a conniving bitch and she’s going to make your life a living hell ” bit - Shanice’s words, not hers - but Mr. Henderson came off in her job interview as a pretty affable guy, and he seemed to understand the discord between his daughter and his new employee. Jenna, therefore, tended to work the evening shifts, while Coco did mornings. One of them had an active social life, and a boyfriend to spend hours on the phone with, after all. They rarely ended up on the same shift.

Three months into her tenure at Henderson’s , that had changed. 

One evening, Jenna had been elbow-deep in orders from a twelve-top table of little leaguers when Coco burst through the doors of the restaurant, eyes red and watery, and immediately headed to the bathroom. Very few people paid her any mind, but Jenna noticed. She told Marco she was taking her fifteen minutes, asked Ashley to cover the kids’ table, and then followed Coco to the women’s room.

She’s still not sure what prompted her to do this. Maybe she’d recognized herself in that dour expression. Maybe she’d wanted to rubber-neck a side of Coco that the prom queen rarely ever showed. Maybe she’d just thought it was the right thing to do. Whatever the case, when she opened the bathroom door, she heard the echo of a cut off sob coming from one of the closed stalls, and the subtle sniffs of someone trying to hide their tears in their sweater.

Not that Jenna had any experience with that.

“...Coco?” Jenna approached the stall, slowly, announcing her presence to avoid spooking the woman. She stopped in front of the stall door, knocking once. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Coco was not fine. That was clear in the uncertain waver in her voice, the familiar hiccup of someone trying their hardest to pretend life hadn’t just dealt them a swift blow. “I’ll be out for my shift.”

“I just- people say I’m easy to talk to!” Jenna rambled, swaying nervously in front of the door, feeling her company-issued dress swishing against her kneecaps. “If... if you needed that.”

She backed up two steps when she heard rustling, and when the stall door opened, Coco stood there, clutching her purse, lip trembling, and she looked so small. Vulnerable. Nothing like the towering threat to Jenna’s high school reputation she’d once been.

“Why?” Coco asked, and the word sounded like the smallest syllable she could manage without collapsing into a fit of despair.

Jenna shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck. “I guess... I don’t know. I guess I’ve been there, you know?”

So Jenna locked the bathroom door and leaned back against the long sink as Coco bent over it, sobbing over the clean white porcelain, detailing her intense fight with Mister Prom King himself, Richie McGill, Coco’s boyfriend throughout high school. Apparently, as of 5:32PM that evening, he could now add the prefix ex- to his identity in Coco’s life. There had been some pretty awful things said on both sides, although Jenna thought the liberal use of misogynistic language and insinuations that Coco would never amount to anything were the clear winner in who was the bigger asshole.

“He’s right,” Coco warbled, dabbing under her eyes with a paper towel, trying to save the impressive lower-lid eyeshadow she’d applied. “I’m gonna be stuck in this stupid town for the rest of my life, in this stupid diner, taking stupid peoples’ orders and ordering around my stupid employees!” She paused and glanced over at Jenna, and had the good sense to look ashamed, having realized what she said. “Sorry...”

“No, it’s-”

Okay. She was going to say okay, because that’s what Jenna always did. Let people insult her, get away with things, rather than have to deal with the uncomfortable reality of what it would mean to stand up for herself.

Instead, what came out of her mouth, was: “I’m not stupid.”

Coco swallowed, and then, to Jenna’s great shock, replied, “I know. You got really good grades in school, didn’t you?”

“You know about that?”

“Yeah. I was, like, super jealous. You made it look effortless. Any time I was at home, my mom was up my ass about studying. Anything under a 90 was a failure.”

“Oh.” Jenna’s mom had been pretty insistent on hard work, but it was the effort that was rewarded, not the number. Apparently, Coco’s mom had seen differently.

“It’s why I spent as much time out of the house as I could,” Coco admitted, walking over to the trash bin and tossing the paper towel. “She doesn’t bother me as much now that I’m in college, but I think she was worried I wouldn’t get in, and now that I have, she can relax.”

“I don’t wanna be stuck here either,” Jenna blurted out, grinning nervously as Coco stared at her. “So, that’s something we have in common, huh?”

“...Yeah.” And then something happened that had never happened before. Coco smiled at her. Smiled, like Jenna was a person, not just an annoyance, or the butt of a joke, or the social reject she needed to stay away from at all costs.

After that night, Coco was noticeably nicer. She would give Jenna a little wave whenever she came in for a shift, and sometimes they’d be on shift together, and Coco would make a comment to her about one of the customers, or some juicy town gossip she’d become privy to, and Jenna would give the best reply she could, which usually made Coco smile. Months went by like this, and Jenna noticed that instead of shrinking away from Coco’s gaze, she didn’t mind it, and when Coco approached her to say something, the long-held fear of what would come out of her mouth slowly faded away.

Maybe it’s pathetic, warming up to someone who never spared you a second glance in high school. Probably, if she’d read it in a book somewhere, she’d call it cliché, tired. A girl who masked her insecurities by honing in on others’, finding some sense of remorse as she grew up, eventually befriending one of the very people she bullied? Definitely like, problematic at best. Actively victim-blaming at worst.

Then again, maybe real life is more complex than fiction. Real life is messy. People are imperfect. Shoving them into the boxes of good person and bad person, without ever giving them the chance to change? Maybe that becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Hurt people hurt people. Jenna heard that in a YouTube video once. Maybe the internet can bear the occasional nugget of wisdom.

They’d never fully hashed out everything that had gone on between them. Jenna isn’t sure they’d ever have gotten that close. What they did create was something between an acquaintance and a friendship, a few in-jokes, and the ability for Jenna to talk about her plans to get out of Coventry and have another person cheering her on.

A year ago, Coco mentioned she’d started dating this guy at her college named Patrick; he was studying in person, while she was going digitally, and they’d met at a virtual mixer. Six months ago, Jenna went on a five minute tangent about her love of Gillian Anderson that definitely revealed way too much of her sexuality, and there was a moment of panic before Coco shrugged and said, “She’s not for me, but Young David Duchovny was pretty hot too. So I guess I know where you’re coming from?”

Two months ago, Coco looked at her across the diner counter as she poured coffee into a set of three mugs, and said, “You ever think about whether you’d need roommates when you go live those big city dreams?”

Two weeks later, she was dead.

Jenna never did answer her question.

That night, standing between two oak trees in the forest, Coco’s lifeblood staining the leaves and vines under her body, Jenna remembers staring at the sharp lines of her eyeliner, how they rounded and brightened the whites of her eyes, even in death. That night, Jenna stood, with Death rising up to meet her, and a kind of resolve settled over her, a cloak, just like the one Jennelf wore as she rode through the forests of Mayweather, slaying goblins and rescuing fair maidens. A certainty, a belief in herself that she’s never had before, and has never felt since.

Not tonight , she’d told Death. Tonight, I will walk out of here, because someone needs to tell John and Francine Henderson that their daughter is dead.

Then, with that resolve burning bright against her chest, she’d turned, and walked right back to her car, and drove all the way to the Coventry police department.

Captain Delmonico looks the same kind of haggard today when he walks into Henderson’s that he did when she told him about the body in the forest on that night six weeks ago. A man under the strain of a town’s need for answers, and she could almost feel sorry for him, if he wasn’t looking at her for an easy answer to the question.

Jenna has an answer, but not one he’d believe.

“Miss Feldstein.” Delmonico approaches her as she smiles at Mrs. Bergen and places her chicken salad down on the table. “We need to talk.”

“Um, now?” She doesn’t really want the customers overhearing this. “Hold on, I’ll let the kitchen know I’m taking my fifteen.”

“Gonna need longer than a fifteen,” Delmonico says, following her towards the kitchen. “Is John in yet?”

“He’s in the back office,” Jenna says, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Come on, now,” he says, striding past her, like he owns the place. “We’ll let him know.”

She follows him, because there doesn’t seem to be anything else she can do, shrugging her shoulders when the kitchen staff watches them walk past. John Henderson’s office is next to the pantry, and today he’s bent over a stack of accounting books, quietly scratching a pencil across the page. He looks up when Delmonico knocks on the door.

“Sorry to bother you, John, but you’re going to want to call in some other help today.” Delmonico motions to Jenna. “I need Ms. Feldstein to come to the station with me.”

“What?” Jenna pales, taking a step back. “Why?”

“Something’s come to light that we need to discuss, related to Coco.”

“But I told you everything!”

“What’s this about?” John looks as confused as Jenna, and not very happy to have Delmonico come in and start making it harder for him to run a business.

Delmonico’s face takes on this somber gravity, replying, “It’s nothing I can tell you about now, unfortunately. I worry it’d make you see Miss Feldstein differently, and I’m not looking to cause a rift between you two.”

Well, if he wasn’t looking to cause a rift, that wasn’t the way to handle it. John glances at Jenna, and she can see his expression shift, newfound suspicion written all over his face. Up until this point, he’s seemed to accept her version of the events. Thanks to Delmonico, that might not be the case anymore.

“I’ll call in Sam,” John says, picking up his cell phone. “Jenna’s on shift until four, do you think she’ll be back before that?”

Delmonico shakes his head. “Unlikely. I’ll reach out when I know more.”

“I don’t understand...” Jenna is blinking back tears by the time Delmonico rests a hand on her shoulder and nudges her back towards the kitchen. “I didn’t do anything...”

“Come on, Miss Feldstein. Let’s just talk about it.”

The walk out to Delmonico’s cop car feels like being walked to the gallows. The kitchen crew is silent, barely the sound of a pan shifting on the stove as the two of them pass. Marco is watching her through the space in the prep counter, concern written across his face. Jenna bows her head, curling her fists and resisting the urge to scream or cry or run or the thousand other things she wants to do right now than go with Delmonico.

But there’s nothing for it. They walk into the front of the restaurant, and Jenna keeps her eyes forward, because she doesn’t want to see Mrs. Bergen’s shocked expression, or Mr. DeAngelo’s quiet judgment, or the stares of the half dozen other patrons. She knows that within the hour, half the town will know about this.

And not just the townspeople; the documentary crew is sure to hear about Jenna being taken into custody. What will they think? Jenna wants to trust them, wants to believe they’re here to really find the truth, but what if she tells them everything, and they play her off as a raving lunatic? It would be far easier to believe a shy, quiet nerdy girl used the backdrop of past town murders to enact revenge against her high school bully, than what really happened.

“Am I under arrest?” Jenna asks as Delmonico walks her towards the cop car.

“Well, we can talk about that when we get to the station.” He opens the back door of the car, motioning for her to get in. “Come on.”

She thinks about pulling out her phone, sending a quick SOS message to Shanice or Derek. But depending on what Delmonico thinks he has, that could potentially put suspicion on either of them - especially with Derek’s family history and their status as part of the slayers - and Jenna isn’t going to let that happen.

So she ducks into the back seat, keeps her head bowed, and goes over her story in her head, over and over, just to make sure she’s got it right. No slip ups.

Maybe, if she’s lucky, she’s not doomed to go down in Coventry’s history as a murderer. Or crazy.

Chapter Text

July 13th, 2022

6:32PM

The problem with being good at your job, Nadja has realized, is that people tend to notice.

Alright, that’s a bit cheeky. Of course she wants attention, recognition, accolades. Who bloody doesn’t? Would an adoring legion of fans fawning over her be too much to ask? She didn’t get into this industry to toil at the bottom, editing together cheaply produced commercials for soft drink companies. The success of Shagged has opened doors to the Cravensworth-Antipaxos production team. They’ve got their in, and now they just have to not blow it. Easy.

No, the problem comes less from the Cravenworth-Antipaxos talent, and more from the fact that certain parties have become more interested in the Antipaxos half of the hyphenation.

You see, there’s this infamous producer in the film industry. For the past ten years, a number of brilliant movies with all female writing, directing, and editing teams have come out on a fairly consistent schedule. Their budgets are moderate, but their cultural influence is astounding. There was 2013’s Five Hundred Ravens, 2016’s Naked and Glistening, and 2020’s Wraiths!: The Musical. All of them took home at least two Oscars, stacked up against big names like Les Miserables and Ex Machina.

One name and one name only retains a producer credit on all of these films: The Guide.

Nobody knows her real name; and it is a she, as far as Nadja’s contacts with the industry can tell her. The woman is known to sweep onto her sets dressed in all black, face always veiled like a knockoff Sia, and make pronouncements about what needs to be changed at any given point in a production. This could range from key pieces of the plot that aren’t meshing well, scenery to be completely revamped, and actors or crew fired and hired at a moment’s notice. It sounds like an absolutely atrocious way of engendering goodwill among your staff, but somehow, she convinces everyone her ideas are the correct ones, and it always makes for a better movie. Even those let go from productions tend to, when asked if they hold any resentment, shrug their shoulders and say “Yeah, it was probably for the best.”

Nadja has the poster for Five Hundred Ravens - the graphic designer did a fantastic job and really managed to cram five-hundred birds on there! Nadja counted - signed by the lead actors, hanging up on the living room wall in her apartment. She’s watched Naked and Glistening at least a dozen times, a bit of statistical trivia that makes Laszlo scowl whenever she brings it up at parties. She’s seriously considering a tattoo of Wraith #3 performing its big solo number from Wraiths! Suffice it to say, she’s a fan.

So when she got an email last month from an unknown address that made it past her spam filter, titled I NEED YOU ON MY NEXT PROJECT, she’d only screamed a little bit when she saw the name (title?) of the woman who’d reached out. She wrote back immediately, and this began an email chain dozens of messages long, explaining the concept for The Guide’s next production, an international affair that would take her team on a sweeping global tour. The Guide was insistent: she must have a brilliant editor, ready to drop everything else in her life and plunge herself into the fires of a filmmaking challenge that would hone her skills and test her mettle. “Give me a year of your life, and you’ll have every studio in the business begging you to sign.”

A year of her life. Away from everything and everyone she’s grown to know and love.

A year without Laszlo.

You may be starting to understand the problem here.

Nadja is an independent woman who doesn’t need a man to make her way in the world... but she very much likes the one she has found and enjoys being around him, okay? Is that so wrong? Does that make her a bad feminist or something? Pah. One should have standards, and maybe this is one of hers.

The Guide is pushing her to make a decision, her insistent messages unhelpfully coinciding with this trip to Coventry. I will need to know your answer soon, she’d written in her last email to Nadja. If Nadja chooses to go, she’ll be flying out to London by the end of the year. This would give her less than six months to help Laszlo complete this current project, a tall order, but one she could probably manage with a little help (possibly calling in Lilith for a favor. Ugh. Give the woman something else to hold over her head).

A tiny, itty bitty hiccup in this plan is that she may have… neglected to completely inform Laszlo of this opportunity. By completely, she means entirely. She has very good reasoning behind this! Unlike the Neanderthals she’s dated in the past, Laszlo is not the jealous type when it comes to having some fun outside of their marriage (Lilith isn’t just good for business, after all) but when it comes to projects outside of their working relationship, he’s King Commander Jealous Prick. In the past, this hasn’t been much of an issue. She was happy to spend the majority of her time and energy collaborating with him and Nandor, but after The Argument, their once rock-solid creative teamwork was left in shambles. Shagged was only just starting production, and as they scrambled to find a replacement cinematographer, Nadja found herself wondering if perhaps entirely enmeshing one’s professional and personal lives wasn’t the most intelligent way of living. She never voiced this to Laszlo, but when Nandor returned, missing that spark of creative passion that she’d so loved in her friend, it only made the problem stand out more starkly.

This opportunity... oh, it’s just a bloody fucking good opportunity! A chance to grow and be challenged in ways she has yet to encounter. But like the trunk of a solid oak tree, she has been growing alongside Nandor and Laszlo her whole career. Once she branches off, it would be the end of that formative foundation; she could never truly walk beside them in the same way.

Then again, maybe Nandor made that decision for the three of them when he walked out two years ago. The last thing he’d said to them was, “I’m doing what’s going to make me happy, whether you can accept that or not.” Maybe she should take that advice.

Of course, considering how that had turned out for Nandor, maybe not.

They’d agreed to a break after the semi-disastrous end of their interview with Mrs. Henderson; Laszlo’s charming wiles had only just managed to score them a shorter second interview with Mr. Henderson on Saturday morning. Back at the hotel, Nadja felt too wired to rest; The Guide had sent her text messages while they were at the Henderson house, and the persuasive reasoning had left Nadja jittery. She ended up planting herself in Colin Robinson’s room - of all people - because that’s where all the equipment was, and she could review their footage while the man blathered on about his girlfriend’s surprise eviction notice and attempts to get an unfortunate neck tattoo removed before her next performance review at work. As long as she made little “hmmm” and “ahh” and “I see” noises every so often, she could focus on the footage and he would provide a background drone, like a human white noise machine.

Now, back in the van, she turns her questions over and over in her mind as they rumble down the streets of Coventry. She’s taken the very back seat, making excuses about wanting to mull over a creative editing decision, an excuse that Laszlo - he of long isolated walks and gazing into the middle distance - is easily persuaded by. Colin Robinson has taken shotgun, and between his effervescent babbling and the evening heat penetrating the interior of the vehicle, turning it into a sweatbox, everyone - minus Laszlo - seems exhausted despite the two hour nap some of them took. In the middle seats, Guillermo has actually fallen back asleep, bringing to mind questions of a possible narcolepsy diagnosis. He’s slumped sideways into Nandor’s arm, and even with the visible sweat building up on the back of her friend’s neck, he looks unwilling to push the plush little man off. The opposite, in fact; he keeps glancing away from his phone to stare down at the snoozing figure cozying up against him, and there’s a soft smile gracing his normally dour mouth.

After the events of the Argument, Nadja had specifically distanced herself from Nandor’s love life (though if she ever meets the nasty piece of work that he’d thrown them over for, she’s clawing that bitch’s eyes out). She’s also given Guillermo minimal attention, other than the requisite amount, seeing him more as an unfortunate but necessary substitute that would easily get the boot once Nandor snapped out of his funk. Maybe if she’d looked a little closer, examined their interactions over the past two months, she would’ve noticed this before. Nandor’s now-blindingly-obvious crush on their crewmate.

She doesn’t know how to feel about it. On the one hand, Nandor’s past romantic endeavors were the thing that caused them all such discord. His track record for picking out good partners is subpar. And she’s still not wholly impressed with Guillermo’s skills or capacity to handle this project. Though she supposes that has nothing to do with his ability to be a good partner.

On the other hand, Nadja hasn’t seen Nandor smile like this in a dog’s age. It’s... well it’s bloody cute, alright? The stupid vlákas and his goofy, expressive face. Unable to hide a single feeling he’s ever had. It’s what charmed her the first time she met him - the sad but endearing eagerness with which he followed her back to her dorm, a puppy looking for a friend.

Perhaps it’s a relief, too. Knowing there’s something in this world that proves the Nandor she loves still exists, underneath all that hurt and anger and sadness. Someone who still gets to see that side of him. Maybe someday, the walls between them will come down enough to let her see that side of him again.

The streets of Coventry are bustling in comparison to yesterday, and many people are walking the direction they’re driving, towards the town hall. The town council’s monthly meeting is starting in an hour or so, a perfect opportunity for the crew to take a temperature of how the rest of the townsfolk feel about the murder investigation. It’s likely that many of the key players will be attending; Derek mentioned his father would make an appearance, and he’d likely be going in support of Jenna. The agenda posted on the town website mentions nothing related to Coco’s death, but considering John Henderson is a member of the three person council, and last month’s meeting was canceled because of his daughter’s death, Nadja would be surprised if it didn’t come up.

When they turn onto the main street itself, Colin Robinson sits up straight in the passenger seat and points directly ahead. “Hey, look. What’s going on over by the police station?”

Nadja frowns and leans over the middle seat, trying to get a better look. She jostles Guillermo with her elbow, and he blinks back to awareness as Nadja says, “It’s the bloody slayers. What the fuck are they doing?”

“They don’t look happy,” Laszlo comments, squinting through the rays of the evening sunlight. “Wonder if one of them got picked up for something.”

“I count five of them,” Nandor says. He hasn’t moved since Guillermo lifted his head from Nandor’s shoulder, and with Nadja crowding the space to Guillermo’s other side, Guillermo is unable to shift away. Nadja notes the color rising on his face, seemingly embarrassed to be caught snuggling up to the other man, though apparently not enough to ask Nandor to shift over. Nandor continues, “Claude, Tonya, Derek, and presumably Shanice... along with the police chief.” His expression sours as he says the last bit.

“Maybe we should stop?” Guillermo looks questioningly at Nadja. “Could be important.”

“Mmmm.” Nadja nods. “Laszlo, pull over.”

Laszlo finds one of many empty street parking spots, and they pile out of the van, Guillermo and Nandor hurrying to pull out the handheld cameras, while Nadja and Laszlo stride towards the crowd. She motions for Colin Robinson to follow; any possible unplanned interactions with the police should have as many witnesses as they can manage, lest anything untoward occurs.

Outside the station, Delmonico is standing, arms folded, shaking his head as Claude stands opposite, saying something too low to hear to the man. The woman they haven’t met before who they presume is Shanice stands beside Claude, hands on her hips, thrumming with a spitfire anger that impresses Nadja; for someone so small, she seems fierce in the face of authority. Tonya and Derek stand a little ways away, muttering to each other as they watch the scene unfold.

“Darling,” Laszlo mutters, “Perhaps it would be better for you to initiate this particular interaction, considering my last interaction with the chief was less than effusive.”

“Am I turning up the intimidation factor or my womanly wiles?” she mutters back.

“The latter, I’m afraid.” He looks apologetic. “I doubt the man responds well to challenging his authority.”

Sigh. Fucking men.

Nadja puts on her best please-give-me-oodles-of-money-to-make-my-next-project smile and heads straight for the group. “Captain Delmonico!” she calls, fluttering her eyelashes in a practiced manner as she gives a little wave. “Do you have a moment?”

Delmonico raises an eyebrow as Claude turns to look at the approaching crew. “I’m a little busy, if you couldn’t tell?”

“Oh, my apologies!” She pauses in front of the men, nodding demurely. “It is just, I had wanted to thank you for helping my darling husband with our paperwork a little earlier. I’m Nadja Antipaxos, Laszlo’s wife.”

“Sorry about that, Captain,” Laszlo says, stepping up beside her. “Once my lady gets her mind set to something, it’s hard to convince her otherwise. I’m sure you understand, being a family man, yourself.”

Delmonico looks at Laszlo, which gives Nadja a brief moment to meet Claude’s eyes and wink. He seems to pick up on what they’re doing, biting back a smirk and returning her wink with the barest of nods.

“Sure can,” Delmonico says, his tense shoulders settling just a little. “But unfortunately, Ms. Antipaxos, I can’t talk right now, I’m dealing with a little situation.”

“Oh?” She blinks, glancing between Delmonico and Claude. “Is something the matter?”

“We’re just waiting for our friend to get out,” Claude says. “This is a public setting, nothing wrong with us being here.”

“And like I told you already, Mr. Robinson, once she’s released, you can come pick her up, but the four of you standing out here are starting to make our neighbors nervous.” He nods towards the woman next to Claude. “Ms. Slowikowska, why don’t you have everybody go back to Doug’s? I’m sure Ms. Feldstein will call you if and when she’s ready.”

That confirms it - Shanice Slowikowska is the fourth member of the slayer group, and it sounds like Jenna Feldstein is the one they’re waiting for. Nadja feels a prickle of concern for the girl; she was so nervous yesterday, a little twitchy bunny in far over her head. Poor thing. If she’s being brought into the police station, it can’t be for anything good.

“I don’t know what people have to be nervous about,” Shanice retorts. “Public assembly is a protected constitutional right.”

Delmonico shakes his head. “Yes, but where that public assembly occurs isn’t. If you’d like to make this out to be a protest, you can apply for a permit. Otherwise, it’s my job to enforce the peace in this town, and in order to do so, I’m going to have to ask you to find another place to assemble.”

“Why don’t you tell us when Jenna is going to be released, and maybe we’ll go,” Claude says.

“That’s confidential information,” Delmonico counters. “Frankly, I’m doing you all a kindness by even acknowledging Ms. Feldstein is here.”

“This is ridiculous - Jenna didn’t do anything,” Shanice snaps, glaring at Delmonico. “You have no real reason to hold her except to get her to admit to something she didn’t do!”

“Ms. Slowikowska, I’m asking nicely.” Delmonico takes a half-step forward, lowering his arms and resting a hand on his belt, fingers inches from his holstered weapon. “Don’t make me go beyond that.”

It’s getting heated, and Nadja realizes that the inclusion of cameras would not be looked upon kindly. She can see Nandor and Guillermo walking from the van, already filming as they approach. She motions to Nandor and meets his eyes, mouthing keep your distance to the man. He nods in return, grabbing Guillermo’s arm and stilling the other man at the street corner a block away.

“Surely there’s a resolution here!” Laszlo pipes up, jolting the three arguing adults out of their focused triangle. “Perhaps a general timeframe for when these fine folks could return and check in on their friend? Or maybe they could be permitted to wait in the station, so as to not ruffle the feathers of the local gossips?”

“Not happening,” Delmonico says, at the same time Claude huffs, “The hell if I’m going back in there ever again.”

Nadja is starting to consider whether a tactical retreat is in order, when the sound of the station door creaking open cuts through the evening air. The group turns to look as another officer steps outside, frowning.

“Chief?” the officer says. “You’ve got a call you need to take.”

Delmonico glances back at the rest of the group, seemingly torn between staying to continue the argument or going. “I want you all out of here by the time I come back,” he orders. 

Then he twists and storms up the steps, following the other cop inside.

“I’m not leaving,” Shanice declares, sitting down on one of the steps and folding her arms. “He’s gonna have to drag me outta here.”

“I dunno...” Derek appears nervous, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Like, is getting arrested for disobeying police orders gonna help Jenna at all?”

“Derek, come on!” Shanice gapes at him. “We can’t just leave her in there! Where’s your sense of solidarity?”

“Nah, cut him a break,” Claude says. “He’s got the least reason to want to get mixed up in this out of all of us.” He nods at Laszlo. “Trying to negotiate with Delmonico was cute, man, but he’s not the type to listen to outsiders. Even more so than the rest of us.”

“Do you know what they’re keeping her in there for?” Nadja asks.

Claude shakes his head. “Shanice heard from one of the customers at the store about Jenna getting taken in. That’s all we know.”

“We tried calling Jenna’s mom to find out,” Tonya pipes up. “No answer. Maybe she’s in the station with her.”

“She’d better be okay,” Shanice grumbles. Despite the outward shell of rebelliousness, Nadja can see the worry percolating in her eyes. “Jenna doesn’t deserve any of this! They’re just looking for a scapegoat. A story that’ll satisfy the masses.”

“Why do you say that?” Nadja asks, elbowing Laszlo. He should be the one asking questions, though he’s looking lost in thought at the moment.

Shanice shrugs. “The Hendersons are a Coventry dynasty, practically. Their beloved only daughter gets killed, people are gonna want an explanation that fits their worldview. They don’t actually care about the truth.”

“We know barely anybody believes us,” Claude continues. “It’s easier to pretend the history of this town isn’t tied to a local monster. Blame it on wild animals or a bullied woman wanting revenge. Plenty of truth tellers were called crazy in their time. That’s not gonna stop us from searching for the real story.”

“That’s quite a lot of confidence!” Colin Robinson is the one to speak this time, having stayed shockingly silent until now. “Hopefully it won’t backfire in your face and lead to terrible consequences for everybody.”

“The fuck...?” Derek mutters.

The squeak of the station door draws everyone’s attention again, but instead of an angry police chief coming to make arrests, out steps the very person they’ve gathered here to witness.

“Jenna!” Shanice jumps to her feet and runs up the steps, barreling into her friend and hugging her tightly. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah...” Jenna looks tired, eyes red and mouth set in a frown. She meets Nadja’s eyes over Shanice’s shoulder before quickly looking away, face starting to flush as red as her eyes. “Can you take me home?”

“What happened?” Claude asks as they come down the steps. “Delmonico just let you go?”

Jenna shrugs, rubbing her arms; there are goosebumps prickling on her skin from the chill of the station, quickly fading in the July heatwave. “Mom called a lawyer. I think. All I know is that the chief came into the room and he looked... mad. Said I was free to go, and to contact my lawyer immediately.”

“Pray tell, what was his reasoning for bringing you into the station?” Laszlo has finally decided to join the conversation.

It’s subtle, but Nadja catches the quick glance Jenna throws Derek, before shaking her head. “I don’t really wanna talk about it right now. Sorry, Mr. Cravensworth.”

“No, darling, that’s quite alright.” Nadja smiles at her, patting her arm. “If you are up for it, we can talk another time.”

Shanice loudly declares that she’s going to drive Jenna home, and as the women walk away, Derek frowns, watching them go. “I don’t get it,” he says.

“What?” Nadja asks.

Derek looks at her. “Jenna’s mom can barely afford her rent; Aldi’s pays alright but not great. I know Jenna helps her with the bills, too. So how could she possibly afford a lawyer?”

“A mystery indeed,” Laszlo says. “Perhaps we’ll figure it out at a later point. Anyways, we’ve all got somewhere to be, don’t we?”

“Right.” Derek nods. “You’re coming to the council meeting.” He looks at Claude. “You coming?”

“After this? Nah, I’m gonna pass being around Delmonico for any longer than I have to. Tonya, you want a lift?”

She grins. “Sure do. Are you okay with me FaceTiming my girlfriend on the way home?”

“What kind of question is that? You know I always wanna catch up with Meg.”

“Guess I’ll be seeing you,” Derek says, waving at the crew and following the other two down the block.

As the slayers depart, Nandor and Guillermo cross the street, finally meeting up with the rest of the crew. “That seemed intense,” Nandor says, motioning to the slayers. “I was certain we were about to witness some pretty fucked up shit.”

“We got the best shot we could with the distance,” Guillermo pipes up. “Did you catch everything on the mic?”

“Mic,” Nadja states.

“Yeah... you brought a mic with you, right? Since we can’t catch audio from that far.”

“Shit,” Laszlo says. “Forgot the fucking mic.”

“Fantastic,” Nandor says, scowling. “We’ll be trying to lip-read footage for subtitles from a hundred feet away.”

“You’re the bloody sound tech!” Nadja snaps. “It’s your job to make sure all the audio is recorded!”

“You told us to keep our distance!” Nandor retorts. “What, did you want me to run you over a mic and make it super fucking obvious we were filming?”

“Hey, guys? Not that I’m not loving that I get to watch the creative process at work, but this is definitely unnecessary.” Colin Robinson digs into his pocket, pulling out a small metal stick; it’s got silver buttons and a tiny blue screen on one of the flat sides, and a rounded end that looks suspiciously like a microphone windscreen. “I always keep an audio recorder on me, for legal purposes. People will say all sorts of incriminating things when they believe no one is recording.” He winks at Nadja. “A certain big name producer learned that the hard way a couple years ago.”

Is... is this fucking Dilbert insinuating that he took down Wein- no. Nope. Nadja is making an active choice for her own sanity to not go down that train of thought. “So you are telling us that you recorded everything we filmed?”

Colin Robinson fiddles with the device for a moment before pressing a button. Nadja’s voice, muffled but distinct, streams from the microphone: “It is just, I had wanted to thank you for helping my darling husband with our paperwork a little earlier-” He clicks the button again, and the sound turns off.

Laszlo laughs, smacking Colin Robinson on the back good-naturedly. “Brilliant work there, Colin Robinson! Seems as though bringing you along is a worthy endeavor indeed.”

Colin Robinson grins. “Just trying to do my part. Can’t let the team down.”

Laszlo nods. “You’re quite unique there, aren’t you? Studio folks usually don’t like to get their hands dirty with the business of subterfuge. At least, not to the benefit of the creatives.”

“Well, it’s my job to ensure the smooth production of this project, which means accounting for any and all mistakes and obvious weak spots of each individual crew member, and in terms of their current working relationship and inability to communicate without hostility, Nandor and Nadja-”

“Yes! Yes, thank you, Colin Robinson, for doing Nandor’s job for him.” Nadja ignores Nandor’s sputtering noise of protest and turns to her husband. “Shall we head to the council meeting, then? Unless you’d like all of us to be the next target of Delmonico’s impotent rage?”

“Right, yes! Let’s be off then.” Laszlo claps his hands together. “No need to tarry.”

Honestly, this is the kind of shit that makes Nadja hesitate to leave her husband and her friend to their own devices. It’s a coin toss as to whether they could manage without her. Not that they’re completely incompetent, but they’re all so used to making up for one another’s failings, that take one piece of the puzzle away, and where does it leave them?

You managed fine without Nandor on the last film, Nadja thinks, as they head for the van. Got nominated for several awards. Surely, that says something.

And yet, just because they can manage without one another, doesn’t mean they want to. Even this kind of friendship, with bridges rickety and scars fresh, is better than the nothingness, the chasm that sat between them for two years.

Can Nadja truly think herself any better than Nandor, if she’s honest with herself? He wanted to go off and be happy, so much so that he fought them over it, almost lost them over it. Now she wants the same. The motivation is different, but would the result be?

Nadja has two unopened text messages, and one missed call. And at least, for tonight, that won’t change.

Tomorrow, though?

Well, that’s yet to be seen.

Chapter Text

July 13th, 2022

8:08 PM

If the New York documentary crew wanted to attend the most interesting town council meeting in Coventry’s history, well, they sure picked a good one to stop in for. Derek hasn’t seen a meeting this rowdy since the three hour drama fest in 2019 when Mrs. Jefferson argued for turning the four-way stop on Peach Street into a roundabout to slow traffic and avoid accidents at the most accident-prone traffic light in the town. That one had almost ended in a fist fight. This one could too, depending on whether Abraham decides to finally deliver the knockout punch Delmonico so roundly deserves after all these years.

Up at the council table, Barbara Lazzaro, Doug Peterson, and John Henderson are looking rather concerned at the fact that Derek’s father has been up at the podium for the past fifteen minutes, and looks like he has no plans to give up the microphone any time soon. The Corkboard is making a public appearance today, propped up on a sketchy-looking stand that could topple over at any second. Abraham also has a pretty substantial stack of papers and notebooks piled onto the podium, and he’s flipping between them with the practiced skill of a lawyer cobbling together closing arguments for their defendant. Most of what he’s saying, Derek has heard hundreds of times before. He’s memorized so much of it that he’s entertaining himself by trying to accurately whisper along to his father’s explanations, and hitting the mark about eighty percent of the time.

“The likelihood that the LaCroix murders were the result of an animal intruding into the home continues to be miniscule and poorly explained,” Abraham concludes, as Derek repeats his exact phrasing under his breath. He’s sitting in the back row, preferring to avoid as many knowing, judgmental looks from the townsfolk as possible; people who have heard these stories almost as often as Derek has. However, this puts him right next to where the documentary crew is filming, and Guillermo keeps looking over at him, frowning.

Am I being too loud? Derek mouths at him.

Guillermo shakes his head. How are you doing that? he mouths back.

A lifetime of experience, Derek answers, grinning.

Guillermo snorts, then seems to realize how loud that was, based on the disapproving look Nadja shoots his way. He looks back through the camera, but does a poor job hiding a smile. That’s okay, Derek will take an amused response over annoyed any day. It’s the difference between somebody who Derek can stand to be around for more than ten minutes, and the majority of people in this town.

His phone buzzes semi-silently in his pocket, and when he turns it on, there’s a message from Shanice:

She still won’t tell me what happened. Just wants to play Animal Crossing and watch the new Critical Role. Are you coming over later?

I’ll try to, he writes back. Depends on whether I need to bail dad out of jail.

???, she replies.

He smiles, and types, Mostly joking. Delmonico is next up to speak, and I already know he’s going to say stuff that will set Dad off.

His attention is drawn back to the front of the room as Doug Peterson leans forward and says, quite loudly, “Alright! Abe, as much as I love hearing from you, man, we do have other people who wanted to talk tonight, so do you have a point to make with reviewing your theories?”

Derek’s father pauses, frowning. He and Doug are friends outside of these council meetings - They go out fishing together at least once a month, and Derek watches Doug’s dogs when he goes off on semi-annual hunting trips upstate - but even he has his limits listening to Abraham’s vampire stories.

“I suppose my point is this,” Abraham says, tapping his stack of papers against the podium. “Anyone who studies the history of this town should understand the threat we’re currently facing. It’s possible that John’s poor little girl will be the only victim, but unlikely. My father’s death was an anomaly, being the only one killed at that time. I think we should be preparing.”

The aforementioned Mr. Henderson taps his microphone. “And how exactly should we be doing that, Abe?”

Abraham smiles, like he’s about to lay a masterful plan at their feet. “Well, my boy Derek and his friends have already created a blueprint for it. We need to fund and equip the Coventry Slayers so they can finally put an end to the vampire menace.”

Fuck, Derek thinks, sinking down into his seat as he hears multiple groans and one or two emphatic agreements erupt from the crowd. He wishes he could melt into the floor right now. This is Abraham’s plan? Demand the council officially condone and recruit a mercenary vampire slaying group? Derek really only joined the current slayers because everybody in the group was already a friend, and it gave him a reason to get out of the house that his father was actively pleased with. He’s not interested in being the center of attention, and this kind of public declaration is surely to bring their activities under more intensive scrutiny. His dad probably thinks he’s helping, campaigning to get them funding.

“Settle down, folks,” Barbara Lazarro cuts in, slamming the little gavel she keeps at her seat. “We’re taking public comments, which means everyone can have a say. Abe, we appreciate your suggestion and will take it under consideration. But we really need to let others speak, okay?”

“Sure, Barb,” Abraham says, smiling pleasantly. “Appreciate the council’s time.”

He starts packing up his things, and Derek feels the urge to be a good son, to run up and help the man, but his other, spiteful half keeps him sunken into his seat, watching Abraham struggle with his stupid notebooks and corkboard all on his own. Good, let him look foolish in front of everyone; Derek’s tired of being dragged down with him.

When Abraham hustles down the aisle, Derek purposefully ignores his gaze. His father seems to hesitate, change direction mid-way, slipping into a seat a few rows up. Thank fuck. The one kindness his old man has given him today: some space.

A few other townsfolk speak after Abraham, about completely unrelated things: Mr. Garcia complains about delayed trash pick up on his block. Ms. Lancaster suggests funding a series of little library book hatches for the local children to use. Mrs. Renier rants about ‘deviant influences’ within the town, shooting a few pointed looks in the direction of the camera crew. Nandor is standing beside Guillermo, and Derek notices the pensive expression his face takes on as she talks. He wishes he couldn’t relate.

Finally, in a move that should surprise no one, Delmonico rises from his seat near the front and heads for the podium. Derek sits up almost in tandem with his father, both men watching with keen interest as the police chief takes the stand. He’s on the shorter side, so has to adjust the microphone, tapping on the end, blunt hits that echo through the council chambers.

“Well, thank you everybody for your wise words this evening. I’ll just need a moment of your time, Doug, Barb, John.” Delmonico clears his throat, uncapping one of the small water bottles that sits on the podium and taking a long drink. In the drawn out, anticipatory silence, Derek sees his father lean in, as if preparing for a wall of bullshit to come crashing over the crowd.

Finally, Delmonico twists the cap back onto the bottle, tapping the microphone again. “It seems like we’ve had some suggestions related to town security, which, believe it or not, falls under my job description.” The joke lands for some of the crowd, a peppering of chuckles around the room. “Certainly, keeping Coventry safe is as important to me as it is to people like Mr. Sandiford. I appreciate how seriously he takes the matter, even if we disagree on solutions.”

At this, he glances over his shoulder, looking directly at Abraham, and giving him a short nod, keeping his smile pleasant. Derek watches as his father’s shoulders rise up around his ears, the tension nearly palpable, running in waves off him. Someone who knew nothing about their history might see the gesture as amicable, attempting to build bridges and give respect. A sign to the folks who think Abraham is a whole lot of hot air, saying, see? I’m trying to be reasonable here. Derek isn’t fooled. Delmonico doesn’t acquiesce to someone else’s point unless he’s got something up his sleeve, something that serves his interests.

Delmonico looks back at the council. “Now, whatever the current status of certain investigations, the idea of more security is a welcome one, as I’ve been saying the same thing for years, in my own way. We like to think of our little town as peaceful, not a dangerous place like the big city, but small towns can be targeted for just that reason: nobody expects anything bad to happen here. It’s a mistake we’ve seen happen in small towns all over the country. Underprepared for foreign interests coming in and disturbing that peace. Again, I must emphasize how truly I appreciate Mr. Sandiford for bringing this kind of danger to our attention.”

Derek frowns. Something isn’t right with what he’s saying. Talking out of both sides of his mouth, as his grandma would put it. 

Delmonico continues. “So, we agree then, that something foul is putting the fine folks of Coventry in danger. Surely, if we agree on that, we can agree that the best solution is to do exactly what Mr. Sandiford said: equip an organization with the funding and tools it needs to counteract that danger! Well, I suppose I’m not as far apart from Mr. Sandiford’s solution as I feared. Truly, we should be thankful he brought the idea into this public venue, where its brilliance can be witnessed by all our neighbors.”

This makes no sense, what’s his angle? Why would he want a vigilante group to be better funded-

Oh.

Fuck.

“That’s why, I am submitting that the council should revise next year’s town budget to do just that: increase funding for our underfunded law enforcement. Help us- Help! Us!” Delmonico yells over the crowd that has suddenly burst into sound; some praising and some decrying his words. “Help us keep Coventry safe! Help us avoid another tragedy. Perhaps if we’d been more vigilant, one of our bright young minds would still be with us today. Let us never make that mistake again.”

Derek can hear his father cursing from the middle row, watches as he jumps to his feet, starting to shout, only for Barbara Lazarro to bang the gavel like a jackhammer. “Enough!” she yells, frowning. “This is an open forum, and we allow all opinions here!” She motions to Abraham. “Abe, you had your time. If you’re agitated by what’s being said, you’re welcome to leave.”

Abraham’s shoulders flex, tight with tension, and Derek thinks for just a second, that he’s going to lose it, but in the next moment, the tension goes out of him entirely. He picks up his things and storms down the aisle, nearly knocking the Corkboard into the camera on his hurried way out.

“Shit,” Derek says, the eyes that were trained on his dad now shifting to him, as if it’s his fault. Guilt by association, once again. He quietly stands, slipping past the crew, ignoring their own curious stares as he follows Abraham out the doors.

The sun is setting low in the sky, a cool breeze finally breaking through some of the dry heat. Abraham stands at the trunk of the Caravan, shoving everything into the hatch. His hands are shaking, and he’s muttering to himself; Derek can see the rapid, harsh flick of his teeth against his lip as he mouths a series of fucks, punctuated with the odd puckered piece of shit.

He slams the trunk shut, finally looking up and seeing Derek at the top of the steps. “You coming?” he asks. “Or are you staying to listen to more of that garbage?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, shrugging. “I’ll come.”

He gets into the passenger seat, staring blankly ahead as Abraham gets into the car and peels out of the council parking lot. There’s nothing in his brain but static, a mishmash of emotions that could be fury, could be frustration, could be despair, but never resolve into anything solid. It’s this gnawing ache, this hole in his chest that sometimes wells up in these moments where he feels so helpless to do anything but exist, for fear of disturbing the surface tension of barely contained peace.

“Can’t fucking believe him,” Abraham says, turning on the headlights as the last rays of sunlight dip below the horizon. “Using that girl’s death to get more money. He’d have the department decked out in SWAT gear and military tanks if he could.”

“Mhmm,” Derek says, diplomatically. “Terrible.”

Abraham is quiet for a moment, and Derek is just starting to wonder whether he’s said something he shouldn’t, when Abraham says, “You went and talked to that camera crew, I bet.”

Derek looks down at his hands. Fuck. He can’t lie; he’s a terrible liar. 

“Yeah, I did,” he admits. “You’ve got your own ideas on how to help, and I’ve got mine.”

Abraham grunts. “You think telling them a story barely anybody in this town believes is gonna help that friend of yours?”

Derek blinks and glances at him. His father’s face is nearly unreadable; he was expecting anger, but instead there’s the faint impression of disappointment in his eyes. “I don’t know, but I’ve gotta try, right? All I can do is try.”

“You think I’m not trying here? You think I’m doing all this because it’s fun?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t even believe me, do you?” Abraham asks, something wrecked in the way he says it. An accusation, a realization, a devestation.  “Not really. Your crazy old man and his tall tales.”

“Dad-”

“I really hope you never end up in my shoes, son. Nobody willing to hear your truth.” He looks to the left, and Derek can’t see his face anymore. He gets the sense there’s a reason for that. “I hope you always have people in your life who believe in you. Cause let me tell you, life’s a hell of a lot harder if you don’t.”

How is he supposed to answer that? It feels like a warning, like his dad is talking about something bigger than a council meeting or a murder or a dysfunctional relationship between a father and a son. It sounds like a prayer, spoken from a pulpit and accompanied by the swishing sounds of church ladies fanning themselves in the mid-summer heat. It holds a solid weight, like a gift passed down; no specific purpose when given, only the implication that someday, it might have use.

Derek takes so long to think about a reply, that it would be weird to say anything now. So he lets it go, lets the silence remain, resting his head against the window. Outside, night is falling, and things are stirring in the dark. Some are familiar, but some are likely as foreign as the consideration slowly building in Derek’s mind, politely ushering itself in and gently offering its services:

What if his dad is right?

Chapter Text

July 13th, 2022

9:32PM

The council meeting goes on for quite a while after the blow up between Mr. Sandiford and the police chief, but nothing nearly as interesting happens. By the time Barbara Lazzaro draws the meeting to a close, the sky is black outside the town hall windows, and the street lights have kicked on.

Guillermo quickly shuffles their equipment out of the way with Nandor’s help as the townsfolk disperse. He keeps his head down, not really wanting a solid estimate of how many people see them as a threat. That woman from before, Mrs. Reiner, reminds him of the gossipy women at his childhood church, implying things without directly naming them. People whose gaze he avoided, lest they look a little too close and see something sinful. 

Bless his parents for having the wherewithal to recognize how harmful that attitude was to their teen son, struggling with his sexuality and terrified of disappointing anyone. He still cries sometimes, thinking about the night when his papá told him how proud he was of Guillermo. That he was loved for who he was, by God and by his family. 

He knows he’s lucky, in that respect. There are plenty of Mrs. Reiners in the world who have children.

“So,” Nandor says, zipping up the camera bag. “That was something, was it not.”

“I thought I was going to witness a public brawl,” Guillermo agrees, taking the bag from him. “Maybe I should text Derek? See if he and his dad are okay?”

“Hmmm, I don’t know. We were always taught to keep an objective distance between ourselves and our subjects.”

“So I shouldn’t?”

“I am not you, Guillermo. You don’t have to believe the same things I do.”

“No, but your advice has helped so far. I value it.”

Nandor shrugs, looking down as he wraps a roll of electrical cord. “It is nice that someone does.”

“What about them?” Guillermo nods back towards the entry doors, where Laszlo and Colin Robinson are chatting amicably, Laszlo chuckling along to whatever probably insane thing Colin Robinson just said. Next to them, Nadja is reading something on her phone, worrying her lip and glancing every so often over to her spouse. “You can’t tell me they don’t value your opinions. They’re your friends. If they didn’t think you have some solid ideas, I don’t think you’d be here.” He reaches out for the rolled cord, trying for some light, mood lifting self-deprecation as he says, “If anybody needs to feel out of place and unsure of their standing, it should be me, not you.”

“Stop that.” Nandor frowns, ignoring Guillermo’s outstretched hands to shove the cord into the bags himself. “Why do you always do that?”

Guillermo swallows back the sudden nerves that have crept into his stomach as he replies, “I don’t know… levity? It’s not that serious-”

“No, it is.” Nandor zips up the last bag, hoisting four of them in a world-tilting display of strength that hits some very specific buttons for Guillermo. “That really pisses me off, you know? If you value my opinion so much, then why do you keep telling me the person I hand-picked to be here isn’t good enough?”

“I- I’m not-”

“We are a team, Guillermo. Everyone is needed to support what we are building. If one support fails, the whole thing could come crashing down.” His voice is rising in tandem with the rising red blush across Guillermo’s face. “Your artistic abilities are more than good enough for this project, but if you put so much pressure on yourself to be some kind of fucking genius, you just might break.” He must realize how loud he sounds, enough that their companions are looking over, so he lowers his voice as he finishes: “So stop it. Stop being mean to my friend.”

Guillermo swallows, flustered and frozen in place. There’s real anger on Nandor’s face, and it’s been so rarely directed at Guillermo that now that it is, he doesn’t know what to do with it. Feels like he’s been handed something so impossibly large that goes deeper than he can see. Always bigger than the space it needs to fill.

“O-okay,” he finally sputters out, voice cracking as he continues, “I’m sorry?” 

He can feel the nausea rising in the back of his throat, the dampness at the corners of his eyes that threatens to solidify, the grasping tightness in his chest, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His mind instantly flashes to his pills, but he took one after the whole incident outside the police station, and it’s too soon, he needs something else to ground him...

Nandor must have a moment of clarity, must realize what’s happening - oh, isn’t that just even more fucking embarrassing, to be so seen, so exposed, unable to keep up the comforting mask of emotional stability. The anger drains off his face as his eyebrows tilt from down to up, mouth twisting into a grimace as he starts, “Guillermo, I-”

“I just- I need a minute!” Guillermo interrupts, twisting on his heel and practically barreling into Laszlo and Colin Robinson on the way out.

There are too many people outside still, so he scurries around the side of the building, taking deep, controlled breaths as he spots a stoop leading to a side door, lit with a single yellow bulb. It’s quiet and nobody is around; this side of the building is right next to the woods, and leads nowhere but to the back. 

He sits on the second step and bows forward, resting his arms on his knees and ducking his head. He digs his heels into the cracked concrete, feeling the little pebbles of dirt and tufts of grass beneath.

“Fuck,” he breathes, rubbing his face with one hand. “Calm down, calm down...”

He closes his eyes, and decides to focus on sounds. The persistent chirping of crickets. The slight rustle of leaves in the wind. The hooting of a nearby owl. Twigs crackling underfoot, maybe a raccoon? The distant murmur of voices at the front of the building. His own breathing: slow, deep, steady.

Okay. Better. Probably avoided a full blown panic attack. He definitely doesn’t need anybody seeing him go through that; it’s not pretty.

Thinking about going back inside right now, back into a building he just publicly fled from, is a level of hell fucking NO he’s not ready to deal with. He’ll just stay out here for a few minutes. Wait for hopefully more people to get into their cars and drive off. Maybe if he’s lucky, only the crew will be left by the time he gets back. Nadja will probably yell at him about slacking off, but he can make some excuse. Maybe the chicken sandwich he got for dinner didn't agree with his stomach, or something. Whatever. For right now, he needs the space.

Guillermo is going to try to believe that his reaction to Nandor was perfectly normal - for him, at least - and not layered with any extra meaning, or an extra bit of hurt. His friend was mad at him for saying something stupid. Not a lot of introspection needed to see why he’d get upset. Nothing clawing at his ribcage at the thought of Nandor thinking he’s thoughtless, or hypocritical. It’s fine. He’s fine. Everything will be fine.

(“Why are you so hard on yourself?” an old flame had asked once, trying to comfort him after a true blue panic attack.

“Isn’t everybody?” he replied.

“No,” they said. “Some people know their worth.”

Guillermo still finds it hard to believe that. But he’s trying.)

It’s not fine, Guillermo thinks, sitting back and staring up at the night sky, dotted with thousands of stars, thousands of points of light. No known life among them, just the cold, the empty blackness of an uncaring universe. What’s the worth of a single speck of dirt, a rock floating aimlessly in the dark, the impact of something so small on something so grand and unknowable? 

He sometimes feels like that rock, trying to navigate in spaces far too vast, places where he’s barely noticed. Not just places. People, too. Scratching and searching for handholds in their minds, barely clinging, swept away when the phone calls stop coming, the texts stay unread, the lines of communication go silent.

This... whatever that’s happening with Nandor, it feels different. Cliché, perhaps, but describing it any other way would feel untrue. Like a flame cupped in his hands, something that generates heat, a spark of life. Something that could burn him or protect him from the cold and the dark. Something to build a shelter around. But the winds of self-doubt batter at his back, threatening to snuff it out. If he wants to keep it, he has to kindle it, learn how to protect it, just as it protects him.

You’re a hypocrite too, Guillermo thinks, twisting the little black fidget ring that is a permanent part of his right hand. You put yourself down all the time. 

He imagines another man, another ring being twisted around a finger, wondering whether to stay or go. Because that has to be it, right? That has to be what happened. The clues are all there, answering every question but the last: why did Nandor make that choice?

Guillermo cups his hands together, imagines the flame, the spark between them. Aches to find a way to make it grow. 

Maybe neither of us is very good at believing in ourselves, but do you even know your worth to me, Nandor? I thought it was so obvious. Was I wrong? What can I do to show it to you?

The sound of a creaking door makes him turn, sharply, looking up the steps to see two familiar figures exiting the building. Barbara Lazarro and Doug Peterson are mid-sentence when they spot Guillermo, a pack of cigarettes fisted tightly in Barbara’s hand.

“Oh,” Doug says. “Hi. Are we interrupting you?”

“No, no that’s- I was just going,” Guillermo says, standing quickly.

Barbara frowns. “You don’t have to run off, Mister de la Cruz. Besides, you look like you could use one of these,” she says, waving the cigarette pack. “Join us for a bit.”

Guillermo hesitates, glancing back towards the front of the building. “I should really be getting back...”

“And miss the opportunity to talk with two-thirds of the town council? I’ll bet Mister Cravensworth will be happier if you stay.” Barbara pulls a cigarette out, holding it towards him. “Come on. Live a little.”

“That’s saying something, coming from you,” Doug quips as Guillermo lets out a soft sigh and takes the cigarette from her. Barbara hands Doug one as well, and he pulls out a lighter, nodding towards Guillermo as he flicks the button. “Do people your age even smoke cigarettes anymore? Thought it was all vaping nowadays.”

“My abuelita used to smoke like a chimney,” Guillermo explains, taking the lighter when Doug is done with it. “She was sneaky, let me smoke at her house sometimes when I was a teenager. Not a lot, just enough to feel a little rebellious. Probably realized my mama would kill her if she got me truly addicted.”

“It’s a terrible habit,” Barbara agrees, lighting her own cigarette with a pink, jeweled lighter. “My grandkids aren’t old enough to be smoking, unless they make toddler-friendly tobacco products, but I will surely be quitting before they get interested.”

“So, what did you think of our council meeting?” Doug asks, blowing a long stream of smoke out through his nose. “I promise they’re usually a lot more boring.”

“Seems like people around here get very heated about this subject,” Guillermo says, trying to remember how to draw a puff in without dissolving into a coughing fit - in truth, he hasn’t smoked in almost a decade, but he’s not telling either of them that. He manages a successful draw and says as he breathes out, “Anything you’re willing to tell me about your own thoughts?”

Barbara shrugs. “I think we’d both fall into the ‘neutral’ category - correct me if I’m wrong, Doug.”

Doug nods. “I’m probably a bit more pessimistic than you are about it, Barb, but yeah. Centrism is kind of important in our local politics, about all kinds of topics. Neither of us got on the council by going to the extremes.”

“Abraham is clearly still living with some kind of trauma about Solomon’s death,” Barbara says. “I was a little girl when it happened, but I remember the uproar. The locals weren’t kind to him. The cops even less so.”

“They said he was disturbing the peace,” Doug explains. “Trying to lead people to vigilantism. If they hadn’t shipped him off before that hiker got offed, he might have been charged as an accessory to murder.”

Barbara nods. “Not that being committed to a mental hospital in the 70s was a good thing.”

“Were either of you swayed by Mr. Sandiford or Captain Delmonico’s arguments tonight?” Guillermo asks, really regretting not taking a cue from Colin Robinson and carrying a recorder everywhere. This is already some fascinating discussion; he’s going to have to write everything down as soon as possible.

Barbara and Doug both glance at one another, communicating through a look alone, before Doug says, “We consider all viewpoints and try to come to the best conclusion.”

“That’s our professional way of saying, we’re still thinking about it,” Barbara chimes in. “The town’s budget is not very big, and everyone always wants more of the pie. Plenty of people would love to see the police budget expand, and just as many would love to shrink it. And they might not align politically in the ways you think - more money to the police means more government oversight.”

“The libertarian types would not be happy,” Doug adds. “It’s complicated. John and I have been on the council for over a decade each - Barb for almost two. If we want to keep our jobs, we have to think long-term strategy, both for the town and our own careers.”

“I’m sure it was very hard for Mr. Henderson, after Coco’s death,” Guillermo says, changing the subject. Centrists will always tend towards the middle; this isn’t new ground they’re covering. “How do you think he’s holding up?”

“Shockingly good, considering the circumstances.” Barbara takes one last long drag from her cigarette and puts it out in a little ashtray sitting precariously atop the stoop railing. “I couldn’t even imagine what he’s going through. To lose a child... My daughter is in her thirties and I’d be devastated. Coco was barely twenty. Only child, too.”

“I’m kind of hoping Delmonico turns out to be wrong about Jenna,” Doug admits, snuffing his own cigarette out beneath his heel. “Less drama for us if the animal attack story holds up.”

“That’s one thing I’m certain of; she’s innocent,” Barbara insists. “Jenna has a bad habit of turning her troubles inwards. I’ve found her crying in the library stacks too many times to believe she’s capable of murder.”

Doug shrugs. “You say that, but I think anyone’s capable of anything if they’re pushed hard enough. And as much as I love John, I can’t deny that the gossip said Coco basically tortured Jenna.”

“Kids exaggerate, Doug,” Barbara counters. “I’m sure it wasn’t great, but to the level of murder? Come on.”

“Here’s hoping. Anyway, we should be getting back inside,” Doug says. “John will want to talk about the meeting before we all go home.”

They both shake Guillermo’s hand, and as they head inside, he puts out the cigarette he took maybe three puffs from, and sits back down on the stoop, pulling out his phone and opening the notes app. He spends the next twenty minutes trying to remember everything they said, and is doing a third read through of the draft when he hears a familiar voice say, “I did not know you smoked, Guillermo.”

Guillermo lifts his head to see Nandor standing a few feet away, fidgeting with the beads on his wrist as he leans awkwardly against the side of the building. The discomfort he’s showing would be comical if Guillermo didn’t know what it was about.

Guillermo shrugs. “I don’t, not really. But Barbara Lazarro and Doug Peterson do. Talked with them for a bit, then transcribed everything as best as I could.” He holds his phone out. “Wanna see?”

Nandor straightens up and walks over, ignoring Guillermo’s phone to nudge his knee with his foot. “Budge over,” he says, sitting beside Guillermo on the stoop when he does. Only then does he take Guillermo’s phone, reading quietly for a few minutes as Guillermo twiddles his thumbs and waits for feedback.

“Well?” Guillermo asks when Nandor looks up at him.

“Not bad,” Nandor says, handing his phone back. “Your questions were decent, especially on the fly. We probably cannot use any of it in the footage, but it is good to know their thoughts, in case they tie into other information we find out.”

“Cool,” Guillermo says, nodding. He doesn’t know what to say next, doesn’t know how to start talking about what happened earlier, so he looks back down, kicking some loose gravel with his shoe, hoping Nandor will take the lead.

Thankfully, he does. “I do not like hearing you put yourself down,” Nandor says, voice vanishingly soft. “It- it makes me angry, but more than that, it makes me sad. To think you... do not see yourself the way I see you.”

Guillermo swallows, managing to release the nervous knot that’s just tightened in his stomach as he replies, “How... how do you see me?”

Nandor sits back, resting on his hands. “Someone who is very smart, and kind, and talented. Who has a unique viewpoint the world would be lesser for without. Who I value as... a friend.” He bumps his shoulder into Guillermo’s, very gently. “Now is the time when you say nice things about me.”

Guillermo muffles a snort, nerves dissolving into relieved warmth as he lifts his head and smiles at Nandor. “I like you too- as a friend,” he clarifies when Nandor raises a curious eyebrow. It’s not a lie, it’s just not the whole truth. “You’re funny, and talented, and I think working with you will make me better at my job. It’s nice, I’ve never really felt... close to somebody, in that way.”

“Like you just instantly click,” Nandor agrees. “They get you, more than anybody else.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought I had that a long time ago. But I think, maybe, I didn’t really know what that felt like until I met you.”

Guillermo can feel himself blushing, but Nandor is kind enough to not comment on it, even though he absolutely could tease Guillermo to death, and Guillermo would let him, would love every second of it. Instead, he rises off the step, turning and holding out a hand to Guillermo.

“Come on,” he says. “I had an idea.”

“What’s that?” Guillermo asks, taking his hand and letting Nandor hoist him to his feet.

“We should get some night shots of the town. Give Nadja something to play with in the editing booth. The woods too.” He motions towards the tree line. “Think this is the part of the woods the slayers were talking about earlier. Hunter’s Grove?”

“Oh.” Guillermo glances at the trees a bit nervously. “Just you and me?”

“Don’t worry, I have protection.” Nandor laughs when Guillermo sputters at the innuendo; the fucking audacity. God, Guillermo likes him. So much. “Let’s get the cameras and I’ll show you.”

Kindle the flame, Guillermo thinks. Spend more time with him, see what happens.

“Sure,” Guillermo agrees. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

July 13th, 2022

9:59PM

“Nandor?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you have a baseball bat just... in the van?”

Nandor lifts the shiny steel metal, the familiar weight of it a comfort in his hands. He recalls summers of little league, morphing into junior and senior leagues as his education went on. The smell of the pitch, the heat of the sun, the sounds of cheering parents, his maman getting close to fighting the umpire on at least three occasions.

Nandor had been considered a jock by most of his schoolmates, though most jocks don’t also spend hours locked in their bedrooms, searching for the weirdest, wildest independent films the world wide web can provide. Horse-riding was a passion, basketball a constant on the household TV, though neither of them were his best sport. That honor went to baseball. His stocky, tall body, shooting up like a palm tree around age twelve, made him an ace right fielder during his school years. He had good spatial awareness, and a decent RBI, enough to keep him on the team until senior year, though not nearly up to snuff for recruiting into the minor leagues. That was just fine with him; he enjoyed the sport, but the call of film was much stronger. Still, he’s part of a local adult league, and gets plenty of practice. This slightly dented metal bat doesn’t see much use nowadays, but its significance means he’s reluctant to ever leave it behind when he’s able to bring it. Especially in weird, close-minded little towns like this one.

“My maman gave this to me when she was in the hospital,” Nandor explains, spinning it slowly, wrist twisting, watching Guillermo track its motion. He doesn’t mention that it was the last thing she ever gave to him, or that the dent in the middle happened the night she passed, his adolescent mind making him think swinging it against his bedpost was a great way to channel his grief. “I don’t really use it for baseball, mostly to intimidate the raccoons that swarm my trash cans. Don’t worry, if the scary vampire comes for us, I will simply knock its head off like a slow pitched ball.”

“Uh huh,” Guillermo says, not sounding convinced. He unzips the camera bag. “Better tell the others we’ll be going off on our own.”

“I will ask Laszlo to pick us up in an hour,” Nandor agrees.

He finds the man standing by the edge of the parking lot, watching the cars disperse from the meeting. “Everything alright with Gizmo?” Laszlo asks as he approaches. “You seemed to spook him earlier. And then had your own little moment.”

“Guillermo is fine, we both are,” Nandor says, refusing to comment on his own panicked “shit, shit, shit!” monologuing in the council chambers after Guillermo had fled out the door. Even if the point he was making to Guillermo was correct, he knew his anger had lit quickly, burned hot, and left him feeling miserably guilty afterwards. He hadn’t meant to be so irritable. Sometimes it just rises out of him at the worst moments, leaving him scrambling to find a way to make things okay again. He’d had a lot of practice doing that during the two years he was away, feeling on the back foot of an argument, but at least now he knows what exactly he should be sorry for. Before, back then... it wasn’t ever quite as clear.

“Good.” Laszlo says. “So we’re all packed to go, then.”

Nandor points a thumb back. “I’m going to take Guillermo to get some night shots. We’ll film a few streets, maybe pop into the edge of the woods, get some forest noises. Sounds alright?”

Laszlo nods. “Glad to see you taking the initiative, old chap.”

“Yes, yes. Trying to get you and your wife off my back.”

“Mmmmm. Certainly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just- if that’s your motivation, there are easier ways to accomplish it.” Nandor does not like the way Laszlo’s eyebrows have skyrocketed into his asymmetrical hairline. As if there’s a hidden meaning buried somewhere in the bushy caterpillars on his brow bones. “Ways that don’t involve dragging our anxious little camera man on a moonlit walk through the forest. I don’t tend to mix terror and romance, but perhaps that’s just me.”

Ah, there it is. Nandor frowns and folds his arms. “Let’s not talk about my love life; it is never a good topic between us. Pick us up in an hour, if you would.”

“Have fun!” Laszlo drawls, voice full of smirk as Nandor walks away. “There are condoms in the glove box, take a few with you!”

“Ughhh, fuck-ing guy,” Nandor grumbles, stalking back over to the van, where Guillermo is hoisting their lighter camera on to his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah- what was Laszlo saying? I couldn’t hear him very well.”

“Something buffoonish and sexually inappropriate. Don’t worry about it.”

This late in the evening, every shop on the main street has shut down, the only light cast from the street lamps. The moon is waning, providing no additional help; it will be completely gone within two days at most. Nandor knows this because his baba had a library with all sorts of interesting books, and he used to peruse them as a child, when the books were larger than his hands could hold, propped on his lap as he sat on a couch in the study. Nandor knows the cycles of the moon, can pick out constellations, and was able to impress at least three of the dozen women and men he’s dated with his knowledge of the skies. Now he points up above as he and Guillermo stroll together, and says, “This is the one thing I wish we had in the city; a better view of the stars.”

“It’s pretty magnificent,” Guillermo agrees. “Oh, look!” Quickly, he tilts the camera up, catching the blue streak that’s making its way across the starfield to the south. “A shooting star... I’ve never seen one before.”

“Really? Never?”

“I didn’t leave Brooklyn much as a kid. Somebody told me once that pretty much everyone in this country and Europe live under skies that are too bright to see most of the stars. But out here, it’s different.”

Nandor smiles. “We think the time we live in is the best in all things. And yet, our ancestors could look up and see this every night, every place in the world. I wonder what things we miss out on that they could experience.”

“I mean, they got stars, we got penicillin,” Guillermo jokes, lowering the camera. “People romanticize the past, don’t they? Not everything is great now, but a lot of things are better.”

“I guess we could ask the vampire what he prefers,” Nandor teases, nudging Guillermo’s shoulder. “Maybe we’ll meet him, have a chat.”

“Think I’ll pass.” Guillermo motions to a building farther down with boarded up windows and a perilously unstable front porch. “Let’s do a shot, bottom to top. Spooky, and an example of the decline of small-town America. Or something. Whatever; Nadja can figure it out in post.”

“Can I ask you something?” Nandor has been mulling over a thought lately, but isn’t sure whether it would be appropriate, though he supposes he can read Guillermo’s body language well enough by now to know whether he’ll react with discomfort. “It is personal, so you can say no.”

Guillermo looks at him curiously. “Sure?”

“When- when you came out to your parents, how did you do it? You must’ve had a way of easing them into the news.”

“...I didn’t really have to? They figured it out. Way before I was going to tell them.”

“Oh. I did not foresee that as being a possibility...”

“Why do you ask?”

Nandor worries his lower lip, trying to act casually, even though he feels like he’s about to throw himself off the top of a cliffside. And he’s done cliff diving before - this is infinitely more terrifying. “I am trying to figure out the best way to break it to my baba. It’s been easier to tell him just about the women in my life. No mention of the men.”

“I see- shit!” Guillermo nearly stumbles over a tree root that bursts through the sidewalk, Nandor’s quick grip on his shoulder the only thing that keeps him on his feet. He steadies himself, nodding. “Thanks. Somebody needs to cut that root down, it’s a hazard.”

“Yes.”

“Is he homophobic? Your dad- er, baba?”

“It is not something we talked about growing up, but that does not mean he is. In truth, I do not know.” Nandor shrugs. “If my maman was still alive, it would be easier. She accepted everyone as they were. I would have no trouble telling her, and she could easily persuade my baba that it was just fine.”

Guillermo smiles. “She sounds pretty cool, from what you’ve said.”

“She is- was.”

“Is it important to you that he knows? I loved my abuela, but she was Catholic through and through. I never told her.”

“I would like him to know. It would be easier, if I were to ever decide there was someone- some guy, worth bringing home to him.”

“Mhmmm.” Guillermo’s mouth is tight, eyes wide, looking very much as though he is trying to swallow a whole egg - shell and all. “Yes. That would be important. If that ever happened.”

They stop in front of the shuttered building, staring up at the faded wooden sign, half-hanging off its mounts to the roof. The letters are barely visible: LaCroix General Store.

“Wonder how long it’s been closed,” Guillermo says, lifting the camera back up and focusing in on the shot. “The mill shut down in the 90s, I think? But this looks much older.”

“Could be all the way back when that whole family got murdered,” Nandor posits. “Although this is prime property, I wonder why nobody’s bought it up yet.”

“Maybe the same reason nobody lives in the LaCroix house anymore.”

“So we are adding ghosts to our list of supernatural creatures in this town? What’s next - alien killer clowns? Yeesh.”

“This place definitely gives me Stephen King vibes at night,” Guillermo quipped. “If you hear an ethereal voice calling your name, run the opposite direction.”

When they reach the end of the road, they circle back towards the town council building, moving off of the sidewalk and onto the street, since Guillermo is trying to get a long walking shot and Nandor would rather he not accidentally take another tumble. Everything is so quiet. No people, no cars, just the distant sounds of nature. It’s a little unnerving, if Nandor is honest. Even in the twilight hours back at Laszlo and Nadja’s apartment, he can hear the sounds of the city outside, a soothing, constant thrum that reminds him that he’s not alone, that there is life outside the door of his sad little guest bedroom.

At the edge of the woods, Nandor spots a worn down dirt path leading into the trees. “A walking trail, I think,” he says, pointing it out to Guillermo. “Let’s take a quick look.” He starts to cross the street, pausing and looking back when Guillermo doesn’t move. “What?”

“I don’t think we should go in there,” Guillermo says. “It’s dark; we won’t be able to see anything.”

“It’s just some trees, Guillermo. Nothing is going to swoop out and eat us.”

“We literally came to this town because of a dead girl who probably got eaten by a mountain lion in the woods!”

“The locals go into these woods at night all the time. It will be fine. Besides.” He waves the bat. “Protection, remember? Coco Henderson didn’t have a strong man with muscles to watch her back. You do.”

“Nandor...”

“We’ll go maybe one, two hundred feet. Just so the streetlights don’t show up in the shot. I put the night vision lens in the side bag.” Nandor folds his arms, raising an eyebrow. “You went down into the much more scary crypt with the coffins and bodies. You can handle this.”

Guillermo groans, stepping out onto the street. “Fine. We go in for two minutes, get a walking shot of the path, then turn back.”

“There we go.” Nandor grins, impulsively ruffling Guillermo’s hair as he passes. “Knew you were brave.”

The path is well-trodden, trees at the sides trimmed away to allow hikers to traverse it freely. Nandor pulls out his phone to use as a flashlight, sweeping it across the trail, casting the branches and rocks and dead leaves in a harsh white light. Guillermo keeps the camera steady on his shoulder as they go, fiddling with the lens and checking the focus.

“See?” Nandor says cheerily. “Nothing to worry about. No scary vampires jumping out at us.”

“For now,” Guillermo mutters. “If I hear any kind of growl or hissing sound, I’m turning around.”

“Helloooooo! Mister Vampire!” Nandor calls out cheekily. “Are you here? We are so interested to meet you!”

“No we’re nooooot!” Guillermo elbows him in the ribs, scowling. “Even if there’s no vampire, I’m not looking to attract attention from whatever lives in here.”

“Oh, look! Come over here.” Nandor motions to one of the larger trees on the curve of the path. He presses his hand to the bark as Guillermo zooms in, pointing to lines cut into the side in the shape of a heart. There are letters inside. “S plus D? Hmmm. Wonder how old these are.”

“You think this is deep enough to get the walking shot?” Guillermo asks, looking around nervously. He jolts when Nandor’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“Would you relax? Enjoy the nature. Touch grass, as the kids say.” When Guillermo does none of these things, Nandor takes some pity on him, sighing, “Yes, this should be deep enough. I’ll light the path, we’ll go slow, count off a minute, then turn around and do the reverse shot. And we’ll end with a three-sixty sweep with the night vision lens. Twenty seconds in the dark. Can you handle that?”

“I guess I have to.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“I mean, you were pretty insistent on us coming in here to get these shots.” Guillermo frowns. “Unless you had some kind of other motive?”

Nandor blinks at him. Did he have some other motive for dragging Guillermo into the middle of the woods? In the dark, just the two of them, nobody around to watch-

What? Watch what, you overeager fool? Watch him make an ass of himself, apparently. Acting cocky to impress Guillermo, ignoring how clearly uncomfortable he is. Shit. Why can’t he do something right, tonight?

“If you really want to leave, we will go,” Nandor says, trying to look as apologetic as he feels.

Guillermo seems to consider this, then shakes his head. “No. Two more minutes in here can’t hurt. Let’s just get the shots.”

A slight breeze has kicked up, rustling the tree leaves as they slowly walk down the path, Nandor training his light ahead as Guillermo takes slow steps and audibly crunches dirt under his feet for sound effects, although they’ll probably need some foley work anyway if these shots get used; the onboard mic isn’t too amazing. There is no light seeping into the space, a true liminal darkness that leaves Nandor’s phone as the only source to cut through into reality.

When Nandor hits sixty in his brain, he grips Guillermo’s shoulder. “Okay. Time to turn around. Are you feeling any better?”

“No,” Guillermo says, twisting in tandem with Nandor’s moving light, as if he’s too nervous to look towards any spot that isn’t lit up. “In fact, I feel worse. Like...” He swallows, glancing over at Nandor. “Like I’m being watched.”

“I mean, I am watching you,” Nandor says, shrugging.

“It’s- never mind.” Guillermo squares his shoulders. “Let’s just finish.”

The walk back goes as smoothly as the walk in, though Nandor notices Guillermo’s hands shaking a little as he tries to keep the camera steady. The footage may be a bit wobbly. That is alright; adds to the ambiance.

As they go, Nandor starts feeling it; a prickle on the back of his neck. A sense of a presence present. He dismisses it as Guillermo’s nerves bouncing into his own, and as they come to the end of the path, says, “Okay. Night vision lens sweep. Then we go.” Even he is starting to want to leave this place, the silent isolation inducing more dread than peace.

Guillermo fumbles for the lens in the side bag, almost dropping it. He screws it tight, his eyes wide and his face worryingly pale.

“Guillermo, maybe we should just-”

“No.” Guillermo says, taking a deep breath. “I don’t wanna get scared off by my own thoughts. I want to be brave.”

“You are,” Nandor says. “Okay. I will hold your shoulder, cut the light, and then you guide us in a spin. Just keep me out of the shot and try to make it steady.”

“Yeah,” Guillermo says. “I’ll try.”

Nandor has a little PopSocket on the back of his case, which lets him hold it between two fingers against the back of his hand, grabbing Guillermo’s shoulder with the free palm, and still able to grip the bat in the other. The light is muted in slivers, his fingers now blocking it, and when he taps off the flashlight function, the darkness swallows them up.

“Okay,” Nandor says.” Start spinning.”

He feels Guillermo move, unable to see his motions, but stepping in tandem as best he can. He can hear Guillermo’s harsh breathing in his ear, unnerving as its shakiness becomes the only thing he can really hear, the rest of the forest sounds overtaken by the noise.

No, not overtaken. Faded. They’ve faded away. Every chirp of a cricket, every rustle of a leaf, every audible sign of the environment is gone. He can’t even hear his own footsteps. 

An impenetrable silence to match the impenetrable darkness. Like reality has fled from their location.

Nandor has lost track of how far they’ve spun, can’t get a sense of direction. He’s lifting his foot for another step when Guillermo suddenly stills beside him. He opens his mouth to ask whether they’ve finished.

Then Guillermo starts screaming, and all thoughts of filmmaking rush out of his head.

“THE LIGHT! TURN ON THE LIGHT!” Guillermo hollers, shrieking like an animal in the throes of being torn apart. Nandor nearly drops his phone as he fumbles with the lock screen, cursing, and unlocks it on the third try. He immediately taps the flashlight button. White light bursts from the back of the phone as he holds it out straight to see-

Nothing. There’s nothing. Just the path and the edges of the tree line.

“The fuck, Guillermo!” Nandor is shaking, panting a little, his nerves lit up with adrenaline. “What did you do that for?”

“I saw something!” Guillermo nearly drops the camera, somehow managing to fumble it back into the side bag before he does. “I swear to God, Nandor, I saw something.”

“What something? What did you see?”

“It- it was so tall and wide and black and I couldn’t see any shapes, but the eyes, fuck, they were glowing and... and I don’t know what it was, okay? But it was there.” He points to a spot about thirty feet away.

Nandor grabs Guillermo’s wrist and lifts it, passing the phone off so it keeps the light trained on the path. Guillermo looks confused, until Nandor grips the baseball bat in both hands and takes a step forward.

“NO!” Guillermo’s other hand moves to dig into his arm so fast, Nandor swears it blinked out of existence for a moment. “Don’t! Please... it’s not safe.”

They both jolt at the sound of sticks snapping underfoot, and Nandor raises the bat as he watches a bush rustle right where Guillermo had pointed.

When a fluffy gray cat strolls out on the path, Nandor lets out a deep breath he was holding, a strained, near-hysterical laugh crawling out of his throat. The animal sits down in the middle of the dirt, meowing at them.

“A cat, Guillermo.” Nandor lowers the bat. “You saw a cat.”

“No!” Guillermo shakes his head rapidly. “It was too big.”

Nandor frowns. “But this is a big kitty with the glowing eyes, yes? Doesn’t that seem more realistic than some giant animal that somehow disappeared the second I turned the light on?” He squats, holding a hand out. “Here kitty, come on! Do you want some pets?”

The cat blinks at them, meowing, and doesn’t move.

Nandor straightens back up. “Well, unless you see any other fluff ball with glowing eyes-”

Guillermo suddenly whips around, and in a swift motion, reaches out to snap a shockingly large branch off a small tree, holding it aloft and shouting, “Stay the FUCK back!”

“What the hell...?” Again, nothing is there.

“Nandor, we need to go. Right now.” Guillermo takes a step back, elbowing him towards the direction of the end of the path.

“Alright, alright! I’m going! Yeesh.”

They head back up the trail, Guillermo keeping the light fixed on the path behind them, gripping the sharp branch like a deadly weapon. Nandor walks beside him, raising an eyebrow when Guillermo jerks the light to the right and then shoves himself bodily into Nandor’s side. “Walk faster,” he hisses, and Nandor only grumbles a tiny bit under his breath as he speeds up.

Emerging through the edge of the tree line, there is nothing waiting for them on the street except what they left when they entered: a whole lot of unlit buildings and no people. Guillermo shoves Nandor’s phone back into his hand, keeping his eyes locked on the woods.

“Call Laszlo, get him over here.”

“You should take some deep breaths, you are really on edge,” Nandor comments, lowering the bat and sighing as he finds Laszlo’s contact information. A quick phone call later, and he says, “He’ll be here in five minutes. Do you want to move back up the street? Would that help you calm down?”

“Yeah, please, can we?” Guillermo has lowered the branch, but is still glancing nervously back at the woods. Nandor feels the uncomfortable pit of guilt well up in his stomach; twice in one night, he’s done something stupid to freak the man out.

Laszlo arrives promptly. For him, that’s shocking, but considering Nandor’s tone on the phone, he probably realized he shouldn’t take the time to fuck around. 

“Everything alright?” Laszlo asks as they open the sliding door. Guillermo practically dives inside the van. He sinks back into the opposite door, closing his eyes and letting out a long breath.

“Let’s just go,” Nandor answers, taking the passenger seat; he gets the sense Guillermo wants some space right now. 

The drive back is quiet, none of them seemingly interested in discussing what just happened. By the time they reach the hotel, Nandor’s queasy guilt has morphed into full blown shame. When Laszlo parks, Guillermo dives right back out the van door, stalking towards their room. Laszlo and Nandor stay put and watch him go, seeing him struggle with the key for a moment, cursing loudly, before opening the motel door and slamming it shut behind him.

Laszlo is the first to speak. “I know your physique is a rather impressive size, Nandor, but did it really terrify the boy that much-”

“Laszlo, shut the fuck up.” Nandor groans and drops his head into his hands.

“What happened?”

“I’m an idiot. A fucking idiot, that’s what! Showing off, ignoring the clear signs he was uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable with...?”

“Would you get your head out of the gutter? We just went into the woods, got some footage. He got spooked by an animal and started freaking out. If I hadn’t- if I’d just listened to him the first time...” He presses his palms into his eye sockets, sighing. “I ruined everything.”

“That seems a bit dramatique, and that’s coming from me, the king of it.” Laszlo frowns, tapping his hands on the steering wheel. “You don’t need to put on a performance, you know? I don’t think he’s expecting you to be anybody but yourself, and that guy managed to impress me enough for some hanky panky when I first met him, so he can’t be all bad.”

Nandor manages a smile behind his hands, a little of the guilt easing as he says, “To be fair, you eventually threw that guy over for his best friend.”

Laszlo chuckles. “It was not to be, darling. But perhaps our young Gizmo is different.”

When Nandor gets back into the room, he opens the door slowly, not wanting to spook an already spooked man. But the bedroom is empty, and he can hear the shower running in the bathroom. He knocks gently on the bathroom door, and says, “Guillermo? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” is the muffled reply, Guillermo’s voice edged with enough tension to cut through hard steel. So, lying, then.

“I- I would like it, very much, if we could talk.” He waits, hears nothing for several seconds. “I know you had quite a fright and-”

“Can we just-!” Guillermo pauses, and Nandor listens to the steady patter of water hitting the tub, waiting for him to continue. “Not tonight. I can’t.”

Nandor rests his head against the door, letting out a silent sigh. “Alright. Tomorrow, then.”

No further reply from Guillermo. Nandor reluctantly moves away from the door, stripping off his flannel and draping it over the back of a chair. Toes his boots off, wriggles out of his jeans. Collects his clothes in a neat pile. Looks back at the bathroom door, an ache in his chest that he quickly squashes before sliding under the covers.

He faces the wall, away from Guillermo’s bed. Closes his eyes, tries to relax. It won’t work; his mind keeps returning to the person just on the other side of the door. The sound of the shower remains unchanged, no big splatters or squeaking of the tub floor, indicating movement. What is he doing in there?

It has to be another twenty minutes before Nandor hears a few heavy thumps, and the sound of the water shutting off. Another ten before the door creaks open. He doesn’t move, keeps his eyes closed. Figures, if Guillermo doesn’t want to talk, he probably won’t appreciate Nandor’s guilty gaze following him around the space.

The muted light behind his eyelids darkens as he hears the click of the bedside lamp, the rustle of a body slipping into bed. Guillermo settles, and for a moment, everything is quiet.

“Good night,” Guillermo says, softly, barely audible. A hesitant olive branch across the distance between them that has suddenly grown vast.

“Good night, Guillermo,” Nandor mumbles. “Sleep well.”

It takes Nandor a long time to fall asleep. Only when Guillermo’s breathing has evened out, a soothing confirmation that he’s finally at rest, does Nandor feel comfortable fading into slumber.

Chapter Text

July 14th, 2022

9:45AM

When Jenna calls out of work for the day, she sends a very brief text message to the shift manager, begging off for illness. There’s no pushback in their reply, simply an Okay. See you tomorrow. Part of her is glad it’s so easy, but the other part, the voice that’s been building over and over in her head since yesterday, craves a little empathy. She’s not looking for a phone call, just maybe a feel better or hope everything is okay or something, something that tells her other people in this town think that she’s going through something awful. Other people outside of her friends, who are, of course, going to be empathetic. 

Shanice, in particular, played the role of the awesome bestie yesterday, driving her home and cursing Delmonico up and down the whole way. It was nice to hear after hours at the station, sweating under the bright white LED lights of an interrogation room, as the aforementioned captain asked her questions that seemed innocent but had the potential to trigger a minefield.

The questions faded together over time; a lot of his initial ones were things she’d been asked before. He was probably trying to catch her up in a lie, but her story was truthful (mostly) so it wasn’t hard to keep straight. 

It was when the questions stopped being about her, and started being about others, that she got really nervous.

“What is your relationship with the group known as the Coventry Slayers? ”

“Did anyone ever talk about ways to convince everybody the vampire exists? ”

“Shanice didn’t like Coco much, did she? ”

“Did Claude ever tell you about why he got arrested? ”

“How well do you know Abraham Sandiford? ”

That last question, she’s been turning over in her mind ever since she left the station. Delmonico had asked it during a moment where he’d brought her something to eat - the turkey sandwich was middling at best, but it was the first thing she’d had in hours. His tone was curious, pleasant. She shrugged her shoulders, answering, “Not very well. He keeps to himself, and Derek always comes over to mine or Shanice’s.”

“You’ve never been inside his house?”

“Rarely.”

“Seems a little odd, don’t you think? You three being so close and all. I would think Derek would want his friends to spend time over his own house.”

“I... think he would rather come over to our houses, is all.”

“And why’s that?”

“More space,” she said. This was only half the truth, because the real truth was that Derek didn’t want them spending time around his dad, didn’t want Mr. Sandiford to have the opportunity to get on his favorite topic: The Coventry Vampire. Jenna knew it was a sore spot for Derek, but wasn’t about to tell Delmonico any of this.

Eventually, he’d gotten to the point, the real thing he’d brought her in to discuss. “You’ve got a very creative mind, Miss Feldstein. I’ve read some of your fiction - the elf warrior maiden, Jennelf, isn’t it?”

Jenna was so thrown for a second, she didn’t know how to respond. It wasn’t a topic she anticipated; Jennelf mostly existed in the minds of herself and her D&D party. She and Shanice had done some cosplay for a LARP event in Lake Placid last year, but otherwise, it didn’t make sense that he knew about her...

Delmonico continued, “Your friends seem to like your writing as well. It’s a shame, though, you never finished Jennelf’s story. What happens after she slays the great Cocovius?”

It came back in a flash - four years ago, after a particularly awful spat with Coco and her army of brainless sycophants, Jenna had spent one intense evening sending her vengeful warrior maiden on a quest to defeat the latest threat to the peaceful hamlet of Jamesonville. Thousands of words, typed hastily in a Google doc, through bitter tears and an aching chest, told the tale of Jennelf gathering her friends, Rya Goldenhand and Artemis Spark, and embarking on a journey. They’d traversed the sacred swamplands of Niverin, battled Cocovius’s army of brown-nosed imps, and finally met the slithering, snarling beast herself. Jennelf had personally dispatched the foul fiend with a flourish of her sentient blade, Revenant. The story had concluded with a celebration throughout Jamesonville, and Jennelf shyly talking up one of the women serving pints to all the honored heroes.

“How do you know about that?” she asked.

“You don’t remember showing it to your friends? Shanice- I mean, Rya, seemed to love it.”

Fuck. She’d dropped the link to the document in a tweet, sort of hoping her story would be so incredible that it would go viral, but only got comments from Shanice ( this was epicccc! jennelf ganked that stupid bitch) and Derek ( awesome story, keep it up! ). It felt good to write, get her frustrations out, and for a while, every time she saw Coco, she’d think back to Jennelf’s amazing somersault, spearing the beast through the skull, and smile to herself. That didn’t last long, and now, four years later, a cathartic creative writing exercise is coming back to bite her in the ass.

Delmonico had told her to think very carefully about her story about Coco’s death, and then left her sweating in the interrogation room for half an hour. He’d come back looking extremely pissed, saying she could go, but to call her lawyer - which made no sense until she got back home. Apparently, Mom got wind of her stay at the police department and called an attorney up; at least, that’s what she said. The way she said it, though, like she wanted Jenna to drop the question and move on... yeah. There’s something weird about that.

It was nice that all the slayers had been there to support her when she got out. The camera crew was a surprise - an embarrassing one at that. She wanted to look confident in front of them, wanted them to believe her, because what she’d told them was the truth - or at least, the part about her not killing Coco had been true. But walking out of the police station after hours of interrogation, well, her story didn’t look great. At that moment, all she wanted to do was melt into the ground and never solidify. The pitying look Nadja gave her… that hurt most of all.

Shanice continued to be awesome for the rest of the night, only poking and prodding her a little bit about what happened, and stopping whenever Jenna said she didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe her friend had wised up after their argument over Jenna’s first interview. It’s not that she doesn’t want to tell Shanice everything - and has, mostly - but she worries about her friend’s never-ceasing crusade for whatever version of social justice she believes in this week. Jenna doesn’t want to be the focus of a movement. She just wants to be left alone and to never go inside the Coventry PD ever again. She wants to have the memory of this part of her life fade away like the last dying embers of a raging fire, kept under control before it burns everything in sight.

The morning light through her window is dull, the sky overcast, and she doesn’t bother to get out of bed until she hears her phone vibrating on the dresser where she plugs it in every night. She yawns and slowly drags herself up, rubbing her eyes with her pastel-pink pajama sleeves and trudging over to the dresser. She glances at the name on the FaceTime call, frowns, and answers it. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Are you at work?” Shanice looks to be standing in front of a darkened store front - by the posters on the glass windows, the signage, and knowing where she works, Jenna guesses it’s Peterson’s Convenience Store , aka, the place where Shanice works. She sounds tense, which immediately puts Jenna on alert.

“No, I called in. Why?”

“Shit...” Shanice frowns, shifting the camera towards the front door, the sign out front reading Sorry, we’re CLOSED. “I was going to ask if Doug was there. Sometimes he hits up Henderson’s before work, and I know you have morning shifts.”

Jenna shrugs. “I haven’t seen him, sorry.”

Shanice sighs. “I’ll bet he lost track of time doing his stupid Sudoku puzzles and nursing his shitty cappuccino. Okay. Guess I’m walking over to the diner! I’ll call you back if I hear any of the town biddies gossipping while I’m there.”

With no plans for today, Jenna spends the next hour getting her morning hygiene accomplished, streaming music through her phone in the bathroom as she showers and sings along to Taylor Swift, trying to cheer herself up. It kind of works, enough that she’s not ruminating over the interrogation every moment, and is able to cook herself some eggs and sausage for a tasty breakfast. Even spending hours every morning slinging plates of the stuff to customers, she’s never lost the taste for such basic comforts.

It’s just after eleven when Shanice calls back.

“Okay, this is really weird,” she says, trotting down Main Street. “Doug wasn’t at the diner, or the vape shop, or the bookstore. I even poked my head into the PD really quick, but he wasn’t there either. His car isn’t parked anywhere nearby, and nobody I’ve asked has seen him all morning.”

“You think maybe he got sick?” Jenna sponges down the egg pan, her phone leaning precariously against the windowsill as she works. “If he’s super bad, he might not even be thinking about opening the store.”

“He seemed fine yesterday when I left work. And mom confirmed he was at the council meeting last night, so it would have to be after that.”

“Food poisoning?” Jenna suggests.

“He does like to eat at the shitty Arby’s that had like, twelve health code violations last year...” Shanice frowns. “You think I should stay and wait for him?”

“Maybe? You were supposed to open over an hour ago, right?”

“Yeah. I’ve left him two voicemails and a text and got nothing back. If I wait outside the store, people are gonna ask me why we’re not open, and then I’m gonna have to deal with at least a dozen irritated smokers who want their cigarettes for the day.”

“Up to you.” Jenna shrugs. “You can come over if you want? Mom’s at work and I was just gonna play more Animal Crossing, but we could do Mario Kart instead?”

“Hmmm. Tempting. Could we invite Derek too?”

Jenna smiles, turning off the water. “You don’t wanna just do a girls’ afternoon with me? Gotta invite your boyfriend too?”

Shanice’s face goes red as a blooming rose. She scowls and snaps, “He’s not my boyfriend!”

“ Not yet...” Jenna sing-songs teasingly, picking her phone back up. “If you spend more nights by yourselves, though, that’s gonna change quickly!”

“Unlikely,” Shanice mutters.

“You could just tell him, you know,” Jenna presses. “It’s not like he’s gonna judge you for it.”

Shanice rolls her eyes. “How do I bring that up in conversation, Jenna? Oh, by the way, remember when I told our entire class I was a lesbian in 9th grade? Well, surprise, I’m actually bi! I’m not bringing this up for any suspicious reason at all! ”

Jenna tilts her head, considering. “I mean, if you drop the last part, then yeah.”

Shanice has always had a tendency to go with her immediate gut feeling about something, declaring things with a definitive passion that sometimes winds up biting her in the ass. When she was deep in a spiral of swooning over her first high school crush - Suzanne Frederickson, who was pretty and smart and definitely prime girlfriend material - she decided this meant she only liked women, because, as she’d told Jenna, no man had ever made her feel the way Suzie did when she smiled at Shanice. There were notebooks filled with little hearts and initials, hours gushing over how beautiful Suzie looked in a skirt or the neat bow shape of her perfect lipstick.

This had been a constant refrain for over a year, until one day Suzie had called Shanice a weirdo, when she asked if Suzie wanted to join them to play D&D. After that rejection came the ugly anger, the complete 180 heartbreak. Gone were the notebooks, the hours of swooning, replaced with angry lesbian breakup songs and text messages about how Suzie definitely fit the DSM criteria for Narcissistic Personality Disorder. 

It took Shanice a while to want to talk about girls with Jenna again, and the first time the topic came up post-Suzie, Shanice stumbled and fumbled and finally mumbled, “I think I like somebody... but it’s a guy.”

Jenna took the news in stride - she was a small town lesbian, after all, and had few enough choices for queer friends to be biphobic. Not that she would’ve been, even if the whole town was made up of only lesbians - a fantasy she had indulged in many nights of her burgeoning pubescent years. Shanice was her bestie. They could still talk about cute girls. And she could be a good friend and listen attentively when Shanice started dropping bits and pieces of information about this guy crush.

It took another 6 months for Jenna to realize she was talking about Derek; that’s how cagey Shanice was about giving hard details. Jenna supposes she understands. Derek is friends with both of them. Having them be in a relationship could make things awkward between them, maybe make Jenna feel like a third wheel, and Shanice has the tendency to throw herself in front of possible grenades for Jenna’s benefit. 

Of course, above all, Shanice has always insisted that Derek definitely doesn’t feel the same, so there’s no point in pressing the issue.

Except...

Except Jenna sees the way Derek is around Shanice. The way his eyes tend to follow her whenever she’s in the room. The way he acts a little too chill, trying to come off as calm, collected, confident. Cool. And if there’s one thing none of them are, it’s cool. That doesn’t matter, though. He could be the biggest dork in the world - has proven himself to be so on several occasions - and Shanice would still be moony-eyed over him all the same.

It’s not Jenna’s place to push the issue, beyond the occasional teasing comment. Hopefully they’ll figure it out.

“Are you gonna keep messing with me or are we gonna call Derek and get this Kart tournament underway?” Shanice goads.

“Definitely!” Jenna grins and heads for the living room. By the time anyone is knocking on her door, she’ll have the game and the controllers set up. Ensuring she gets to play as Rosalina is vital. “You sure Doug won’t be mad at you?”

Shanice shrugs. “It’s his fault for not being here! If he doesn’t contact me in two hours, I’ll call him again.”

“Okay. Prepare to get destroyed by blue shell after blue shell.”

“Oh, it’s on!”

Jenna ends the call with a smile on her face. She spends a few moments cleaning up the clutter in the living room, before remembering that because she hadn’t gone to work, the morning paper is probably still on the driveway. Her mom insists on getting the town news the old fashioned way - considering the state of the local paper’s website, Jenna thinks she has a point - but she goes to work before the paper truck trundles by every morning, so Jenna usually brings it in.

Jenna pads outside in her bare feet, avoiding the cracked and crumbling parts of the driveway to protect her poor toes, and snatches up the paper before heading back inside. As she goes to put it on the kitchen counter for her mom to grab later, the title of the small article next to the front page headline about the county election catches her eye:

What Happened to Coco Henderson?

Jenna stares at the words, swallowing.

She knows, logically, that it’s just a headline. Just a way of drawing the reader’s attention to probably yet another article repeating the same facts the paper has talked about for six weeks straight: Coco, dead. Jenna, the only witness. The Hendersons, devastated. The slayers, ridiculed.

But there’s something so pointed, like the words were placed directly for her, like everyone is watching, waiting, begging for answers. As if she can explain it all.

The truth is, she could lay everything out that she saw that night, fill in the last few details, and it wouldn’t change a thing. Because nobody would believe her. Just like nobody believed Abraham Sandiford.

But maybe if she asked him, someday, what the creature who chased him that night fifty years ago looked like, she’d know she wasn’t the only one who had seen Death and lived to tell the tale.

Chapter Text

July 14th, 2022

10:23AM

Guillermo slept restlessly, waking up several times during the night, staring at the drawn curtains in their hotel room and waiting for something to emerge from behind them. He hasn’t been that nervous to sleep since he was a kid, and his idiot cousin Frederico convinced him that el Coco would snatch him away for eating too many sweets at his abuela’s 60th birthday party. Sometimes he rolled over and stared at Nandor’s prone form, his shoulders rising and falling faintly in the dark, and that kind of helped, except then Guillermo remembered why he was so frazzled in the first place, so he just rolled over and sulked for a little while.

He’s not... that mad. Anymore. This morning, Nandor had the good sense to give him space. He was out for a run when Guillermo first woke up, and later, while Guillermo was in the shower, he heard the motel door open, but Nandor had left again by the time he stepped out. On the side table next to his bed, there was a steaming cup of coffee from the local chain half a mile down the road, and a chocolate muffin, with a little note: went to talk w/ L + N about today . It was a nice peace offering. He knows, logically, that Nandor wasn’t trying to mess with him, was just trying to do a good job, and maybe that’s why Guillermo had agreed to go into the woods. Seeing Nandor take initiative, show any kind of excitement or passion, it feels important. Like it should be encouraged.

Or maybe Guillermo just likes spending time with him, just the two of them. It’s different than hanging out in the hotel room together. It’s public. It’s with a purpose. It was almost like... like a...

Like a nothing. Like you letting your imagination run wild. Guillermo shifts against the inside door of the van, glancing to his right. Nandor is slumped in the middle seat, arms folded, his green flannel riding up around his shoulders and his white t-shirt barely skimming the edge of his blue jeans. He’s staring up at the roof of the vehicle, seemingly lost in thought. He briefly flicks his eyes over to Guillermo, who quickly looks away. He’s not ready to talk. Not yet. Not with everyone else around, Laszlo and Nadja in the front seat, Laszlo bitching about some rival film director getting nominated for an award, Nadja providing consoling words and rubbing his shoulder. Or Colin Robinson in the back seat, on the phone with a woman who is audibly crying through the speaker, trying to talk her out of her misery.

Seems like everyone has their own problems this morning.

He’d delivered the hard drives with last night’s footage to Colin Robinson this morning, who’d asked if they’d caught anything interesting. He’d said he wasn’t sure, which was true, because he hadn’t reviewed the footage. Wasn’t ready to. Still isn’t. What if there’s nothing there? What if he raised that alarm, had that whole freak out, and when they watch it back, the only thing they see is a fluffy gray cat, no shadow monsters in sight?

He saw something. He knows he did. Not just on camera, but later, the second time he’d freaked out. A streak of motion feet away, kicking some internal sensor off that had his brain calculating what could be used as a weapon, and possible escape routes, and where best to stand to put himself between whatever was stalking them and the vulnerable human beside him.

Never in his life had he felt such keen awareness of the physical space around him. Everything slowed down. Everything intensified: the sound of wind flowing around each large object, creating an audible shape in his mind’s eye; the smell of decaying foliage overpowered his nostrils, something more ancient wafting underneath. Even the sense of his own body: the weight of the phone and the branch in his hands, where his center of mass was balanced and how many different ways he could move it, could strike out if needed.

He doesn’t know where the confidence to give orders came from, only that they came, and Nandor, bless him, listened. His memory of those moments is imperfect, unfixed in his mental timeline of the evening. The first solid thing he can remember is throwing open the door of the van, a wall of fear and anger rushing over him as he threw himself into the seat. He’d closed his eyes and forced firm, controlled breaths through his nose and dug a pill out of his pocket to dry-swallow until his racing heart evened out. 

If Laszlo or Nandor had said anything to him during the ride back to the hotel, he’s not sure whether he would’ve dissolved into sobbing or exploded into screaming. All he could feel was everything, and he had to keep it inside. Couldn’t let it spill out, couldn’t let either of them see how much of an utter mess he could turn into.

“How many houses do you think we’ll be able to hit in three hours?” Colin Robinson has finally gotten off the phone, and leans over the middle seat, his elbow digging into Nandor’s shoulder in a way that can’t be comfortable - and by Nandor’s expression, isn’t. “You know, I once read this fascinating study about canvassing for political elections, and how at first, the data suggested that people respond well to strangers knocking on their doors to engage them in discussions about candidates with whom they have fundamental disagreements, but then a few years later, they redid the study and found the complete opposite, except that study was disputed as well-”

“Impossible to know, old chap!” Laszlo’s eyes haven’t left the road, but his hand lands on Nadja’s shoulder, her mouth open-midway, seemingly poised to spit a rebuke at Colin Robinson. She huffs and sinks back into her seat as Laszlo continues, “It entirely depends on how willing the townspeople are to speak with us. In my experience, most people will probably keep their doors shut, but if we spread ourselves out about the neighborhood, try to hit as many houses as possible, we should get at least a few talkers.”

“You do not need to get their whole life story,” Nadja comments, “Just whether they’d be willing to give their opinion on the murders and the vampire story on camera. You can text me their information if they agree, and I will arrange times for us to interview them this evening.”

They pile out of the car in the center of the neighborhood known as Coventry Pines , a middle class cul-de-sac that offshoots the main road of town. Colin Robinson checked the town maps and population density, identifying this place as the most populated part of town. There are several dozen houses within a mile of walking distance; perfect to canvass on a hot summer morning.

The last time Guillermo did anything like this, he was staying over his tia Maria’s house for the afternoon, and her daughter Lulu was in Girl Scouts. They spent hours walking up and down the street, knocking on townhouse doors, a seven year old Guillermo staying glued to his tia’s side as Lulu sold the neighbors on boxes of Caramel deLights and Thin Mints. He’s not one to strike up casual conversation with strangers, and his stomach twists with queasy nerves as he walks behind Nandor and Nadja. At a corner, Nandor goes left, Nadja goes right, and Guillermo makes the quick decision to follow Nadja.

“Can I just watch you, for this first one?” He smiles sheepishly when she raises an eyebrow. “Wanna get it right.”

“Surprised you’re not asking Mama Duck,” Nadja snarks, nodding to Nandor, who is already halfway down the next block. The man has a wide stride and can move quick when he wants to. She waves Guillermo off before he can protest. “Fine, first one, and then you’re on your own.”

Guillermo will give Nadja this: she knows how to turn on the act when she needs to. No one answers the door at the first five houses, but someone opens the door on the sixth, an older white woman with graying curly hair in pink rollers. Nadja’s face immediately shifts from its resting state of mild aggravation, eyes lighting up and mouth curling into a wide smile.

“Hello!” she chirps, sounding so un-Nadja-like, Guillermo has to double take. “Sorry to bother you, but we are doing a little film about some of the events going on in town, and we would really love if we could ask you some questions about-”

“Not interested,” the woman says, flatly. She shuts the door as quickly as she’d opened it.

Nadja scowls and twists around, striding down the stairs, muttering, “Well fuck you too!”

“Does that normally happen?” Guillermo asks, trailing in her wake.

“Of course it bloody happens! Now go.” She motions towards the other side of the street. “You saw what you needed to.”

Guillermo reluctantly leaves her, crossing the street to begin knocking on doors. He starts at the corner, working his way down, knocking twice on each door, a minute between, before giving up and moving on. His record is even worse than Nadja’s had been; eight houses before anybody opens. Thankfully, a woman around his own age who seems friendly answers, and though she doesn’t know too much about the Henderson case, she does point him towards some houses down the block with people who might. Two of them don’t open their doors, but the third, an older gentleman who was alive during the Sandiford case, agrees to do a short phone interview later on in the day.

That’s his only real hit for the next twenty minutes. Most people don’t answer, one or two tell him they don’t know anything or they don’t want to talk. One woman clutching a yappy little chihuahua looks him over with a casual indifference, tells him, “I’ll pass,” and shuts the door.

“Right,” Guillermo mutters, jogging down the steps. “Should have expected that... pendeja. ”

He’s walking towards the next corner when a loud, familiar voice cuts through the relative silence of the neighborhood. He can tell it’s Nandor, though he can’t pick out the words, only knows that he is shouting, and his tone is not chill, and those two factors send Guillermo running in the direction of the sound.

He skids around a corner, spotting Nandor on a porch three houses down, taking two steps back with his hands raised in the air. Shit , Guillermo thinks, striding forward.

“I can see you do not wish to talk!” Nandor is shouting, face twisted in a rictus grin that belies the worried look in his eyes. “I will just go!”

Guillermo gets close enough to peer through the screen door, sees the wiry, middle-aged white man with sun-beaten skin and a large shotgun resting in his arms. He’s frowning, grumbling, “You planning on bothering my neighbors next?”

“Certainly not bothering anyone, sir!” Nandor continues, taking another step back. “Just asking some questions.”

The man nudges the screen door open with one foot, stepping onto his porch. “Nobody around here is interested in answering your questions. Why don’t you go back to wherever you came from, and leave us all in peace?”

Nandor nods rapidly, almost stumbling when his next backwards step meets open air, his foot landing hard on the stair below. “That sounds like a great plan! Yes, I’ll be leaving!”

Guillermo’s heart is in his throat, his eyes fixed on the muzzle of the gun; the weapon is held loosely and currently lowered, but that could change quickly. Even with the simmering fear, part of him is furious, wants to run up and yell at the guy for threatening his friend. Still, he knows it’s better to let Nandor make the call. He’s spent just as many years as Guillermo has dealing with racist fuckfaces. This could get bad, really fast, if he overreacts. So if Nandor wants to leave, they’ll leave.

Thankfully, the guy doesn’t move any further off his porch, just stands and glares at Nandor as he keeps walking backwards. By the time Nandor steps onto the sidewalk, Guillermo is there, a little relief blooming on Nandor’s features when he sees the other man. They don’t have to speak, just turn and walk rapidly away from the house. Guillermo rests a hand on Nandor’s shoulder, glancing back every so often as they go. The man keeps standing there, staring, and it’s only after they round the corner and disappear from his view that Guillermo lets out the breath he’s been holding for the last minute.

“Are you okay?” Guillermo asks.

“No, I am not fucking-” Nandor pauses, takes a deep breath. Guillermo can feel the tension vibrating in his shoulders. “I’m not okay. That was… fuck, I can’t believe I just let him walk all over me like that.”

“Come on, you know it’s not that simple.” It’s not the first time Guillermo’s seen a man he’s close to choose safety over pride. Dignity is a privilege you only get to keep when the gringo with a gun decides you’re not a threat.

“I know! I know.” Nandor rubs a hand over his face, sighing. “It just…”

“Sucks,” Guillermo finishes, nodding sympathetically. “Yeah.”

“What about you?” Nandor asks, after a time, when he seems a little more composed. “Are you okay? Are… we , okay?”

It takes Guillermo an embarrassingly long three seconds to get what he means. “Oh. Right.”

“If you are still angry with me, it would make sense.” Nandor shrugs. “We do not have to talk about it.”

“I’m not. Angry with you,” he says, almost surprised to find that he means it. “But that doesn’t make what you did okay.”

“I know. It was not my best moment.” Nandor seems to struggle with his next words; a normal person might say, I’m sorry , but Guillermo’s never heard the man say those words the entire time he’s known him. Yet he does seem genuinely apologetic: in his tone, in the way the guilt drapes off his shoulders. Guillermo gets the sense that whatever is going on in Nandor’s head, it’s not just about this.

He takes pity on the man. “You’re forgiven. Just, listen next time.”

Nandor looks surprised. “Oh. Alright. I will try. That... is it?”

“Yeah?” Guillermo frowns. “Was there supposed to be something else?”

It takes a moment, but Nandor’s shoulders eventually relax, and when he smiles, Guillermo can’t help but smile back.

“No,” Nandor answers. “I guess not.”

“What the bloody fuck is going on?” Nadja and Laszlo have rounded the corner, the former looking less than pleased and the latter a bit more red-eyed than usual. Laszlo gives Guillermo a funny look when he sees him, and Guillermo remembers that he’s still got his hand on Nandor’s shoulder. He quickly drops it and gives Nandor some space as Nadja continues, “Why is everybody just standing around?”

“New plan,” Nandor snaps. “We all knock on doors together together or I’m going back to the fucking van and staying there.”

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Laszlo asks, frowning.

“I think that was the shotgun,” Guillermo comments, shrugging when both Nadja and Laszlo stare at him. “What? We’re in small town America, there’s a lot of firearms out here.”

“Right. Forgot about your country’s insane weapons laws,” Laszlo says. “Together then, yes?”

~

1:24PM

The Coventry Archives are nestled in the basement of the Coventry Library, a small, wooden building converted from an old Protestant church in the mid-1800s. The building had a shoddy HVAC system installed some time in the 90s, and it churns loudly wherever you are in the building, barely keeping the upstairs at livable temperatures whatever the season. Thankfully, the basement is a few degrees cooler, though the tradeoff is a lack of windows to regularly refresh the air in the space. The result is that everything smells a little stale, of slowly decaying paper and forgotten history.

Barbara’s office is at the far end of the basement, tucked behind the long rows of shelving that contain neatly labeled lines of cardboard boxes, file folders, glass cases and aged books. Her office is painted a sunny yellow, in contrast to the dour brown walls and worn maroon carpet within the rest of the basement. It’s also well lit; Guillermo counts at least four lamps, one atop her work desk that glows with a blue light and seems to mimic the color of the afternoon sky.

“UV Lamp,” Barbara says when Guillermo asks about it. “My doctor said my Vitamin D levels are horrible, and my daughter got it for me for Christmas. Can’t use it all the time though, sunlight will degrade some of the artifacts in here.”

Out in the main space, there’s a line of long wooden tables near the stairwell, and Barbara has pulled various things from the archives to display for them: some timbers from the original church that burned during the earthquake, vacuum sealed in a glass display case, the white oak turning to blackened ash where the fire met the wood; newspaper clippings from The Coventry Daily over the paper’s two hundred year history, covering most of the deaths in town and their subsequent investigations; records of the town and surrounding landscape: maps and geological surveys and architectural blueprints. She even has the journal of Alexandre Lacroix, the patriarch of the murdered Lacroix family.

“There are a few items related to the Sandiford investigation in that box,” Barbara says, pointing towards the one on the end of the table. “Police records, physical artifacts. Everything has to stay sealed, but you can take pictures if you like. Careful though, there are some crime scene photos, not for the faint of heart.”

“Does the captain know you have these things?” Laszlo queries, resting his hands on the lid of the box. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble, my dear.”

Barbara smiles. “It’s a closed case, and we can request the records be transferred to us for historical preservation. Don’t you worry, Mr. Cravensworth. I can handle the chief.”

“I call dibs on the journal,” Colin Robinson says, rubbing his hands together. “Love reading about the ins and outs of lumber manufacturing. Fascinating stuff.”

“What a strange man,” Nadja mutters, standing beside Guillermo as they watch Colin Robinson head for the tables. “Can’t believe Laszlo likes him so much.”

The next hour is spent sorting through all the artifacts, setting up a station with proper lighting so that Laszlo and Nadja can direct him to photograph anything that seems relevant. The work here is rote, fairly uninteresting, but simple enough to do. Guillermo finds his mind wandering, thinking back to his jaunt with Nandor in the woods, remembering the sense of unease - always low level since he entered Coventry, but heightened to near suffocating levels as they trod down that dirt path. He’s never particularly liked the outdoors, preferring the safety of interior spaces; temperature controlled, quiet. Unlike the forest undergrowth, there’s nothing lurking camouflaged in a pile of laundry on his bedroom floor. The funny thing is, this isn’t the first time a handsome man has asked him to take a stroll in the woods. He refused back then, citing the aforementioned reasons, and that was explicitly couched as a date date. Last night was not a date date. It was for work. No other reason. And that’s why Guillermo agreed this time. Purely professional purposes.

He’s so far lost in thought, that only the sight of a blood-soaked blue flannel in a sealed plastic bag can draw him back to the present. He stares down at the object that was just dropped onto the photography station, the queasiness in his stomach rising, threatening to upend the remains of his hastily eaten gas station hot dog. Right, Derek mentioned this. Solomon Sandiford’s last worn article of clothing.

“The man had good taste,” Nandor mutters beside him, and Guillermo nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Fucking- don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Nandor frowns. “I was not sneaking? Laszlo told me to bring this to you to photograph.”

“Oh.” Guillermo grimaces. “Sorry. Guess I was... in my head.”

“Ah. Yes, I know the appeal.” Nandor quirks an eyebrow. “Anyone else in there with you?”

You, Guillermo thinks, but doesn’t say, changing the topic. “You know, we’ve been talking with so many people about death, but this is the first time we’ve really gotten up close with the reality of it.” He motions to the open file folder beside the station, holding the next items in line to be photographed: crime scene photos of Solomon’s murder. The light in the room is dim enough that he can’t quite make out vivid details, which will not be true when he slides them onto the station, blinding white lights ensuring every single jagged piece of flesh and dead-eyed stare can be captured on camera.

“Here.”

“Hmmm?”

“The first time here.” Nandor folds his arms. “We’ve all seen death in our personal lives, haven’t we?”

Guillermo shrugs. “I mean, sure? My abuelo and abuela. But it’s different, isn’t it? Not usually this brutal. And you don’t really see what they looked like at the moment of death. Body is already embalmed by the time you get to the funeral home.”

Nandor lets out an audible snort. “That is a Catholic burial, Guillermo. Wakes and visitations. We don’t do that.”

Guillermo winces. “Sorry... what do you do?”

“Bury within a day, if possible. Three at most. My maman made it to the grave about a day and a half after she died.” He smiles. “She would have been furious - the woman hated being tardy to anything.”

“Suddenly it all makes sense,” Guillermo jokes. “You bitch that we’re late if we’re only five minutes early.”

Nandor cuffs him on the shoulder, playfully. “Timeliness is important! You’d know that if you managed to drag yourself out of bed any earlier than five minutes before we need to leave.”

“Hey! I can get dressed very quickly. Lifetime of practice.”

“Oh, so only five minutes to get dressed after fifteen minutes to get undressed, that’s why we are late to things! Understood.”

“I can get undressed plenty fast if I have the right incentive,” Guillermo snarks, his mouth working faster than his brain. It takes him a moment to realize what he just said.

They both go silent. The implication hangs heavy in the air as they stare at each other, Nandor slowly removing his hand from Guillermo’s shoulder. He looks down at the table, coughing, “Good to know.”

Guillermo feels like he’s suddenly caught a case of bad sunburn, averting his eyes back to the photography station. He snaps a photo of the flannel, moving it gently to the side before sliding the file folder up next. Solomon Sandiford’s blank expression stares back, the faded 70s film grain failing to hide the gruesome reality of his mutilated neck.

“Horrible,” Guillermo mumbles. “I hope Abraham has never seen these.”

Nandor grunts. “I believe Derek mentioned he had to identify the body, but I would presume that was on an autopsy table.”

“You think he’ll watch the documentary when it’s done?” Guillermo lifts the camera. “Maybe we should warn him, if these go in. Can’t be easy to see somebody you love like this.” A sudden hand on his wrist makes him pause, look up at Nandor. “What?”

“Perhaps we should... not.” Nandor frowns.

Guillermo blinks at him. “Why?”

“I just- I do not think we should. Put them away, we have enough.”

“But Laszlo said-”

“Fuck what Laszlo said! If he asks, I’ll tell him I made you do it. Somebody’s got to have enough sense here to consider what’s in good taste. This is ghoulish.”

“...Okay?”

Nandor lets go of his wrist, awkwardly patting him on the shoulder. There’s something hunted in his expression, but he walks away before Guillermo can ask about it.

The rush of items Laszlo and Nadja want him to photograph slows to a trickle after a couple of hours, and Guillermo finds himself bored, wandering the stacks as the rest of them continue to peruse the evidence. It’s not that he’s slacking off, he just needs to be ready to take pictures at a moment’s notice, so getting deep into the source materials would be silly. Besides, there are plenty of interesting things to look at on the shelves, not just related to the murders. Things like tagged and rusted firearms from various wartime periods, rolled posters from past town events like carnivals and elections and town fairs, books with titles like An Account of Woodland Regression in Essex County and Population Stratification: 1843-1926 and Myths and Legends of the Adirondacks. He flips through that last one curiously, satisfied to see the inclusion of Coventry’s Vampire. The entry lists it as having “origins pre-dating the rise of American vampire hysteria, but was quickly integrated into the lore of that period, solidifying the explanation of Schmidt’s death within a specific supernatural context.”

A whispering voice draws his attention; harsh, feminine, familiar. Guillermo closes the book and shuffles sideways, peeking around the shelving to see a figure cast in dim light, tucked in the back corner of the room, far from the rest of the crew.

“-cannot give you an answer yet,” Nadja is murmuring, twisting her tied-back hair around one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. “I am not saying no! I just need a little more time-” She pauses, a faintly audible, screechy voice coming through the phone speaker, muffled against her ear. “Yes, of course, I understand the opportunity is amazing! I am looking at all of my obligations over the next year to ensure-” She pauses again. “Believe me, I am furious at myself that I cannot tell you at this very moment whether I want the job. Just another few days, and you will have my answer- yes. Yes, I promise.”

Guillermo’s curiosity gets the better of him; he leans so far to the side that he nearly loses his balance, grabbing the shelf and banging his boot against the metal as he catches himself. Nadja’s head immediately shoots up, and he throws himself behind the shelf to avoid being seen. 

Fuck. Was he fast enough? Doesn’t matter, he needs to leave immediately. Whatever he just heard, Nadja clearly didn’t want anyone else listening.

He heads the opposite way he came, trying to thwart discovery by taking a longer, winding route through the shelves. He listens for approaching footsteps, doesn’t hear anything, letting out his breath only after he’s gotten at least five rows away, halfway back to the tables. Good. Seems like he averted-

The nails that dig into his shoulder are sharp, nearly piercing, and Guillermo’s shocked yelp is quickly smothered by a hand over his mouth as someone drags him between two rows into a particularly dark area of the stacks. His temporary panic is only slightly alleviated at recognizing the familiar voice growling in his ear.

“Hold still,” Nadja hisses. “You’d better not scream when I let you go.”

Guillermo slowly nods, sucking in a deep breath when she removes her hand, whirling around to face her. 

“What the hell?” he whispers. “Are you trying to kill me from fright? That was some serial killer behavior, Nadja!”

She rolls her eyes. “Dramatic, as always. I wouldn’t have to mildly kidnap you if you didn’t eavesdrop on private conversations , Gizmo!”

“I wasn’t trying to,” he protests. “I was looking at the archives, you just picked a bad spot to have a private phone call. Why not go outside?”

“Because I presumed nobody would be stupid enough to try and sneak up on me. Clearly I was mistaken.” She folds her arms, scowling. “What did you hear?”

Guillermo shrugs. “My answer will depend on what will keep all my limbs firmly attached to my body.”

“For fuck’s sake...” Nadja grips the bridge of her nose between two fingers, eyes clenched shut, before looking back up at him. “I need you to keep quiet about this. It has nothing to do with the current project. It is something I am considering for later.”

“Have you told Laszlo?”

“What do you think?”

“So it’s something you’re worried he won’t want to hear.”

“Are you a marriage counselor now, Gizmo? It is none of your business, so keep your bloody mouth shut, or I will make you wish you had!”

“Okay! You don’t have to threaten me. I wasn’t planning on telling anyone anyway.”

“Like I believe that.”

“No, I’m serious.” Guillermo digs his hands into his pockets, shrugging. “We’ve all got our own shit going on, right? Stuff we don’t want anybody else knowing about. So... secret’s safe with me.”

Nadja stares at him, head tilting slowly sideways; twisting so far to the side that, for a moment, he swears it’s going to do a complete 180, like some freakish horror movie special effect. 

Then she straightens back up, scowling. “Good,” she says, brushing past him to step out of the row. “Come on, we have more work to do.”

By the time they get back up front, Barbara is packing up most of the artifacts back into boxes. Laszlo, Colin Robinson and Nandor are standing together, Laszlo chattering on with an excited expression, while Colin Robinson and Nandor both look less than pleased.

“More standing around? Is this a theme today?” Nadja asks.

Laszlo turns to look at her. “No, darling. We’ve got a lead on something! Gizmo, pack the equipment. We’re taking a little side diversion.”

“Where?” Guillermo asks.

Laszlo grins. “Changing up our genre a little, I suppose. We’re going to a haunted house!”

Chapter Text

July 14, 2022

2:43PM

One of the few interests that Derek shares with his father is electronics. Abraham makes his living doing tech support for many of the local businesses around town, coming of age in the era of the rise of the personal computer. Despite the general attitude of disdain many of the townsfolk hold for their family, Sandiford’s Electronics Repair has been a staple of Coventry since the 90s. As a result, Derek grew up tinkering with motherboards and learning how to build computer towers. It’s the one kind of knowledge he’s glad to have had passed onto him, something useful, a trade he can ply. He’s helped his dad off and on with various projects, and they get along best in those fleeting moments when they’re in the shop together.

Last week Derek agreed to help Abraham with an out of town delivery today, a bulk order of repaired crypto-mining CPUs owned by an amateur tech bro in Lake Placid who has more money than sense. If he’d known then what he knows now - that the air between them would be thick with silence and resentment - he would’ve... probably still agreed, because jobs like this pay the bills. But at least he would’ve been prepared. Not moodily sulking about having to turn down Shanice and Jenna’s offer to spend the day doing absolutely nothing productive.

Derek is Just Not Feeling It today. He wants to abandon his old man and spend time with people who haven’t had a markedly negative affect on his short life. He’s been rolling Abraham’s words over in his mind, all throughout the morning, through the quiet drive down the mountain towards civilization, as they unload overpriced graphics cards from the back of Abraham’s truck, and turn the vehicle back towards home. 

I really hope you never end up in my shoes, son. Nobody willing to hear your truth. I hope you always have people in your life who believe in you. Cause let me tell you, life’s a hell of a lot harder if you don’t.

What is Derek Sandiford’s truth? For his whole life, everything has felt superseded by the reality of his grandfather’s death and the stain it left on their lives. Derek wants to be somewhere where the name Sandiford blends into the crowd. Where he can introduce himself and have people pre-judge him for the normal, shitty reasons, and not because of who his dad is.

He could’ve left when his mom moved out, but his whole life was in Coventry, and his little kid brain was convinced that she needed him less than Abraham did. Then, as he got older and started to really understand why people acted a certain kind of way around his father, the impetus for staying had mostly been inertia. He’s been kind of aimless since high school ended, unsure of whether he wants to follow his dad’s career path into a college IT program, or try his hand at video game programming, or maybe write a comic book, or just set up a tent in the woods to see if he can eke out a life as a hermit.

Okay, maybe not so much that last one.

Lost in thought, he almost misses the faint buzz of his cell phone in his pocket, slipping it out and tapping on the message from Shanice.

Are you and your pops still out of town?

Derek glances at his dad, who is humming softly under his breath to the radio - classic 70s Motown, the static crackling as Stevie Wonder croons, When you believe in things you don’t understand, then you suffer . Quickly, Derek types a reply.

On our way back. Why?

Can you ask your dad if he’s talked to Doug since yesterday?

“Hey,” Derek says, the first word he’s said to Abraham in over 12 hours. “Did you talk to Doug today?”

Abraham frowns. “Odd question coming from you. No, I haven’t. Texted him this morning about doing a fishing trip weekend next month, but haven’t heard back. Why?”

“Shanice is asking,” Derek says, quickly shooting a reply to tell her what Abraham said.

“Thought she worked on Thursdays.”

“Yeah, so did I, but she and Jenna texted me earlier to ask if I wanted to hang out. Guess she got the day off?”

Abraham glances at him. “You didn’t wanna go?”

Derek shrugs. “Kinda busy with you.”

“I coulda handled this myself.”

“Yeah, but I promised I’d help.”

“Son, if a pretty girl asks you to ‘hang out’” - Abraham lifts one hand from the wheel to make air quotes - “then I don’t give a damn what we’re doing, you tell me and we turn the car around.”

Derek sighs. “I told you, it’s not like that.”

“Right, right. You’re over her house more than your own cause you’re friends.”

“She’s gay!”

“Uh huh. So was my friend Carol, and she wasn’t asking boys over her college dorm in the middle of the night, that’s for sure.”

Derek’s phone buzzes, blessedly breaking the train of this conversation. Shanice has answered.

I still can’t get a hold of him. I’m kind of concerned? He’s always up my ass at work, not responding for hours on top of not showing up to open the store is really weird for him. This might be asking a lot, but could you stop by his house on your way back? Just see if he’s there?

“Shanice is saying she’s worried. Wants to know if we can stop at Doug’s to check up on him.”

“Sure, that’ll give me a chance to ask him about the fishing trip.”

Doug’s house isn’t part of any particular neighborhood of Coventry. Nestled out in a woodsier area, the man is an outdoorsman through and through. There’s a long dirt path leading up to the property, emerging through the trees into a clearing that Doug’s grandfather made in the forest decades ago. The house was built in the 30s and inherited from father to son, a rustic, log-cabin-esque affair that’s been updated with modernities over time, retaining its weather-beaten charm but now capable of streaming satellite TV. There’s a small field of sparse grass on the right side of the house, where two rusted Toyota trucks on cinder blocks have permanently resided since before Derek was born. Doug’s own, much less rusty truck sits in front of them, usually a sign he’s home. Farther back, a chicken-wire coop holds half a dozen hens, slumbering inside their nesting boxes in the afternoon heat. There’s also a large, leaning shed behind the house where Doug keeps his lawn equipment, though it isn’t much - the man prefers a natural look for the scattershot foliage that grows around the property, and with no HOA laws, nobody can stop him from letting his grass grow tall.

Derek spent time here on occasion as a kid, before Doug got on the council and his once close friendship with Abraham seemed to drift apart. The property was quieter than town, which he liked, and Doug has always kept dogs, something that Derek’s mom’s pet allergies prevented him from having. Currently he owns two pitt mixes, Rufus and Roger, middle-aged animals that Derek gets to bunk with a couple times a year when he dog sits. He can hear their echoing barks inside the house while his dad parks the truck; the animals always know when somebody is outside.

As soon as he gets out of the vehicle, Derek sees that the inner door of the house is ajar, and the lights are on inside. The porch light is also on, despite the bright sun overhead. 

“I guess he’s home,” Derek says, following his dad up towards the steps. “Think he’ll let me run the dogs around the yard for a few minutes?”

“I’d imagine,” Abraham says. He knocks crisply three times on the screen door, and calls out, “Dougie, you in, man? Your door’s open.”

Derek waits, and waits, and... waits. Nothing. Just the dogs, continuing to bark, louder now, starting to howl when they hear Abraham’s voice. 

“Weird,” Derek says. “Maybe he’s like, in the basement or something?”

Abraham frowns, glancing side to side before grabbing the handle of the screen door. “Let’s check, make sure he didn’t fall somewhere and hurt himself.”

The house is still as they step inside, except for the gated off living room, Rufus and Roger happily panting as they stick their heads over the gate to look at them. 

“Hey guys!” Derek walks over, giving them head scritches as he looks around the room. Nothing seems amiss, though... “Doesn’t Doug usually let these guys roam when he’s home? Usually they’re only gated at night or when he’s out.”

“Hello? Doug?” Abraham calls again, moving down the hallway towards the kitchen. “Everything alright?” Still no answer.

“Where the hell is he?” Derek asks. He leaves the dogs for now, following his father into the kitchen that hasn’t seen a remodel since 1995. Wood cabinets, linoleum floor, formica countertops. Refrigerator tucked into the corner, so close to the opposite wall you have to stand to the side to open it. A small dining table sits snug against the wall to the left. There’s a windowed door opposite the hallway, leading to the backyard, and a smaller door to the right, leading to the basement. 

There are dishes soaking in a tub in the sink, and the remains of a half-eaten bowl of pasta on the counter. Derek touches the side of the bowl; room temperature. Been sitting out for a while. He glances through the speckled glass window at the back of the house, sees nothing but grass and trees outside.

“Something feels off.” Abraham opens one of the cabinet doors, pulling out a flashlight. “Go check upstairs, I’ll check the basement.”

“You need a flashlight for that?” Derek watches him cross the floor, opening the basement door.

“The lights down there don’t work for a damn. You know that.” Abraham raises an eyebrow at him. “If you see anything, holler.”

Back in the hallway, there’s an L-shaped stairwell leading up to the second floor. The doors in the upper hallway are all shut when Derek steps onto the landing. He can’t see any lights underneath the doors, moving efficiently from room to room, knocking twice, waiting, knocking again, waiting, and then opening each door. He finds nobody there.

Doug’s bedroom is at the end of the hall, and his bed is neatly made, but there’s a puddle of clothes near the hamper in the corner, ones that Derek recognizes; he was wearing them at the council meeting. Okay, so he definitely came home last night. What the hell happened after that?

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears his father’s muffled voice booming from downstairs. Scrambling out the door, he jogs back to the landing, thundering down the steps as he calls out, “What? What is it?”

“I was just asking if you found anything.” Abraham is at the bottom of the landing, tapping his boot against the step. “Basement looks empty.”

“Nothing unusual?”

“Not that I could see. The man’s a ghost.”

“Upstairs looked normal. Found his clothes from last night, but nothing else.”

Abraham nods. “Let’s check the rest of the property.”

“We should let the dogs out while we do,” Derek agrees. “They’re probably cooped up.” Rufus has begun whining, a sound that usually indicates he’s been holding his bladder too long and really needs to pee.

The dogs are well trained to stay on the property, so they forgo leashes and let the animals follow them out the front door. Immediately, Rufus runs behind a bush to do his business, but Roger trots towards the chicken coop, barking excitedly as he disappears around the back. 

“He’d better not dig any more holes or Doug’ll have a fit,” Abraham comments.

“I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Derek stretches his arms skywards as he ambles towards the coop, looking around. The tree line around the property is dense, but with the sun overhead, he can see a decent ways into the woods. And woods are all he sees; nothing out of the ordinary.

Roger is still barking as Derek rounds the corner of the coop. He sighs, groaning.

“What are you going on about- oh. Shit.”

The trees behind the coop are nothing but skinny poles, younger growth that Doug will eventually cut away to keep them from overtaking the property. They’re small enough that they cluster like weeds, the space between them not even large enough for a man to fit through. Or, they usually are. It looks like someone took a wrecking ball and smashed straight through them, splintering a huge hole through the cluster. Jagged pieces of wood lie scattered across the forest floor, the direction of the damage indicating whatever went through them was going into the trees, not out of them. A few inches of each tree trunk still stick up through the dirt, sharp like stakes. Snapped off at the lowest point. Roger is sniffing at them.

What turns Derek’s stomach isn’t the damage to the trees, though. It’s the blood. Dried to a dark brown on the tips of the tree trunks, staining a long path through the leaves and rocks ahead, the foliage beyond the trees disturbed, as if something large and fast went barreling through.

“Oh fuck, oh shit- Dad!” 

His yell brings Abraham quickly, appearing a few moments later to stare with Derek at the damaged undergrowth, the trail of reddish brown that speckles the forest floor, smeared into the dirt, continuing beyond where they can see from this position.

“Fuck.” Abraham’s automatic response is to sign himself with a quick up down, left right motion of his thumb and forefinger pressed together. His mouth is a thin set line, eyes calculating. “This is bad.”

“What do we do?” Derek glances around nervously. “Should we go looking for Doug? What if something got him, what if whatever got him is still out there-”

“That blood’s been there for hours. Whatever - or whoever - was bleeding is long gone.” Abraham seems to make a decision, nodding to himself and then glancing over at Derek. “Get the dogs back in the house.”

“And then what?”

“And then... fuck.” Abraham rubs a hand over his face. “Then I make the most God damn infuriating phone call I’m ever gonna make.”

Derek isn’t sure what he means, until Abraham gives him a look. “No... Seriously? After the shit show last night, you’re gonna call the freaking cops?”

“Well, we just walked through what is probably gonna be an active crime scene. Better they already know we were here than finding out through our fingerprints all over the house. And there’s no body, is there? Maybe Doug...” Abraham pauses, swallows. For a moment, Derek swears his father looks very young, and more lost than he’s ever seen him. “If he’s alive, we need as many people as we can looking for him.”

“I can’t believe this shit,” Derek groans. He can’t even disagree with Abraham’s logic on this one. He just doesn’t want to have to deal with Delmonico and all the accompanying bullshit that follows putting the chief and his dad in eye-sight of one another. He throws his hands up. “Fine. I’ll get the dogs.”

“Text your little girlfriend too,” Abraham says as Derek moves to shoo Roger away from the blood. “Tell her what we’re seeing here. The slayers should know.”

Derek sighs and pulls out his phone. Well, there goes the afternoon. He should’ve just gone and played Mario Kart.

Chapter Text

July 14th, 2022

4:14PM

Laszlo has been extremely coy about their destination, refusing to give any more details, but insisting it will be worth the ride. Guillermo doesn’t do well with minimal information, and the rest of the crew seems equally perturbed in their own unique ways: Nadja annoyed, Nandor suspicious, and Colin Robinson uncertain. 

It’s not like this is new behavior for their director; Laszlo tends to dance around the truth when he knows people won’t like what he’s going to say. Guillermo remembers an evening in the Cravensworth-Antipaxos apartment, where Laszlo had wanted to call it an early night because he was meeting a friend for breakfast the next morning. He had neglected to mention this to Nadja, and after fifteen minutes of hemming and hawing, the “friend” in question was revealed to be someone named Lilith. 

Based on Nadja’s reaction, this was akin to lighting a flare and tossing it into a pit of explosive material. 

Laszlo had certainly gotten what he’d wanted, that night. Colin Robinson stuck around to watch the fireworks, but Nandor loudly excused himself to drive Guillermo home, hurrying him out the door. It was a mutually beneficial agreement, not just because they both avoided witnessing a murder in progress, but because at that point in their relationship, Guillermo was looking for excuses to spend time alone with Nandor, and he sensed Nandor was doing the same.

Shame he turned down Guillermo’s offer to come inside for a few minutes. Finding parking in his neighborhood wasn’t that hard.

Guillermo is yanked back to the present by the sound of a woman rapidly losing patience with men, as a gender. “Would you just fucking tell us where we’re going, already?” Nadja snarls, bent forward over the arm of the passenger seat, gritting her teeth in a way that suggests she’s considering taking a bite out of her husband’s unprotected neck. Appropriate, given the circumstances.

Laszlo seems unperturbed, smiling with a lackadaisical air. “We’re almost there, darling. Anticipation! We must let it build. All shall be revealed soon enough.”

“I’m anticipating mariticide if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up,” Nandor mumbles. He’s sitting close to Guillermo, their knees bumping together, his arm draped around Guillermo’s headrest. Not touching any part of him, but present inside his personal bubble. Guillermo isn’t complaining; he’s rapidly cycling between a warm, fuzzy feeling and a worried twist in his gut, so if Laszlo could just fucking tell them where they’re going so he can stick with the warm and fuzzies, that’d be great.

“Laz, bud, loving your initiative but for legality’s sake, I really need to know our destination.” Colin Robinson leans forward like a horror villain, head appearing slowly in Guillermo’s peripheral vision, opposite Nandor. Guillermo instinctively shifts a little closer to Nandor, their knees now firmly pressed into one another. Nandor’s hand twitches in his lap, but he otherwise doesn’t react.

“Colin Robinson, I assure you, just another minute or so. You’re going to love this, I just know it!” Laszlo’s eyes are a little wild, a little unhinged. Not a good look on the man at the wheel of the vehicle. Guillermo hasn’t seen him this excited the whole time they’ve been in Coventry - well, maybe not true. He was pretty stoked when Claude mentioned the caves, which... they’re not actually going to go spelunking, right? He’s pretty sure none of them are trained in the art of caving. That’d be insanely dangerous. Haha. Laszlo isn’t that crazy! 

Surely not.

He’s forced to reconsider that opinion when they pull up in front of an extremely dilapidated manor house, a large, chain link fence surrounding the property, signs shouting NO TRESPASSING hanging every twenty feet off the enclosure.

“What the shit is this?” Nadja barks.

Laszlo puts the van into park, twisting around to look back and forth between them all, an excited grin on his face. 

“The Lacroix house,” he announces proudly. “Still standing nearly a hundred years after the murder of the entire family. It’s been shuttered since the 60s; the last owner claimed it was haunted by the vengeful spirits of the dead. Nobody’s been inside since.”

Nandor points to the scattered graffiti painting the building. “I would guess that is untrue, unless the last owners had some really wild ideas about exterior design.”

Laszlo rolls his eyes. “Fine, the local teens probably use this as a hang out spot when they’re feeling particularly randy. The point being, this would be a perfect place to shoot a monologue about the Lacroix family!”

“Are you suggesting we step foot inside of that shithole?” Nadja points to the fence. “Do you not see the damn signs?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Laszlo challenges. “Since when are you afraid of a little breaking and entering, darling? Do we not remember the BDSM discotheque in Milan?”

“You didn’t have permits for that place?” Colin Robinson frowns. “No wonder the sense of danger came less from the bondage cages and more from the possibility of structural collapse.”

“That was different!” Nadja scowls. “We were in a major metropolis, not the edge of civilization. And we at least had some idea of the building’s integrity. We don’t know the first thing about this place!”

Laszlo shakes his head. “Why do you think I was cooped up in Barbara’s office for the last half hour at the library? I was charming the lovely woman for information. The building material is sound, and city inspectors do a walk-through every couple of years. Based on her description, as long as we keep an eye out for soft spots in the flooring, we should be quite alright.”

“That doesn’t exactly help with the trespassing issue,” Colin Robinson points out. “Love your enthusiasm, but I can’t imagine getting the go-ahead from the executives for this one. Mister Johnson in particular is a real stickler for rule following. Doesn’t like surprises. You know, he and I once engaged in a four-hour long debate over the merits of Arial versus Calibri? Can you believe he actually thought-”

“I do not give two shits what he thought, Colin Robinson!” Nadja waves a hand towards her husband. “Tell him he’s not allowed to do this!”

Laszlo shoots Colin Robinson a pouty look, something he usually reserves for Nadja, so seeing it deployed against their Wonder Bread studio man is unnerving. “I’m not asking for their approval, Colin Robinson. I’m simply asking for you to take a convenient, half hour phone call a few hundred feet back down the road to the house, and to not ask any questions about the legality of what we’re about to do next.”

“I don’t know...” Colin Robinson looks genuinely torn, a frustrating turn of events - Guillermo was really hoping he’d be the voice of sanity. Compared to the blunt, matter-of-fact way he interacts with the rest of the crew, his soft spot for Laszlo is a confusing anomaly. 

“You are not dragging us in there, Laszlo,” Nandor says. “Guillermo does not need another fright after last night.”

Laszlo frowns. “And who’s fault is that, exactly?”

“That is besides the point-”

“The lad’s fine, aren’t you?” Laszlo shifts his eyes to Guillermo. “You didn’t take this job to shoot some boring, formulaic film for your first major project, did you? The better the footage my darling wife has to use in the editing booth, the better the movie, and the better your reputation for the studios.”

Guillermo suddenly finds four pairs of eyes on him. Shit. He hates being put on the spot to make a decision. It’s bad enough when asked to choose which restaurant everyone will eat at or which Marvel movie to watch, and absolutely intolerable when asked to do something that runs a risk of health hazards but could help bolster his career. 

“You really think this will be worthwhile?” he asks.

“It will be a lesser film without it, and I don’t do mediocre work,” Laszlo declares. “See? If Gizmo is alright with it, the rest of you should be.”

“Guillermo did not say he was okay with it,” Nandor points out, but Laszlo is already opening the car door, and Laszlo is Guillermo's boss, even if the studio is paying for the shoot. What impression would it give if he agreed to Nandor’s night stroll but refused to do the very job he’s been hired for? 

This isn’t a union shoot. He’s got to be willing to take a risk or two. Besides, it’s the middle of the day. They shouldn’t have to worry about anything besides structural stability.

Guillermo sighs and grabs the door handle. “It’s fine. Let’s just go.” 

They won’t be in there long. He’ll pop a pill before they go in and make sure he doesn’t step anywhere someone else hasn’t gone first.

At least Colin Robinson puts his foot down about bringing any of the very pricy, heavier equipment inside. They stick with two handheld cameras, wielded by Guillermo and Nandor, and a high-powered flashlight for each of the four of them. There’s already a convenient hole in the fence that someone - probably some teenager - cut away, so they have little trouble getting onto the property. Guillermo immediately begins filming Laszlo and Nadja from behind as they approach the house.

The Lacroix manor gives off the air of a degraded time capsule, something buried long ago that had its reasons for being left behind. The roof slumps menacingly, all the windows smashed open. The lawn is covered in dried, dead bushes, the weeds standing tall like wheat fields. The door lies in front of the entryway, ripped off its hinges by some unknown force of nature - probably the last hurricane to hit the area - shattered shards of stained glass scattered about. Faded police tape hangs off the door jam, flickering in the mild breeze as they crowd around the archway.

Laszlo wasn’t lying. The whole thing gives off vibes straight out of The Shining. If Guillermo sees any twin girls in babydoll dresses, he is so out of here.

“September eighth, Nineteen-twenty three,” Laszlo intones, turning to look at the camera. “It’s about eight-thirty in the morning, and the local milk man, Leroy Odell, is coming to drop off the daily delivery of two bottles to local lumber magnate, Alexandre Lacroix, who lives here along with his loving family: his wife Louise, and his children Mathilde, Jean and Thomas.” He motions to the doorway. “When Leroy approaches this spot, he will see the mutilated body of sweet little Mathilde, her arms stretched forwards, as if she had been attempting to crawl away from the horrors within the home.” He pauses, nods. “Alright, you can cut there. We’ll shoot the rest inside.”

Past the little entryway is a grand foyer, two symmetrical staircases swooping up to a second floor and a lengthy hallway between them, the beams of their flashlights revealing doorways further down that hall. There are also rooms on each side of the foyer, to their left and right. The ground is covered in refuse: dead leaves, piles of dust and dirt, broken beer bottles, fallen beams from the roof. Cobwebs line the corners of the walls and banisters of the stairs, swaying delicately off the decaying wooden furniture. There’s a smashed mirror against the right wall, dusty picture frames standing on the long table beneath it. Sunlight filters in through the gaps in the foyer roof, but the light doesn’t reach beyond the central room, darkness stretching in every direction past their current location.

“This place is a fucking mess,” Nandor says, casting the beam of his flashlight across the floor; its light bounces off the edge of a broken bottle, scattering across the wall like blood splatter before he shifts the beam away. “If the ghosts were angry when the house was well-kept, can’t imagine they’re pleased now.”

“Do we know where each of the family members was found?” Nadja queries, moving a little further into the room, pointing her light down the long hall. “Even if the house was refurbished after the murders, perhaps we can spot some signs of damage or struggle.”

“They all died from a wolf attack, right?” Guillermo asks. “Wolves aren’t supposed to be very aggressive towards humans.”

“Driven to desperation,” Laszlo affirms. “Hunters that year were reporting low numbers for prey animals, and the area had been experiencing a drought. If they’d accidentally left a door open, it would be easy for a predator to slip inside. The patriarch was found next to his shotgun and there were slugs embedded in the wall about waist-height.”

“Wolves, mountain lions, vampires; all possible suspects,” Nandor says, tone dry, definitely sarcastic. “What are we doing, Laszlo? I’m not standing around all day in a fire hazard with my dick in my hand.”

Guillermo coughs. What an image. Haha- ha.

“If you’ve got somewhere better to be, by all means, fuck off to wherever that is,” Laszlo retorts. “Otherwise, shut up and follow.” He holds a hand out towards Nadja, smiling. “My dear, would you like to take the lead? I know you love to be in charge.”

Nadja scoffs. “Oh no, this is your bloody stupid idea, Laszlo. I’m with Nandor on this one” - Nandor gives a little fist pump, expression surprised but delighted - “if anybody’s going to get tetanus from wood through the leg, it’s going to be you.”

Laszlo sighs dramatically, looking at Guillermo. “We must all risk suffering for cinema sometimes, young Gizmo.” He swings around, stomping towards the stairs. “Onwards!”

“He’s about to risk Nadja castrating him if he doesn’t cut this shit out,” Nandor mutters, grabbing Guillermo’s shoulder as he moves to follow Laszlo. “If he asks you to do anything you’re too uncomfortable with, tell me.”

Guillermo frowns. “We talked about this. I don’t need you to defend me all the time.”

“That- that’s not what this is.” Nandor looks frustrated, uncertain. “Laszlo getting angry with you for things like tardiness is different than him insisting you put yourself in harm’s way. And, no offense, you have been pretty shit at putting your foot down when you don’t want to do things.”

“That’s not fair! I can put my foot down if needed.”

“So you definitely wanted to come inside here, then.”

“...Fine. Point taken.”

They ascend the staircase, a winding, circular affair that creaks disconcertingly underfoot. Guillermo draws the camera shot slowly over the damp, rotting carpet that lines the steps, a deep black with red flower designs that could easily hide stains. Dirt, or wine, or blood. He can’t help the macabre way his mind is drifting, the knowledge of what occurred here making the thoughts vivid as a movie scene. He’s seen pictures of the family, can imagine little Mathilde stumbling over her dressing gown, gashes up and down her arms, eyes blood-shot with terror as she flees down the opposite stairwell. The screaming of the other children, and something else deeper howling from the bowels of the manor. Something that doesn’t sound like the howl of a wolf.

The second floor is much darker than the first; there’s a third floor above that prevents any light from leaking through the ceiling. Guillermo stays between Nandor and Nadja, keeping his flashlight beam trained wherever he focuses the camera. He thought about bringing the night-vision lens, but after the events of the previous evening, he’s reluctant to remain in the dark for very long. 

There are rooms on either side of the hall; Guillermo opens one door to a dusty bedroom, the pale blue bedspread a collection of moth-eaten shreds. The damage up here is similar to downstairs. The sink in the bathroom has a chunk in the porcelain that looks like a baseball bat was swung right through it. A dresser in the hall is slumped sideways on two broken legs, the drawers half-open, yellowing papers bursting out. 

They enter an upstairs sitting room that looks like the decaying set for a Mad Men shoot, retro upholstery patterns on the couches and chairs, old ashtrays on the coffee table, a sidebar littered with broken liquor bottles. Against the back wall of the room, someone has spray painted the words YOU’RE GONA DIE in red paint, a poorly-drawn penis in blue next to it. Guillermo ponders whether the teens who drew them were drunk or high. Maybe both? Hard to say. He wasn’t the kind of teen who spent his free time hanging out in dilapidated buildings, using illicit substances - the fact that he thinks about them as “illicit substances” is a dead giveaway for his inexperience. 

Laszlo would probably know. Guillermo doesn’t care to ask.

“-discovered the matriarch, Louise, in this room, sprawled over their marital bed,” Laszlo rattles on, Nandor’s camera pointed at him as he moves about the rotting space. “Future owners of the house claimed that one could not sit in the room for more than ten minutes without hearing the disturbing sound of gurgling blood, Louise’s last dying gasps echoing in a ghostly- ghostly... shit, roll that back. Ahem. Future owners of the house...”

“I’ll give him this, the place is a fucking horror show,” Nadja mumbles, inspecting the sidebar, lifting a cracked glass to pick up a faded photo sitting underneath. She stares at it, eyes widening. “Woah. Look at this.”

Guillermo comes over to see what she’s found. The picture is an old Polaroid, one of those instant kinds that will develop in under thirty minutes. It’s in color, the film grain indicating it was probably taken sometime in the 70s.The photo was taken in this very room - the space in much better repair, though not entirely without damage or refuse. Considering the property was abandoned in the 60s, it would make sense that the building doesn’t look too bad yet. In the shot, four teens barely out of pre-pubescence - two boys, two girls - sit on the couch, slumped into one another, laughing and waving around bottles. Bell bottoms and graphic t-shirts abound.

One of the boys is dark-skinned and sporting a pretty bitching afro. His wry smile makes Guillermo pause, because he swears it’s familiar...

“It’s Mr. Sandiford,” Guillermo realizes, recognizing the dog tags dangling from his neck. “Has to be.”

“Looks like he was pretty popular,” Nadja says. She flips the picture over, showing the date scrawled on the back: April 28th, 1973. “Shit. This was taken less than a month before his dad died.”

“He looks so happy...” Guillermo swallows, feeling the well of something bitterly sad in his throat. Just a normal kid, enjoying time with his friends, a little rebellious but not hurting anybody. Completely unaware of how his life was about to change. What he was about to lose.

Guillermo thinks about the Abraham Sandiford of now, the one he saw standing at the town hall podium last night, meticulously laying out his arguments, crafted from what was likely hundreds of hours of research, years and years of searching for answers. That man seemed nothing like the boy in this photo: exhaustion where there used to be energy, anger where there used to be joy, the weight of the world resting on shoulders once so carefree. What would his life have looked like if not for that one fateful night fifty years ago? Sure, it wouldn’t have been perfect, not even close to that, but…

It’s terrifying, how easily something beyond our control can change the bent of the rest of our lives.

Nadja snaps a photo of the Polaroid with her phone, but they leave the photograph where they found it. It would feel disrespectful to take it with them. Like disturbing a grave. If this place really is haunted, they don’t need to anger the ghosts within.

After a few more minutes, they return to the main floor, and Laszlo directs them towards the room to the right of the entryway. It looks like some sort of library, the wall shelving collapsed into itself and dozens of books in piles across the floor. Two couches are pushed back against opposite walls, a coffee table shoved into a corner. A ratty round rug lies across the center of the space. The cracked front window provides plenty of light, making the room much brighter than the rest of the house.

“Hmmm, cute but not all that interesting.” Laszlo shrugs. “I don’t believe anyone died here either, so no point in doing a talking head.”

“I wonder whether the new owners kept any books from the family,” Guillermo says, walking over to the shelves. He draws a finger across one of the few rows that has yet to collapse, streaking a thin line through the dust as he reads titles. They’re mostly old adventure books: The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew and the like. He continues, “Would be a shame to toss them all.”

“The floor plan said this was a library when the Lacroix family was here, so I imagine they did,” Nadja says. “Not that it really matters to us.”

“You never know,” Nandor says. “Learning what they were reading could provide insight into the family. Maybe there’s old journals, accounting books. Why don’t we let Guillermo stay here and check?” He gives Guillermo a pointed look, as if the flimsy nature of his logic wasn’t already an obvious ploy. Clearly, he’s trying to come up with a reason Guillermo should stay here, should avoid venturing deeper into the creepy manor.

Laszlo rolls his eyes. “Fine. Stay put, Gizmo. We’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Guillermo continues his search of the shelves as the other three depart, vacillating between mildly annoyed and somewhat grateful for Nandor’s intervention. His nervousness has been increasing the longer they stay in this place, even with his anti-anxiety medication coursing through his veins. At least now he can spend a few moments to collect himself, maybe get distracted with some light reading.

Most of the books seem to be fiction. He pulls a few out, flipping open the covers and noting that some are blank, but some have initials written in the corner: LL . Louise Lacroix, most likely. The woman enjoyed her detective novels; there’s a lot of Agatha Christie, G.K. Chesterton, and a well-read copy of The Maltese Falcon .

A leather-bound book peeking out from beneath one of the fallen shelves gives Guillermo pause. He tugs it out to find a completely blank cover, but the creme-colored first page reads Louise Lacroix 1922- with no end date. Looks like Alexandre wasn’t the only one who kept a journal. Somehow his ended up in the archives, but this remained in the family collection. Guillermo can think of a few reasons why, none of them kind towards whatever 20s detectives investigated the crime scene. He can guess the assumptions they would make about the worth of a woman’s journal.

He places the camera and his flashlight on the coffee table, but avoids sitting on the grimy-looking couches, choosing to settle on the rug instead, which at least appears dry and smells musty rather than rotting. It’s a soft enough seat as he rests the book in his lap, flipping open the pages until he finds the last entry, its elegant, swooping cursive letters dated September 7th, 1923. The night before the murders. He reads the entry:

Spent most of my day playing with the children and reading more of new Poirot as they napped. A lovely fall day, not a cloud in the sky. Put my spirit to rights after a dour period; amazing what a bit of sunlight can do. When he came home from the mill, Alexandre promised to take us all to a carnival in Ticonderoga next week! The children are put to bed now; thankfully Jean went down well. There is supposed to be rain tonight; I can already hear the winds creaking in the eaves. Have not seen Sam since Sunday; am getting worried. Told Alexandre I prefer we try to keep him indoors, but he insists he will not have the smell of a cat box. Must be a bit sneaky then, may just keep him in the basement myself, until winter hibernation for the forest animals. Will try a bit of canned tuna tomorrow, see if it brings him home.

Seems pretty ordinary, though interesting the family cat goes missing in the days before the murders. If Laszlo is right about the low number of prey animals, it’s likely the poor thing got gobbled up, maybe even by the same wolf that killed the family. Guillermo flips back a few entries, finds similar entries about Louise’s day to day life, but nothing else to indicate the Lacroix family knew what was coming. 

Five poor souls, their lives about to be cut short. This house is full of reminders that the people who died in Coventry were just that: people. No different than him or his friends and family. Coco, Solomon, Louise; what were their thoughts in their final moments? Did they know they were going to die? He can’t imagine what that would feel like: the terror, borne of the oldest instincts in the human mind for self-preservation. Scrambling for survival at all costs, even with the certain knowledge all was lost.

Guillermo sighs and leans forward, pressing a hand to the rug and pushing down so he can heave himself up.

A loud crack echoes through the room, originating right where he put his hand.

He freezes, goes impossibly still. Suddenly realizes what it means that the floor is soft, so soft, not the rug but the floor, the floor is soft .

“Fuck,” he breathes.

The one rule he gave himself. Don’t go where someone else hasn’t. In his eagerness to remain here, he forgot.

Fuck!

Guillermo reacts automatically, digging his knees into the ground and launching forward, that same self-preservation instinct he’d been thinking about driving him to try and reach steady footing. 

It’s too late. The ancient wood under his hand splinters, the beams below him giving way. His shocked scream is swallowed up as the floor collapses inwards, the rug flying up and around his tumbling form, cocooning him as he drops like a stone into the darkness below.

The breath is knocked out of his lungs as he hits a softer landing than expected- water, icy liquid instantly flooding through the rug, through his thin summer clothes, into his open mouth. There’s a series of loud, crashing splashes around him, and he pushes up, gasping and spitting out water, struggling to shove the carpet off before it drags him under the surface and drowns him. Thankfully, it’s thin, fairly easy to throw off, and his knees hit solid ground a moment later. The water level only reaches his waist. Oh, thank God for that.

Guillermo sits up and rests his hands on his knees, panting. He draws in deep lungfuls of air, head whipping around to try and see something. The hole in the ceiling above casts a thin beam of circular light down onto him, but beyond that circle, there’s only darkness. He can feel gritty, man-made ground below his knees. Maybe concrete? Nothing else to indicate where he is.

Dripping. All he can hear is dripping. And somewhere nearby, a disconcerting bubbling of water.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Shaking, he fumbles for his phone, yanking it out of his pocket, grateful it’s water resistant. He desperately swipes to turn the screen on, the terror making him miss tapping the flashlight button twice, until he curses and finally succeeds, flooding the space in front of him with a bright white light.

That’s when he sees the figure ahead. Sees the gaping mouth, the pale skin, the deadened eyes.

And the blood. All the blood.

Guillermo starts screaming, and doesn’t stop.

Chapter Text

July 14th, 2022

4:43PM

If asked, Nandor would tell you that he doesn’t scare easily. Startle, sure, he’s got a startle response a mile wide, borne of unhappy circumstances he would rather not go into. But scare? No. The things that scare him are few and far between. Less a problem of creatures that go bump in the night, and more of being called out as a creature himself, a monstrous thing in the eyes of those around him.

No, Nandor doesn’t scare easily, but he is scared now. Utterly terrified, because Guillermo is screaming, somewhere in this house, and Nandor needs to find him, before whatever is making Guillermo scream does.

Moments ago, Nandor was with Nadja and Laszlo in the kitchen at the end of the hall, poking through the dusty, dilapidated cabinetry, trying to work out whether a dark spot in the wood was a trace of blood or just beet juice, when a loud crash from the front of the building made them all jump. Immediately, Nandor went running, not waiting for the other two, his flashlight waving unsteadily through the darkness of the hallway as he yelled out for Guillermo. At first, he got no response, but then the screaming started, and Nandor’s concern exploded into blind panic, his steps going double time as he raced towards the foyer. He skidded to a halt in front of the library doors, his stomach dropping when he saw the massive hole in the floor. 

Now he stands here, frozen, Guillermo’s cries echoing in his ears as he tries to figure out what to do.

Laszlo reaches him after a moment, going deathly pale when he sees the hole. “Oh, God,” he chokes out. “Where is he?”

“Nadja!” Nandor roars, twisting and running back down the hall. “Where’s the fucking basement to this place! Find it!” 

They checked a few of the hallway rooms before heading to the kitchen, but Nandor can’t remember which, so he starts wrenching open doors, hoping to find a way into the basement. Each door only leads to another decaying room, another dead end, and Guillermo is still screaming and Nandor is going to go fucking insane, where is the fucking door? FUCK! How could he be so stupid, why did he leave Guillermo by himself, even if he thought it was safer, he should’ve- he should’ve told Laszlo to piss off and now Guillermo is missing and Guillermo is screaming and what if he’s- what if he’s-

“HEY! Back here! I found it!” Nadja appears at the end of the hallway, eyes wide, breathless, motioning to him with a rapid hand curl. “The basement door!’

Oh, it’s a fucking miracle. Nandor takes off again, breezing past Nadja as she jabs a finger at an open door, opening his mouth to yell at the top of his lungs: “GUILLERMO! I’M COMING!”

He’s moving so fast that he has to grab the door jamb to stop his forward momentum, but the sight down the stairwell gives him pause, his foot freezing on the landing. His flashlight reveals a cramped passage ahead, the walls disconcertingly close together, the ceiling low; barely tall enough for a man of Laszlo’s stature. Nandor will have to duck down, tuck himself inwards, and even then, he’s barely going to fit, and the longer he stares the more he’s sure there’s a nearly imperceptible shift of the space, a tightening, and if he goes down there the walls will keep closing in, shrinking, until he’s stuck, trapped, screaming just as loudly as Guillermo-

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Laszlo smacks him, hard, on the shoulder. “Move it!”

“Shit!” Nandor snaps out of… whatever that was, grits his teeth, focuses his eyes on the steps and barrels down them, the terrified shrieks of his friend enough motivation to force him forward.

They splash into knee-height water, flashlights casting across the muddy surface. There’s a mess of boxes and old furniture soaking in the flood, and beyond that, a partition wall with a small doorway that leads to the other side of the basement. Guillermo’s wailing has gone wet, near sobbing, and it drives Nandor through the water, striding forcefully, determined to reach the other man, to save him from whatever is making him make those noises.

When he emerges through the doorway, Guillermo is there, sitting in the water, tears streaming down his face but looking blessedly unharmed. The same can’t be said for the body he’s staring at.

Doug Peterson’s death could not have been pleasant, not with the look of pure fright frozen on his features. Nandor can see straight through the shredded muscles and tendons of his throat to his thick esophageal tube, and half a dozen more jagged gashes all about his bloody neck. His eyes are glassy, staring wide above, head tipped back, body slumped against a wooden support beam. He’s wearing a white tank, and the edges of his blue plaid boxers float just below the surface of the water. The pallor of his skin suggests he’s been here quite some time; more than a few hours at least.

“What the shit...” Nadja has appeared beside Nandor, slack-jawed. “What- what is he doing here?”

Frankly, Nandor couldn’t give less of a shit right now. He ignores the body and strides over to Guillermo, kicking up little waves as he drops to his knees beside the other man and rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey, Guillermo, hey, look at me. Can you do that?”

Guillermo whips his head to stare up at Nandor, his sobbing fading to a shallow pant as he seems to recognize the other man. Panic remains set deep into his expression, and his mouth opens and closes a few times, no words coming out.

“Are you hurt at all?” Nandor looks him up and down, but doesn’t see any obvious signs of injury. “Can you move?”

Guillermo nods, very slowly, lets out one long, broken sound, and then slumps into Nandor’s chest, burying his face against Nandor’s shoulder and starting to sob once more.

Bewildered, Nandor glances back at Nadja and Laszlo, who seem just as shocked. Laszlo shrugs his shoulders, silently mouthing: Perhaps get him out of here?

“Hey, you’re alright,” Nandor says, wrapping his arms around Guillermo, trying not to think about how nice the other man feels pressed against him when he’s so clearly distraught. “I’m here, okay? Nothing’s going to hurt you, I promise.”

Guillermo chokes out some words, too muffled against Nandor’s chest to understand.

Nandor swallows his worry, dipping his head to mumble next to Guillermo’s ear, “You don’t have to talk, okay? You think you can stand up? We should go outside, get out of this basement.”

Guillermo doesn’t answer, and it’s at least another minute or two before he’s willing to let Nandor help him to his feet. Once standing, they slowly head for the stairwell, Nandor keeping a steady hand against Guillermo’s back as they go. 

Nadja is already on the phone to the police, shooting Nandor a concerned look as they pass. Nandor raises his eyebrows at her, as if to say, yeah, I know, I’ll handle it.

It’s slow going, but they make it up the stairs. Guillermo’s footsteps are stiff, but he’s not limping, which is a good sign. However, he’s still breathing shallowly, still crying, and his hair and clothes are soaked through with that nasty basement water. Even when they step out of the house into the bright sunshine, he looks utterly miserable.

Colin Robinson walks up the dirt path towards them as they approach the van. “What happened?”

“Everyone is fine,” Nandor says immediately. “Physically. But we found a dead body. Doug Peterson.”

“Shit.” Colin Robinson frowns. “That’s not good.”

“Nadja and Laszlo are calling the police.” He tosses his flashlight to the other man. “You go help them out, give us some space, please.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t argue, heading for the house as Nandor guides Guillermo towards the vehicle. He wrenches open the side door, helping Guillermo into the van and settling him onto the middle row seats, then clambering in next to him and shutting the door.

Guillermo’s breathing has picked up, stuttering more, and his gaze is distant, a worrying sign. He doesn’t respond to Nandor’s hand on his shoulder, so Nandor shifts it, sliding up to cup his cheek, thumb under his chin to turn his head and draw his eyes back to Nandor.

“What can I do?” Nandor asks. “Tell me what to do?”

“C-can’t-” Guillermo swallows, gasping for air. “Already took my- my-”

“You took a pill earlier?” An affirmative nod. “Okay. What else helps, when you are like this?”

Tears well up in his eyes. “I don’t- I don’t know!”

Nandor frowns. “Yes you do. I’ve seen you do things before, Guillermo. To calm yourself. What are they?”

Guillermo jams his eyes shut a second, and Nandor can see him trying so hard to think, to push past the panic and remember. “I... need to slow my heart rate. Counting breaths usually helps but-” He shakes his head, hiccupping slightly. “It’s not, I can’t focus-”

“Okay, controlling your breathing, yes?” Nandor smiles at Guillermo’s rapid nod. “I can help with that. Here.” He lets go of Guillermo’s cheek, suddenly realizing how long he’s been holding it, only to reach down and cup one of Guillermo’s hands; it practically disappears within Nandor’s own massive paws. Guillermo’s eyes shoot open, following their interlocked fingers as Nandor draws them closer, presses them against his chest, directly over his heart. He rests both hands atop Guillermo’s, saying, “I’m going to take some deep, slow breaths. You feel them, try to follow with your own.”

Guillermo looks hesitant, but he nods, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of Nandor’s t-shirt, holding on. “C-can you count off?”

“Yes, I think so.” Nandor blows out a little, then squeezes Guillermo’s hand before slowly breathing in, counting off to three, watching Guillermo’s own breath struggle and stutter as he tries to match Nandor’s pace. The out breath is a little better, and the next in after that even more so.

Guillermo’s palm is warm, firm against his chest, his damp fingers saturating the cloth, but that’s fine, it’s fine, because it means he can feel the way Nandor’s chest rises and falls. Something to focus on, something that can ground him in the present, pull him out of whatever fear-laced thoughts are racing through his mind. Nandor has had thoughts that intrude, outstay their welcome, though he imagines his are much slower, more despondent than the ones he can see rabbiting behind Guillermo’s eyes. If they are anything like the ones that struck Nandor on the basement landing, they cannot be pleasant.

Guillermo remains worryingly pale, but his breathing begins to even out, the shaking in his limbs subsiding. His eyes remain fixed on the place where his palm rests, Nandor’s hands covering his own. Probably an easy point to concentrate on. When Guillermo’s thumb starts stroking small, feather-light circles into Nandor’s skin, he chalks it up to an unconscious affectation. Something else to help him self-soothe, and if it soothes Nandor’s own frayed nerves, well, even better.

“Back with me?” Nandor asks quietly, when Guillermo’s chest has risen and fallen steadily for at least a minute. Guillermo finally lifts his eyes to look at Nandor, and for a brief, vertigo-inducing moment, it feels like every wall is ripped away between them, like Guillermo is looking at him in a new light, like he can see right through all the bluster and pretended confidence, right through to that place where Nandor hides everything that makes him vulnerable.

Guillermo makes him feel so vulnerable.

“Thank you,” Guillermo says, not letting go, keeping his hand right over Nandor’s heart, unable or unwilling to break contact with the place he’s gaining more and more access to by the hour. “For finding me and... staying with me, through it.”

“Are you hurt at all?” Nandor glances him up and down. “You took a pretty nasty dive.”

“I feel sore, but I don’t think anything’s broken.” To demonstrate, Guillermo shifts a little in the seat, rotates his ankles. “Yeah. I think the rug and the water helped to break my fall.”

Nandor nods, audibly sighing in relief. “That is good. I am pretty sure Colin Robinson would have a shit fit if we had to take you to urgent care.”

“The body in the basement...” Guillermo swallows, voice choking a little as he continues, “Was he- was Doug Peterson...”

Nandor looks at him sadly. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Fuck!” Guillermo presses his free hand to his mouth, sucking a harsh breath through his fingers. After a moment, he mumbles, “That’s awful.”

“The police will be on their way, I think,” Nandor says. “They’ll probably want to ask us all some questions.” As if on cue, the faint sound of a siren echoes in the distance.

Guillermo groans. “Great. You know, some of the people on those true crime blogs would love it if they got pulled into one of the mysteries they obsess over, but that’s the last thing I wanted.”

“It will be okay.” Nandor puts on a reassuring smile that he doesn’t really feel, but Guillermo doesn’t need any added anxiety. “Just tell the truth; you fell through an old, rotting floor and found a body. That’s all.”

“Yeah. That’s all.” Guillermo seems to finally realize how long he’s been holding onto Nandor’s shirt, and he jerks his hand back, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry. You were, um. Grounding.”

Nandor could lean in. He could do it; close the distance, bridge a connection between their bodies with something much more intimate than a hand to the heart-

Stop it , the Not Selfish part of his brain says. He doesn’t need your feelings on top of everything else right now.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Nandor demurs, clasping his hands tight in his lap. “I don’t mind being your... ground.”

Guillermo blinks up at him with big eyes, expression achingly fond as he replies, “Really? That’s- that’s nice. You did a great job.”

“Yes. Well.” Nandor coughs, looking away sharply. “I should go find Laszlo, see what they’re doing in there.” He needs the distraction, before he does something truly reckless. “You’re fine now, yes?”

“Oh...Yeah. All better.” Guillermo sits back against the seat. “I’ll just wait here, by myself.”

As Nandor opens the door, he hopes he’s imagining the hurt in Guillermo’s voice. But then again, he’s been pretty good at hurting the other man lately. Call it a fucking talent.

~

7:04PM

Talking with the police does not go well. Delmonico is furious, not just because there’s another dead citizen in Coventry, but because the crew did not follow his most important directive: stay out of trouble. To be fair, it wasn’t as though they were trying to disturb a crime scene, and when Delmonico drags them all over to the fences to specifically point out the NO TRESPASSING signs, they all seem to have mysteriously vanished. Very convenient for Laszlo’s loud, insistent claim that they hadn’t known they’d been trespassing.

(A fun fact, for no particular reason: Laszlo keeps a tool kit with wire clippers in the back of the van.)

They spend several hours at the police station, giving their statements about what had occurred. Nandor had almost protested when Delmonico pulled Guillermo into his office to talk to alone, but they emerged fifteen minutes later, and Guillermo only looked a little paler than when he’d gone in.

Finally, when it was obvious to the cops that the crew literally just stumbled into this by coincidence, as they’d been insisting, they were released. “I don’t wanna see hide nor hair of you around any part of this town that isn’t on those permits,” Delmonico snarled as they departed the station. “We have plenty of cots in our cells available if you want to test me.”

Now, piled back into the van, everyone is silent, the atmosphere gloomy and uncomfortable. Guillermo hasn’t said much to him since the police showed up, but has kept nearby, like Nandor’s presence is comforting. Nandor finds himself fingering each tesbih bead around his wrist, glancing over to the other man and thinking on something his maman had said to him once, after the first time he’d been dumped by a girl. Sulking in his bedroom, she had sat by his side, stroking his hair, her no nonsense words echoing from the past to this present moment. You have a soft heart, joonam. So much to give another person. Find that someone who will hold your heart like the most precious diadem. Otherwise, it will be broken, and take so much more after to put it back together.

Nandor wonders, sometimes, if he’s been ruined. If, like Humpty Dumpty, all the shattered pieces of himself couldn’t be put back together again, no matter how hard a person might try. He used to see bitter old men in their mosque; those who never married, who always complained that no woman would give them a kind word, when in reality, whatever aches and hurts they held had closed them off to kindness, seeing it as cynical, contrived. He doesn’t ever want to be those men, but it’s hard, holding out your taped up, glued together heart, barely beating, offering it to another person and praying to whoever is listening that this time, this one won’t rip it all apart again.

He thinks, maybe, he’s got a healthier sense of skepticism than he did a few years ago. A better eye for discerning who is trustworthy, and who deserves to know nothing of his innermost self. This knowledge came at a high cost, though. Losing time, losing confidence, his self-worth worn down to the bone.

Would anyone even want such a heart, as broken and beaten down as his own? Guillermo doesn’t know the extent of the damage, because Nandor hasn’t told him, because he doesn’t want those kind eyes to turn pitying every time Guillermo looks his way. Ignorance is bliss, they say, and Nandor doesn’t know if he’s ready to risk the possibility where he bares it all and it’s too much, he’s too much. He’s sure Guillermo would let him down gently, because the man has that kind of character, but it would hurt, fuck, it would hurt. Still, until Nandor is willing to show the scars, he’ll never know if they could be something.

Is it him, maman? Is he who you meant? A ray of light glints off one of the amber beads, and Nandor looks out towards the setting sun, bathing Coventry in a beautiful golden light, its colors so close to the amber, they could practically blend in; his bracelet a string of little suns around his wrist.

She loved sunsets, his maman.

“Uggghhh! I cannot take this fucking silence!” Nadja has decided to be the first to break it, arms folded and scowling at her husband. “Laszlo, you are a bloody idiot, and everybody in this car deserves an apology from you.”

Laszlo frowns, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. “That seems a bit of an overreach.”

“Overreach? We just spent three hours in police interrogation-”

“It was really more like two and a half-”

“Three! Hours!” Nadja shrieks. “Three more hours than any of us should’ve had to fucking deal with! All because you had to get your precious footage. Gizmo fell through a fucking floor!”

“He’s alright!” Laszlo protests. “Nothing’s broken, right, Gizmo? Besides, he was fine with us doing a little exploration.”

“Ummm,” Guillermo says, glancing nervously at Nandor.

“Hey! Don’t put Guillermo in the middle of this,” Nandor warns. “You are his boss, Laszlo. It is not fair to blame him for your own failings.”

“Nandor is right!” Nadja insists. “Your recklessness is a liability to everyone on this shoot.”

“Wow, Laz, you pissed off the missus enough to get her to agree with Nandor,” Colin Robinson pipes in. “You know she hates that.”

“Oh, I see, you’ve all decided that I’m the villain in this little play you’re putting on, then?” Laszlo scowls. “Fine, I prefer martyrdom. Some of us know the creative process doesn’t come without its risks!”

“Would you shut the fuck up?” Nandor snaps. He’s so tired of Laszlo’s suffering artist routine; he’s seen the man’s bank statements, La Vie Boheme he is not. “We just want to film a fucking movie without being arrested or permanently injured. You know, it’s so fucking easy for you to talk about risks when you aren’t the one getting shot at!”

Laszlo rolls his eyes. “Nobody is going to shoot you, you overgrown drama queen.”

Nandor’s nostrils flare. “No, Laszlo. Nobody is going to shoot you, because people like you get to walk through all the big and small places of the world, and nobody bats an eye.” He motions angrily between himself and Guillermo. “People like us do not!”

A momentary silence descends over the van. Nandor can see Laszlo’s hands tight around the wheel, his teeth grit, shaking with anger. “Well, guess what. People like you , Nandor Jahan, get to come in and trample all over people’s lives and then walk out without giving a shit about what you left behind.”

“What. The hell. Does that mean.”

“You know what it means.”

“I know that it had better not mean what I think it means!”

“Well, why don’t you tell me what you think it means? I’m sure the mental gymnastics will be riveting to watch!”

“You fucking arrogant, pig-headed piece of-”

“ENOUGH! ” Nadja’s screech is loud and shrill enough to practically blow out Nandor’s ear drums. Everybody in the van winces, the escalating conflict suddenly smothered in its cradle. She whips her head around to look at Nandor. “I don’t care how fucking stupid Laszlo is being, you don’t ever talk to my husband that way, you understand? Not after everything you’ve put the both of us through. And you!” She twists to glare at Laszlo. “You don’t get to derail a legitimate fucking point about your privilege by bringing up shit that doesn’t even have to do with the argument at hand!”

“But darling-” Laszlo begins.

Nadja waggles a finger in his face. “No! I do not want to hear it! In fact, I don’t want to hear a word out of either of you for the rest of this ride back to the hotel? Do you understand me? Whichever of you is the next to talk is getting the heel of my boot jammed into their ball sack, and not in a sexy way!”

Laszlo briefly glances back at Nandor, and then looks away. Nandor decides to keep quiet, of his own volition, thank you, and definitely not because Nadja is slightly terrifying in this mode. He is looking to keep his balls attached to his body; a future desire for fatherhood is not out of the question.

Everyone seems to decide to follow Nadja’s orders, whether or not they were directed at them. Guillermo keeps his eyes on his phone, thumb flicking up at a pace too rapid to read through whatever he’s pretending to look at. Colin Robinson pops in his earbuds - ambient construction noises, he’d told Nandor, are meditative to him. Laszlo fusses with the radio, and the dulcet tones of Stevie Nicks fill the van.

When he hears the song, Nandor almost laughs at the bitter irony. Stevie’s aching words are painfully perfect for the atmosphere of this moment.

But listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness

Like a heartbeat, drives you mad

In the stillness of remembering what you had...

And what you lost.

Chapter Text

July 14th, 2022

7:37PM

When they make it back to the hotel, Nandor is the first to jump out of the van, stalking silently towards the hotel, Laszlo only a step behind him. They turn in opposite directions when they reach the patio, turn the keys to their hotel rooms in tandem, and slam the doors nearly at the same time. 

It’s kind of poetic, in the way their yin and yang anger reveals them to be two peas of the same stubborn pod. That’s also the third time Nandor and Guillermo’s hotel room door has been slammed by somebody; they should really try to avoid property damage.

“Oi! Gizmo.” Nadja is waving in his face, frowning at him; not unusual, always disconcerting. “I will talk to my stupid pig-headed husband, and you talk to your stupid pig-headed boyfriend. This needs to be ended, or it will destroy the shoot.”

Guillermo blushes. “Nandor’s not my-”

“I don’t give a fuck! Talk to him. Now!”

“Don’t think you want to get on her bad side there, Gizmo.” Colin Robinson waggles his eyebrows as Nadja exits the van. “Those heels look sharp and she’s already threatened to use them once tonight.”

Guillermo groans, rubbing his forehead. “All I want right now is a shower and three fingers of tequila. We have room in the budget for that?”

Colin Robinson strokes his beardless chin. “I have a bottle of some very nice bourbon from the local distillery in my hotel room. I could share, if I was incentivized.”

“Incentivized?”

“You help Nadja get those two talking again, and then stop by for a drink, if you catch my drift.”

The way he says it makes Guillermo pause. It’s uncomfortably suggestive. “I really hope I don’t.”

Colin Robinson snorts, patting him on the shoulder. “Relax. I’m not hitting on you, but it’s funny that you think we’d ever be a match.”

“Wait, I never said-”

“Really, Gizmo, trying to break poor Nandor’s heart already?” Colin Robinson shakes his head, grinning. “Go on. Cheer up your lover boy - I’ll be in my room when you’re done.”

After whatever the fuck that was, Guillermo opens the door to his hotel room to see Nandor lying prostrate on his bed, face down, head buried in the pillow.

“Nandor? Are you... okay?” Guillermo asks.

Nandor screams into the pillow for exactly three seconds, body tensing and then slumping down when he’s finished, but otherwise, unmoving.

“Right. Yeah, that’s probably what I should’ve expected.” Guillermo sighs, closing the door behind him. “You wanna talk about it?”

Nandor twists his head to the side, scowling. “Never stay friends with your ex, Guillermo. Especially if your ex is a pompous, self-important maniac who needs a good kick in the balls.”

“Laszlo is your ex? You never mentioned this.”

“It was a few weeks of crazy sex and then ten years of me third-wheeling his and Nadja’s marriage. You don’t have anything to worry about; it’s all platonic nowadays.”

Guillermo frowns. “Why would I need to worry about that?”

“I- I mean-” Nandor looks panicked for a brief moment. “Nothing! Never mind! The point is, he is a jackass and I hate him.” He presses his face back into the pillow and lets out another scream.

A pang of sympathy flickers in Guillermo’s chest. He’s dealt with plenty of temper tantrums from his hermana’s brood before; this isn’t anything he can’t handle. Even if he’s still kind of feeling justifiably fragile from falling through a hole in the floor and finding a mutilated corpse. 

Gently, he walks over to Nandor’s bed, considers sitting down, and then remembers the state of his clothes and hair and general body. He decides to spare the other man from sleeping on dirty sheets tonight. Instead, he pokes Nandor’s boot. “No you don’t. Well, he is a jackass, but you don’t hate him.”

An inarticulate mumble.

“What?”

“I said, how do you know?” Nandor finally sits up, turning over and pressing back into the pillows. He tips his head back against the headboard, sighing. “You’ve known us for a couple months, Guillermo. This is how we are with each other. Always sniping, always with the nasty comments.”

“It wasn’t always like that, though. Right?”

“No, not... before. We used to get along just fine. He and Nadja were my best friends. Nowadays I think they barely tolerate me.”

“That’s not true! Like, I barely tolerate my cousin Miguel, and I’m definitely not asking him to shoot a major studio film with me.”

“Is your cousin Miguel in the film industry?”

“No... but that’s not the point.” Guillermo perches delicately on his own bed, letting his sore legs rest. “Laszlo doesn’t strike me as the type of person who would feel hurt by someone’s actions unless he cares about the person who hurt him.”

Nandor folds his arms, scowling. “Look, I get it, I’m a shitty friend. To them, to you, to everybody. But you don’t need to rub it in.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t have to. It’s pretty fucking obvious how everybody feels.”

“Obvious? Nandor, you spent twenty minutes helping me work through a panic attack. Nobody’s ever done that for me before. That’s not a shitty friend!”

“No, but the guy who caused your panic attack sure is.”

“Are you seriously trying to take the blame for this?”

“I told you to stay in that library, Guillermo. You were already on edge after I dragged you into the woods last night-”

“Oh my God.” Guillermo groans, giving him an incredulous look. “Why are you so determined to be the bad guy?”

“Because I’m always the fucking bad guy! That’s who I am, okay? I will always be the bad guy! At least Jan was honest-”

Nandor freezes mid sentence. He slowly closes his mouth, eyes wide as cue balls.

“Jan?” Guillermo has never heard that name, but he remembers the initials on Nandor’s phone: JL. He presses, “Is that who you were living with?”

“I...I’m not talking about this.” Nandor scrambles to his feet, shifting nervously. “Forget it.”

“Nandor-”

“In fact, I’m going for a walk.” He shoves his bare feet into the slippers he brought for the trip - big brown moccasins that look insanely comfortable - and heads for the door. “Don’t wait up.”

Guillermo is tempted to follow, but he suspects trying to engage Nandor any further right now will just get him to shut down. There was something there, though, in the way he talked about himself. A slip of the mask, implying something much darker, much worse than a simple failed relationship. Something that makes Guillermo wonder about why Nandor is so protective of him. Why he’ll take the fall for things that aren’t his fault.

(I’m always the fucking bad guy! That's who I am.)

Fuck. Guillermo needs that drink.

He tosses his dirty clothes in the bathroom sink, showering off the grime of the basement water as fast as he can, before re-dressing and leaving the room. There’s nobody out on the porch; maybe Nandor went for a walk? The sun has dipped below the horizon, but it’s still fairly bright out. If Nandor doesn’t show back up before nightfall, that’s when Guillermo will start to get worried.

Colin Robinson opens his door on the third knock of Guillermo’s fist, startling him. 

“Were you just standing here?” Guillermo asks as he breezes into the room.

“You think pretty highly of yourself, if you believe that.” Colin Robinson smirks, motioning him over the table, which he’s cleared of any film equipment. There are two glasses with three ice cubes a piece, and a tall bottle of something brown labeled Taste of the Adirondacks .

“When did you pick this up?” Guillermo slumps into a chair as Colin Robinson cracks open the cap.

“First day we were here. You were all busy, so I decided to take a quick walk into town. This was the liquor store specialty.” Colin Robinson pours Guillermo a generous serving, and then about half of that for his own drink. He caps the bottle and lifts his glass. “To surviving another harrowing day in Nowheresville.”

Guillermo clinks his glass with Colin Robinson, suspicious about how little he’s drinking in comparison to Guillermo. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

Colin Robinson shrugs, taking a sip. “If it’ll improve Nandor’s attitude, sure, why not.”

Guillermo almost chokes on his drink. “Fucking hell! Why does everybody keep implying we’re an item?”

Colin Robinson wheezes through his teeth, laughing like a cartoon dog. “Because you desperately want to be? It’s a little sad that I have to be the one to inform you that you want to bone that old man. That’s a meme, by the way. Gen Z humor. You’re one of those, right?”

Guillermo buries his face in his hands to hide how rapidly it’s turning a deep shade of crimson. Can’t even blame the booze; they’ve barely started drinking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies, like a liar.

“Oh, come on. The stench of sexual tension in that van could overpower a charcuterie party of lactose intolerants. And it’s not just coming from the married couple.”

“We’re just friends!”

“Right. Like Bert and Ernie.”

“Exactly.”

“You know, Bert and Ernie have often been considered queer-coded icons-”

“Colin Robinson, please just stop talking,” Guillermo begs. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“Oh, I’m not letting you have enough of this stuff to get drunk!” Colin Robinson taps on the bottle, grinning. “Can’t have you hung over on the job. Though maybe you should get a little tipsy, since you’re always wound so tight; we should’ve put a pre-existing condition clause in your health insurance contract for aneurysms.”

“Can you do that?”

“Wanna find out?”

“Definitely not.” Guillermo sighs, taking a larger swig of the bourbon. “It’s been a stressful shoot.”

“Every shoot is stressful,” Colin Robinson points out. “That’s just how it is. This isn’t even the craziest film I’ve worked on.”

“Really?”

“Sure! Do you know how many Hollywood actors can’t take criticism? How many writer’s rooms devolve into Lord of the Flies ? How many directors think they’re God’s gift to cinema? Laszlo’s an adorable baby lion cub in comparison. No, your stress is only going to compound from here.”

“That’s... kind of terrifying.” Guillermo frowns, swirling the remainder of the liquid in his glass. It’s not a bad bourbon; not that he’s had a lot of bourbon. Family parties usually tend more towards mezcal and rum. Bourbon seems like the kind of thing Orson Welles would drink in a housecoat, smoking a Cuban cigar. And he’s no Orson Welles. “Give me your honest opinion: how am I doing?”

“Eh. You’re not the worst cinematographer I’ve seen.” Colin Robinson shrugs. “Passably talented, but probably in over your head.”

“Skimming the surface or thirty feet underwater?”

“What’s the point in asking me?”

“Nandor is too nice to be honest,” Guillermo admits. “Laszlo will trust whatever Nandor says, even if they’re on the outs, and Nadja is... Nadja. I need someone more objective.”

Colin Robinson tilts his head. “I mean, objectively speaking, your rate is cheap in comparison to other people we could’ve hired, so for our budget, you’re outstanding.”

“But for the actual filming...?”

“Look, I know how to balance budgets and enrage difficult actors so they walk off set and we can replace them. I don’t have the mind for all that creative stuff the rest of you do. You seem like an okay kid, Gizmo. But if you don’t believe in yourself, this documentary’s as good as done for.”

“I don’t want that,” Guillermo insists. “I don’t want to drag everybody else down because I can’t handle the pressure.” He glances warily over at Colin Robinson. “What should I do?”

Colin Robinson tilts back in his chair at a concerningly dangerous angle, sipping his drink. He seems to consider Guillermo’s question, and then says, “Tell you what. Give it another day, maybe two. If you really don’t think you can cut it, I know somebody who can be on a plane in twelve hours to take over. You can walk away, knowing we still have someone to do the work - and hell, I’ll pin it on the studio. Say they decided they wanted someone with more experience. And pretty much everybody has more experience than you, so it’s a great excuse!”

“...Okay. Yeah. I’ll think about it.” Guillermo downs the last of his drink, bitter on his tongue with the thought of leaving now swirling through his head. He doesn’t want to, but... maybe they’d all be better off without him.

“Nandor will be disappointed,” Colin Robinson observes. “Maybe make sure to tickle his pickle one more time before you bounce.”

“I told you-”

“Sure, sure! Whatever you say, buddy.”

Still, Colin Robinson has a point. Guillermo mulls his words over as he walks back to the room. If Guillermo tells Nandor he’s leaving, will Nandor find a way to blame himself for that too?

(I’m always the fucking bad guy! That’s who I am.)

He doesn’t have to make a decision yet. He’ll do what Colin Robinson suggested: give it a couple more days, see if he feels more confident in himself than he does right now.

Based on his track record, though, he doesn’t like the odds.

Chapter Text

July 14th, 2022

8:23PM

The thing about Laszlo Cravensworth is that he's always ascribed to the notion that an occasional dalliance with mind-altering substances is good for the creative brain. Lets one see the world from new angles, step out of your usual perspective. He was a habitual shrooms man in college, though he hasn’t indulged since that last party at the house of that celebrity who starred in that movie. You know the one. Yes, that one. In any case, the night ended with Laszlo coming to, half-naked on a pool-side lounge chair, jizz on his stomach of concerningly unknown origin, and Nadja stalking towards him, barking for him to get up, because they were leaving. Before the real orgy even started! Unfathomable.

That was a number of years ago. The Laszlo of today is a church mouse compared to his younger days. He genuinely enjoys the taste of a good scotch, and getting pissed isn’t quite as necessary as it was back when he had to listen to Simon “Devious Bastard” Kroll crowing about his three - three! - post-graduation job offers at the senior year last hurrah. The man is a shit filmmaker and a selfish lover. (Laszlo has a lot of exes, alright? Nandor was a massive improvement, and Nadja a pinnacle.)

Yes, Laszlo has dabbled in many a drug, but nothing compares to the good old mari-hu-anna. His first love, his sweet green mistress. He nearly cried when New York legalized it, and he’s a regular at the local dispensary. He’ll partake in whatever form he can get his hands on, and makes a mean edible. Before Gizmo brought up the small town murder mystery angle, he’d been seriously considering a deep dive into the history of legalization within America, but the idea was too similar to Shagged in terms of convention. In the end, they’d packed a van full of gear for a trip to the Adirondacks, and Laszlo had stuffed a severe amount of weed into his suitcase, suspecting he just might need it.

Unfortunately, Laszlo is often right about these things. The day has been a bloody mess (pun quite deliberately intended). An utter shit show. Everybody is out of sorts. Nadja is furious with him; she spent twenty minutes berating him when she got back to the room. Colin Robinson is only replying to texts with disappointment emojis. Gizmo has looked like a half-drowned golden retriever since the Lacroix house, making moon eyes at Nandor and clutched to his side like a baby koala. Though actually, that last bit is fairly average for them.

And speaking of the back-stabbing homunculus. Nandor. Fuck-ing guy, as the man often says. It’s bad enough that he’s spent the past six months sulking in their apartment, utterly miserable to be around and refusing to talk about it, no matter how many times they tried, despite the doors they’ve left open. You can only hear somebody tell you to mind your own fucking business so many times before you start to take it to heart. On top of that, Nandor won’t do his damn job, won’t be their main cinematographer, the thing that Laszlo has always trusted him to do right. And then, on top of everything, he chews Laszlo out in front of their entire crew, waving his massive prick around like the massive prick that he is. Shows Laszlo exactly how high Nandor still regards him, which isn’t much, by his estimate.

Maybe he should’ve expected this. Maybe, after six months, Laszlo should just accept the fact that their friendship is over. That the only reason Nandor came to them when the whole business with Jan was finished was because they were convenient. Familiar. Not because he’d changed his mind about anything he’d said the night of the Argument. Not- not because he was sorry, and wanted to fix things.

Nandor has never apologized for that night.

It wasn’t something he and Nadja were thinking about six months ago, at three in the morning, storms pounding the apartment, so loud that they almost drowned out the insistent knocking on their front door. The shock of seeing Nandor again - soaked and shivering, curled in on himself, voice distressingly soft as he’d asked, “I was... wondering if I could stay the night. Just the night.” - it was enough to make them forget everything that had gone on before, if only for a few hours. They’d sat quietly, listened to Nandor’s stumbling explanations for the end of his marriage - vague, reticent to give details, hinting at things that made Laszlo’s stomach turn - and when he was finished, Laszlo had said, “If you try to leave in the morning, I’ll- I’ll kick your fucking ass. You’ll stay as long as you need to. End of discussion.”

No, that night, talking about how they’d left off was the last thing they were worried about. It was only as time passed, and the topic of The Argument was never touched, that it started to become a guillotine, hanging over their heads by a fraying rope, something that threatened to release with too sharp or cutting a remark.

Well, it seems like tonight, the rope gave way, and the blade sliced clean through them all.

Even after all this, Laszlo can’t bear the idea of kicking the man out of their apartment. Call him soft, sentimental. He’s more perceptive than most of them want to believe. Sees the way Nandor gets lost in his head, lost in a conversation - just lost, lost, lost, in every capacity. If he leaves this time, Laszlo knows it will be for good, and the thought of where he might go, what he might do…

Fuck. He just wants his friend back. He thought maybe this whole expedition might help give Nandor something to focus on, let him gain back some confidence. Make him feel trusted, like one of the team again. Truly irreplaceable. And then he goes and bloody replaces himself with a complete stranger - a talented chap, certainly, but he isn’t Nandor Jahan.

All in all, this has been a verifiable disaster.

After Nadja finishes berating Laszlo, she announces she’s going to take a nice, long bath, and that he’d better be ready to grovel at her feet when she gets done. Not feeling keen on the idea, he unzips his suitcase, pulls out the fattest, most beautiful joint he’s probably ever rolled, and heads out the door. He’ll have a nice, quiet smoke on the back porch, and contemplate how best to appease his erstwhile friend enough to finish the shoot. Probably involves a lot of throwing Gizmo at him. Though at this point, who knows whether Nandor is competent enough to make that work; Laszlo checked, the condoms are all still in the glove compartment. Honestly. Getting laid would do both chaps a world of good.

He finds himself humming along to something that he can’t put his finger on, an ear worm arising from unknown origins. It’s only when he emerges from the alley between the buildings - pausing at the edge of the concrete porch, as Nandor looks up at him from his seat at one of the wrought-iron porch tables - that Laszlo realizes what it is, and the words tumble into his mind. 

Oh, I am an anti-Christ, and I am an anarchist! Don’t know what I want but I know how to get it! I want to destroy your passion, boy! ‘Cause I want to be... anarchy!

Anarchy in the UK. It was playing on Laszlo’s egregiously expensive sound system all those years ago, the day he’d brought Nandor back to his dorm room, backed him up against the door and fisted his hands into the other man’s hair, dragging him into a fearsome kiss that ended in the best sex he’d ever had up until that point. He’s always felt that twinge of sentiment every time he’s heard it since.

First loves, Laszlo thinks, sighing to himself. Too bad he couldn’t compete with the sublime radiance of my Nadja. 

In the end, they made far better friends than lovers, but even their friendship is questionable now.

“I- I will go,” Nandor says, showing an uncharacteristically perceptive ability to read the room as he rises from his seat.

Laszlo waves him off, flicking his lighter on. “You were here first. No need to turn tail and flee.”

“I am not fleeing, you are clearly trying to relax and my being here will not help-”

“Nandor, shut the fuck up and sit down.” He strolls over to the seat opposite Nandor, dropping into it. “If I try to smoke this whole thing myself, Nadja’ll have my head. I need your insane lung capacity.”

Nandor stares at him for a long moment before dropping back into his seat, folding his hands on the table and twiddling his thumbs. Laszlo takes a long drag of the joint, blowing out smoke rings as he holds it out to the other man. Nandor plucks it from Laszlo’s fingers and takes his own substantial puff, passing it back as he blows the smoke out of his nose like a dragon and says, “Athletics.”

“What?”

“They are why I can take such deep breaths. All of the sports.”

“Right. You were a... what do the Americans call it?”

“Jock.”

“Mmmmm.”

They settle into an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. It’s broken as Nandor scrubs a hand over his face and says, “Laszlo, in the van... Do you really think that?”

Laszlo frowns, tapping ash from the joint onto the concrete; there are no other good options available. “You may have to remind me of what I said. I was rather angry.”

“You think I don’t care about what I left behind after we had the falling out.”

“Ah. Well, you haven’t given much indication otherwise. You showed up out of the blue, gave us minimal explanation for what happened during those two years, and whenever we tried to give you space to talk about it, you just… wouldn’t.” He watches the smoke curl up into the rafters of the porch overhang, and lets his words drift up beside it. “It seemed like you expected everything to go back to the way it was.”

“I did not,” Nandor protests. “I just thought, maybe if I kept my head down and didn’t stir up new trouble between us, it would all turn out alright.”

Laszlo swallows, something sour at the back of his throat. “That doesn’t fix the old trouble though, does it? It doesn’t just go away if you ignore it. It... lingers. Festers. Rots away everything that was good.” 

And the thing of it is, Laszlo knows he’s a bit of a hypocrite, and he knows that Nandor does too, sees it in the way he looks at him. Because he isn’t blameless. Far from it. But he’s no better at navigating any of this awful business than Nandor. He’s not a bloody therapist. He’s been flailing around in the dark, doing his best, watching the shell of a man he loves wither away to nothing, a shadow of his former self. How the fuck is he supposed to fix any of that? He doesn’t know. He’s never known.

Laszlo clears his throat, fumbling for a direction to take them. “Is there anything left then, do you think? Of the good?”

Nandor sighs. “I do not know. Sometimes I wonder if I should have agreed to this shoot. Look at how we are, how things are between us. Maybe… maybe we got it all wrong. Maybe we need a break.”

A break. Is that really what’s best? Because the idea of that is more terrifying than any demonic creature lurking in the heart of this damnable town. All Laszlo can think of when he hears the word break are memories of long nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where Nandor’s gone, what’s happened to him, digging his fingers into the blanket and resisting the urge to pick up his phone, to call Nandor’s number and listen to it go straight to voicemail, to text and have his messages bounced back, over and over again. All he can feel is the helplessness, the still healing ache in his chest, and the fear of it reopening into a mortal wound that can’t be undone.

Maybe things can’t be undone.

After a while, Laszlo asks: “So, that’s it then? It’s too late to save.”

Nandor is quiet for a moment. Then… “Ugh, no. No, I don’t want that. Do you?”

“No. Not really.”

“So we do not want things to end. But we do not know what to do to fix it. Everything we have tried just ends up making it worse.”

“Then maybe we try something else. Something new. Otherwise, what else is left?”

“Alright.” Nandor looks down at the table, shifting uneasily. “What should I say?”

“Probably something honest.” That’s all Laszlo ever really wanted from him.

Nandor opens and closes his mouth several times, seemingly fighting with whatever part of himself that wants to shut down. Finally, he manages to get it out. “I never understood why you both let me in, that night. I was so certain you’d laugh in my face and shut the door, after the way it ended... I did not expect your kindness.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“What?”

“We did it because we love you, you oblivious twat.” He’s angry, so bitterly angry, but he’s not sure at who, anymore. Maybe himself, for not being able to stop the slow motion car crash of their obliterated relationship. He wants to grab Nandor by the shoulders and shake him. Wants to turn back time and stop Nandor from ever signing up for that damned jazzercise class. Wants to find that bitch’s car and smash the windows in. Nandor’s got a bat, and Laszlo’s got decent upper body strength. They could make it work, like they always have. Had. “That never changed, ever. It’s what made it hurt so damn much.”

Nandor seems to sit with this revelation for a moment, as if it’s some great shock. And if it is, that’s… concerning. But the moment passes, and then the words seem to come easier, pouring out of Nandor, the seal broken. “Everything I said two years ago, none of it was true. You have always been wonderful friends. You have always tried to include me, make me feel welcome in your home. I was afraid when you two started dating; I thought I might lose you both. But I didn’t... not until I let somebody else get between us.”

“I worried about you, you know?” Laszlo takes another short puff, tipping his head back. “We tried to get you to see what Jan was like, but she got her claws into you before we really understood what was happening. And when you were gone, I thought, who’s going to be the voice of reason? Who’s going to keep Nandor from believing every little lie she tells him about himself?”

“Nobody. There was nobody.” Nandor groans, pressing a hand over his eyes. “Speaking of believing her lies, I may have fucked up, earlier. Got into my feelings around Guillermo, let her name slip. I told him, at least she was honest about who I was. Yeesh. Haven’t felt that low about myself in a while.”

Laszlo sighs. “I still don’t understand why you don’t want him to know about her. For fuck’s sake, Nandor, you’re over the moon for that boy, and he’s just as infatuated! But you can’t just keep him at arm’s length if you want to get anywhere.”

“I know, I know, alright? It’s just- fucking scary! I do not want to make the same mistakes with him that I did with Jan. And what if it’s too much for him? He gets anxious if he gets somebody’s coffee order wrong; I don’t want him to be anxious about me, on top of that.”

“I suspect you won’t be able to help what he gets anxious about. And he won’t be able to help it when you get into one of your self-hating moods. But you helped him calm down earlier, and he’s good at pumping you up. Besides, he’s about as different from Jan as you could possibly get. It’s a good match. So stop fucking around already. Or rather, start fucking around- I told you where the condoms are.”

Nandor snorts, a real smile gracing his features for the first time in a while. It’s possibly, out of all the things Laszlo has seen on this trip, the most wonderful of them all. “You know you did not have to bring those all the way from the city,” he says, lifting his head. “They do sell them at the pharmacy.”

Laszlo squints at him. “How would you know that? Unless you’ve gone looking.”

“There’s a Walgreens down the road, Laszlo! I’ve never been in a Walgreens without an egregiously overpriced sexual health section.”

“Braving a small town Walgreens for your paramour. Gizmo is lucky, you’re a braver soul than I.”

“Okay. You need to stop calling him that,” Nandor says, holding his hand out for the joint. Laszlo passes it back wordlessly. “You call everyone else on this team by their own name. He is not a lesser part of it.”

Laszlo shrugs. “It’s just because he’s handy-”

“Laszlo. I know what it is like to be the odd one out in a group of people you want to so desperately please. Don’t make him feel that way.” He gives Laszlo a pointed look.

If Nandor is being honest, Laszlo will have to be as well, he supposes. “He’s not you though, is he? He’s not the guy I want shooting every film I make in the future.”

“No. But he is good at what he does, and needs to feel included. He respects your work, so respect him.”

“Fine then… Guillermo is lucky you’re looking out for him. But maybe let him look out for you too, yes? It’s a give and take. Nadja and I figured that out a long time ago.”

“I will pretend you never told me that Nadja lets you look out for her, so that you may keep your balls firmly attached to your body.”

“Much obliged, old chap. And er… about what you said in the van about Coventry.” Now that he’s feeling much calmer - bless you , Mary Jane - he can admit his fuck up. “You were right. I hadn’t considered the difficulties you and Giz- Guillermo might have. Going forward, I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I am holding you to that,” Nandor states. “Seriously. No more bright fucking ideas about neighborhood canvassing.”

“I wasn’t trying to put you in danger, I hope you know.”

“And yet you did.” Nandor quirks an eyebrow at him. “I don’t need an excuse. Just a promise to listen if I tell you there’s a problem.”

“Alright. I can do that.” In any case, Laszlo’s already considered how to avoid putting the two of them in harm’s way in the future. After all, who says they have to do all the filmography on this shoot? Laszlo has been working a camera since he could spell Kodak. 

But that’s a thought for later.

“So...” Nandor looks uncertain as he passes the joint back; Laszlo drops it and stubs it out on the ground, it’s pretty much done for. “Are we all good?”

Laszlo considers this. 

“No,” he says, honestly, because one conversation can’t fix everything, can it? They’ve still got things to hash out. It’ll take time. But Nandor’s face falls at his answer, and that’s just bloody heartbreaking, so Laszlo presses on. “We aren’t all good. But we’re much better than we were twenty minutes ago.”

Just as swiftly as it fell, Nandor’s expression rises back into a soft, fond smile.

“I missed us,” he says.

Laszlo can’t help but smile back. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

July 14th, 2022

8:59PM

Laszlo is not in the room when Nadja gets out of the shower, but she can’t say she is surprised. Her braggadocious spouse has, when facing down the wrath of a woman with nails that are regularly sharpened to fine dagger points, the tendency to find somewhere else to be. No matter. He’s pissed her off enough to make the chase a prospect she relishes. She tosses on a black tank-top, some black and white striped pajama pants, and tucks the room key and her phone into her pocket before heading out onto the front porch. She’s going to go find her imbecile of a husband and drag him back to their room so she can continue to blow out his eardrums. And then possibly blow out his back with make-up sex, if he apologizes properly (Laszlo isn’t the only one who made sure to pack some key items for this trip.)

There are two obvious choices for where Laszlo has gone, though she doubts he’s sacked up and knocked on Nandor and Guillermo’s door. If he’s running from further fights with her, he’s not about to run towards a relationship-imploding screaming match with their hostile crewmate.

Colin Robinson’s room it is, then. Somehow, Laszlo can stand to have a conversation longer than thirty seconds with the man. She’s learned not to question it, just like she doesn’t question a lot of Laszlo’s choices about whichever new friend or lover he’s gotten fixated on. Attention span like a fucking squirrel on crack, that one.

She raps three times on Colin Robinson’s door, the ambient buzz of a muffled television creeping through the cracks. The door swings open, and she starts to ask if her stupid man is inside, but when her brain registers what the occupant of the room is wearing, the words die on her tongue, shrieking to a halt like the brakes of a train trying not to slam into a tractor trailer.

Despite a shockingly well-toned form, Colin Robinson’s white tank top is far too baggy for his body, at least two sizes, slumping down over his chest and hips like it’s embarrassed to be seen with him. Below the tank top hangs a pair of gray boxers, covered in bubbly red hearts. The whole look is completed - if you can even call it that - with knee-high white socks and garishly green Crocs. Nadja saw her sister’s toddler put an outfit like this together once on one of those scammy phone apps where you dress a virtual doll. The toddler had a better sense of color theory.

Colin Robinson, the man committing this fashion atrocity, holds a glass with some kind of amber liquid, expression neutral as he says, “Hola, compadre. What’s shaking?”

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Nadja asks. Perhaps she should consider stabbing her own eyes out with her nails so she doesn’t have to look at it anymore. Or they can use him as a weapon against the vampire; surely this will do some kind of psychic damage to it.

Colin Robinson glances down. “What, this stuff? I like to be comfy when I sleep, don’t you?”

Nadja can see it now: roped into a long, arduous discussion of sleepwear preferences, she will commit the first murder in Coventry’s history that can’t be waived away as a vampire killing. She chooses to save herself the prison sentence and barrels ahead towards her goal. “Ugh, fine, whatever. Is Laszlo here?”

Colin Robinson takes a sip of his drink - a long, obnoxiously slow sip - before shaking his head. “Haven’t seen the guy since he and Nandor separated like a bitter divorced couple.”

“Wonderful.”

“He’s not with you?”

“If he was, would I be asking you?! No, I dressed him down for all his stupid antics when I got into the room, but then he fled when I showered, the utter coward.”

“Heh. That rhymes. You’re a real poet, Nadja. Well, maybe not a real poet-”

“Shut up. That is all I needed to know. I will leave you to your mediocre alcohol and ugly footwear.”

“Hey, hold on.” He tugs the door open a little farther, motioning to the pile of hard drives on his dresser. “Are you planning on reviewing the dailies we’ve shot? Seems like the whole point of having the editor be on site for the shoot is immediate feedback on how the raw footage is coming out.”

He isn’t wrong. Usually, she would be sitting down at the end of the day to skim through what they shot, but today has been utterly fucking crazy, and she’s tired, and for once she’s more focused on fixing her personal life than worrying about her job. This cloud of perpetual tension has been hanging over herself, Laszlo and Nandor for six months. Enough already! Can they not just punch each other in the dick a few times and be done with it? Better that than verbally punching each other in the dick, over and over again, for months on end, and pretending that is not what is happening. Oh, I am not punching your dick, what are you talking about? Everything is fine!

Men and their stupid fucking emotional constipation. Why did she willingly marry one, when there are so many wonderful women in the world?

Oh right. She loves him. Eugh.

“I’ll worry about it tomorrow,” Nadja replies. “We’ve still got another five days here; plenty of time to go back and redo anything if needed.”

It’s a shit excuse that she wouldn’t take from anybody else on this crew, but, priorities.

Colin Robinson shrugs. “Suit yourself, Amy Lee. I’ll be tucking in with C-SPAN if you need me. Watching Pedro Echevarria try to decide how bigoted someone has to be to get hung up on during the call-in shows is the best way to pass an evening, if you ask me.”

After that scintillating conversation, Nadja is left with no other options than to approach the den of her love-nesting crew members. She doesn’t hear any moaning coming from the room as she approaches, meaning Guillermo probably hasn’t been smart enough yet to utilize his Nandor-specific eroticism. A pity. This could mean Laszlo is inside - although, even if she heard moaning, he could be in there; he’s a freaky little man and he’s seen Nandor’s penis before.

She knocks more insistently this time, just in case they really are going at it and can’t hear her over their disgustingly sweet lovemaking. Thankfully, Guillermo is fully dressed in a t-shirt and pajama pants - a normal outfit - when he opens the door. He frowns. A dangerous expression to direct her way. “Hello?”

Squinting past him into the room, she fails to catch sight of any other occupant. “Where the fuck is your dumbass, and is he with my dumbass?”

“...If the dumbass you’re referring to as mine is Nandor, then I have no idea. He went for a walk. I was going to text him, actually. It’s getting really dark out, and he shouldn’t be out there alone.” Guillermo steps back a little. “You wanna come in?”

She scowls. “Why the fuck would I want to do that? I just told you I was trying to find Laszlo!”

“I don’t know- I’m just being polite? If Laszlo and Nandor ran into each other, waiting for them together might be our best bet.” He shrugs. “Also, this place is creepy if you’re by yourself. I keep jumping at the slightest sound.”

For fuck’s sake, he sees one brutally mutilated body and suddenly every shadow is a vampire. She’s tempted to laugh in his face and walk off, except… as loathe as she is to admit it, sneaking through a haunted mansion has left her a little on edge herself. Vampires? Probably bullshit. Ghosts? Definitely real. She’d gone along with Laszlo’s plan because the footage was worth it, and ghosts tend to stay in one place, not follow you once you leave. But that doesn’t mean she was happy about today, and look what disturbing the rest of the Lacroix family got them! Their camera man fell through the floor. They spent hours in police interrogation. Everyone is at odds.

No more ghost bullshit for the rest of the trip. She’s putting her foot down. And maybe taking Guillermo up on his offer.

“Fine, since you are so needy for company.” Nadja stalks past him, pulling out her phone and plopping down onto the bed she assumes is Guillermo’s; it’s neatly made, and Nandor can’t tuck corners like that. She opens up her text messages and begins composing a strongly worded message to Laszlo for daring to leave in the middle of his castigation. “Do you know what Colin Robinson wears to bed? Because I do now, and I wish I did not.”

“I would really, really prefer not to.” Guillermo settles gingerly on the very edge of the opposite bed, like encroaching on the mess of blankets Nandor left is far too much intimacy, and he’ll get the vapors.

“Crocs and knee high socks and a white tank top and little heart boxers,” Nadja continues, ignoring his request.

“Thank you for that image. It’s going to haunt my dreams tonight.”

“At least you did not have to see it in person! I thought I was going to go blind.” She frowns when she sees an unopened email, recognizes who it’s from. “Shit...”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Definitely not anything that is your concern.”

“Is it related to the call you made at the archives?”

She whips her head up, glaring. “You said you would keep quiet about that!”

Guillermo holds his hands up. “I have! I promise. But I get the sense that you haven’t told anybody else and you don’t look happy, so...”

“So? So what?”

“So if you need somebody to talk to! I, um, I could listen. If you wanted. My abuelita always says people find me easy to talk to?”

Nadja stares at him for three seconds, contemplating exactly how this could go wrong. Guillermo seems like the type of naïve do-gooder that makes it to the end of the horror movie before bravely sacrificing himself so everyone else can escape. Probably good at keeping secrets, if only because of the Catholic guilt.

“I do not want to hear a word out of your mouth until I tell you to talk,” she snaps. “Understand?”

Guillermo nods, perking up like a shelter dog looking for validation. Ironic; Nandor is a cat dude. Thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut as directed.

Nadja looks down at her phone and opens the email. Skimming it, she finds nothing new; just more of the Guide’s artful cajoling, waving the already substantial pay and benefits in her face like a matador provoking a bull to charge. The same information that has made her decision no easier than before. Sighing, Nadja pockets the device. “Someone is offering me the chance of a lifetime, but it will mean leaving Laszlo for a year to go overseas. I… worry what that would do to our relationship.”

Guillermo blinks, practically vibrating out of his seat, biting his lip so hard that Nadja swears he’ll draw blood.

“Oh, just fucking say what you want to!” Nadja says, throwing her hands up in the air. “Before you explode.”

“What’s the offer? Is it another movie? Would you still be able to finish the documentary? Where overseas would you-”

“Calm the fuck down, Gizmo! One at a time.”

“Okay, sorry. What’s the offer?”

“Have you heard of the Guide?”

“Yes?!” Guillermo gapes at her, slack-jawed, like she just told him he’s about to meet Antonio Banderas. Heart eyes and everything. “She’s fucking incredible! I’ve watched Naked and Glistening so many times...”

Alright, at least he has good taste. “Well, she’s got a new project, and she’s offered me a spot on the team.”

“Holy shit, Nadja! You have to take it, you have to! That’s the job of a lifetime!”

“I know, alright? But it is a whole year away, and I’ve never done a big production without Laszlo. Nandor either, other than Shagged. I don’t know how Laszlo would feel about it. And, well-” Fuck, she cannot believe she’s about to admit this to the team baby- “what if I go and I’m not impressive enough? That would be bloody embarassing!”

“No way,” Guillermo says, immediately. “You’re impressive as hell! They want you because of how talented you are. Anybody who watched Shagged could see that.”

She squints at him. “You are full of very many compliments. It is suspicious. What is your angle?”

“Why do I have to have an angle?”

“Because you are a neophyte filmmaker talking to a ten year industry professional. There is always an angle.”

“You could look at it like that, or you could look at it like I’m a member of this crew who wants to support a teammate?”

“You are very naïve if you think that is how this industry works.”

“Fine, whatever. So I’m naïve! Maybe that’s a good thing, that I’m not so jaded like the rest of you.”

“I am not jaded!”

“Yes, you are!” Guillermo snaps. He’s never shown this much vigor when it comes to pushing back against her, and part of her wants to shout him down, but the other part is curious to see where this is going. “All three of you are jaded as hell. Laszlo thinks we need stunt work to shoot a movie people will want to watch, Nandor thinks everybody hates him, and you think nobody will see your talent if Laszlo’s name isn’t attached to it!”

Nadja folds her arms, scowling at him. “You know, it is very rude to just throw people’s insecurities in their face.”

“I’m not hearing a denial,” Guillermo counters, folding his arms right back at her.

“Ehhhh,” she says, waving him off. “Even if you are maybe an itty bitty correct about it all, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m gambling a hell of a lot if I say yes to this project.”

“I gambled a hell of a lot agreeing to this film,” Guillermo points out. “I could’ve played it safe, worked my way up, established a longer career before I took on a lead cinematographer role. But I didn’t. I dove in head first.”

Nadja raises an eyebrow. “And then you dove headfirst into a flooded basement with a dead guy. You’re telling me you never had doubts about your decision?”

Guillermo’s face goes all squirmy, and she can see the wheels turning in his head. Oh, now who’s uncomfortable being read for filth? He’d better not shut down, not after getting all indignant at her!

“Yeah,” Guillermo admits. “Of course I did. I still don’t know if it was the right decision, and I worry every second that I’m going to mess it all up, but I don’t regret making it.” He lowers his eyes, muttering, “I wouldn’t have met- met you all, if I hadn’t.”

You all. Uh huh. She didn’t know Nandor had changed his name to You all. Same number of letters, won’t even have to edit his business cards too much. She imagines Guillermo scribbling Guillermo de la Cruz & You All de La Cruz inside a badly drawn heart in his sad little notebook of love poems, all written about Nandor’s tits or something.

Despite his poor attempt at playing off the slip up, in the deepest, darkest depths of her jaded heart, she’s okay with Guillermo’s love sick vibes. Maybe even a little… glad. Because for all that she’s angry at Nandor, for all that they’re on the outs right now, she can see how much better he is with Guillermo in his corner. How the shadow of the Nandor she misses shows up every time Guillermo is in the room.

Maybe Guillermo can make him happy in the same way Laszlo makes her happy.

Most days. Tonight notwithstanding.

“Has he told you?” Nadja asks. “About what happened to him?”

Guillermo looks back up at her. “He- no. Not all the way. He mentioned somebody named Jan and then ran out of the room.”

Nadja nods. “You gave me some advice. Now I am giving some to you. Nandor has been like a wounded animal ever since he got back to us. Curling in on himself, refusing to show where he’s been hurt. I think it is a very bad wound, Gizmo. Deeper than he lets on. You seem to be the person who has gotten closest to seeing the whole of it, but a wounded animal is liable to lash out unless it feels safe. So you need to be very careful, if he lets you take a look, or the both of you could get badly hurt.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Guillermo insists. “That’s the last thing I want.”

“No shit. You don’t think I know that? Believe me, if you were, you’d be long gone from this team. Anyway, you could do damage, despite your best intentions. Tread lightly.”

“You know, I think you should take your own advice,” Guillermo says. “You want to protect Laszlo, but lying to him is only going to damage your relationship.”

“Hey, this is about you and Nandor!”

“Well, it started with us talking about you and Laszlo. Looks like we’ve come full circle. Just talk to him, okay?” He smiles. “He loves you. You’ll figure it out.”

Ugh. This is all getting a little too ‘after school special’ for Nadja’s tastes. The sudden, muffled laugh that bursts from outside is a welcome distraction.

“What the fuck was that?” she asks, shuffling off the bed.

“No idea. Sounds like it was out back?”

The curtain across the window is closed, and she tugs it aside to look through. In front of her lies the empty, dark field, but if she looks left, she can spot the back patio. There, she gets a view of a surprising sight: her husband and her best friend, sitting at a table, looking more relaxed around each other than they’ve been in over two years. Nandor is giggling behind his hand. Laszlo grins at him, eyes bloodshot. There’s something crushed on the ground near Laszlo’s heel-

“Fucking hell, they’re getting baked!” Nadja motions angrily as Guillermo leans down next to her, peeking through the curtain. “Look at them! All of that drama in the van and now they are bosom buddies again? What the fuck!”

“Why are you mad? Do you want them to still be fighting?”

“No, but they’re not supposed to know how to solve shit like this without me! They’re too stubborn to work it out alone.” She’s… mostly being facetious. Mostly.

“Well, apparently not,” Guillermo shrugs. “Looks like they figured it out.”

“If that man is too high to use his dick tonight, I am going to kill him.” She arches an eyebrow at Guillermo. “Nandor will definitely be too high to use his dick. One puff and he’s like ppppffffttt.” She uses her hands to mime a balloon deflating.

Guillermo goes an embarrassing shade of crimson, eyes shooting to the ceiling as he mutters, “Gee, thanks for letting me know.”

Nadja smirks, shaking her head as she looks back out the window. He’s so easy to tease. Objectively very cute when he’s flustered. No wonder Nandor likes him.

Well, depending on the effect a flustered Guillermo has on Nandor, maybe they will be able to use his dick tonight after all.

Chapter Text

July 14th, 2022

5:56PM

When Abraham gets off the phone, Derek takes one look at his expression and knows it’s bad news.

“Well?” he asks regardless. “What’d they say?”

Talking to the cops at Doug Peterson’s house had been one of the most uncomfortable experiences of Derek’s life. Much of this had to do with the suffocating tension between his father and Delmonico, as Abraham explained to the chief what they’d found. The underlying implication of their terse discussion was as tangible and choking as smog: Abraham and Delmonico were going to both come away with wildly different theories about what had happened to Doug, so it would do all of them good to find the man alive and capable of explaining the truth. 

Midway through the house being cordoned off, however, Delmonico got pulled to the side by another officer, who whispered something that made the chief go white as a sheet. Derek had looked at his father, watched Abraham silently press a palm against the center of his chest, over the faint lump beneath his shirt.

Shortly after this, the chief exited the Peterson house, and a junior officer continued to question the Sandifords for another hour before they were given the clear to leave. The ride home was quiet, anticipation a silent third passenger, and they stood around in their kitchen after arriving back at the house, seemingly unwilling to part until... something happened. Derek isn’t sure what. But it felt like something would. 

Now, Abraham opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and finally says, “Doug’s dead.”

Derek feels the ground drop out beneath him, grabs the counter to his left before the vertigo takes him to the floor. Abraham says nothing else, just stares at him, and stares, and stares, until it seems like he’s staring through Derek. Back through time, to stand in a kitchen just like this, in the company of his kin, Death hanging over them.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, not knowing what else he possibly could. He liked Doug. He wasn’t Abraham’s best friend, but they were still close, and Derek can’t even imagine how he feels right now.

“Me too.” Abraham looks down at his phone, throat bobbing as he discreetly swipes his thumb underneath one eye and says, hoarsely, “Your little friend who works for him, she should know. Why don’t you go tell her.”

“I’m sure she’ll find out soon, you know how news spreads.” It doesn’t seem right that he should go. Not when his dad looks as though the vampire itself snuck into the room and sucked the life out of him. Whatever difficulties between them, at the end of the day, they’re family. That’s why he stayed, isn’t it? Why he’s in Coventry instead of Ticonderoga with Mom. Maybe this is the moment his dad will really need him here. “Do you, uh, wanna talk about it?”

“What’s there to talk about? A man’s dead, and once again the cops show they can’t do their jobs for shit.” Abraham leans back against the counter, foot jiggling against the floor. “And somehow, it’ll end up explained as an animal attack. You know they found him in the basement of the old Lacroix house? Why’s a wolf or a panther dragging a whole body down there?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, honestly. “I’m not exactly a, what’s the word- zoologist. Or whatever.”

“You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

“No, I get that, I just-”

“I’m gonna call Claude,” Abraham says, tapping on his phone screen, not looking at Derek. “Go tell your friend about Doug.”

“But, Dad-”

“Go. I’m alright.”

No you’re not, Derek thinks, fists clenching just a bit as he twists and stalks out. But it’s not like you’ll ever admit it.

He leaves out the front door, and unlike his last hurried exit from the house, he makes sure to tie his red jacket around his waist in case of rain; there’s supposed to be light storms tonight, leading up to a massive one tomorrow. One of those once in a century summer downpours. Outside of the house, he can see some neighbors congregating down the street, and a few glances his way gives him the sense that they probably already know about Doug, and his dad is almost certainly a topic of their conversation. Derek keeps his head down as he hurriedly slips into the Caravan and peels out of their driveway.

He gets to Shanice’s house in record time, hopping up the steps and banging on the door. When she opens it, Shanice looks at him, eyes red-rimmed, and says, “You heard?”

“Yeah,” he nods.

“Fuck.” She grabs his arm and tugs him inside.

“Jenna?” he asks as they step into the empty living room.

“Still home. Her mom was the one who told us.” Shanice turns to face him, folds her arms, hunched in on herself as she sniffs and says, “This sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t even like him that much,” she replies, sniffling again. “He always got bitchy if I went five minutes over my break.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t hate him.” Derek shifts awkwardly in place, not sure whether this qualifies as a ‘hug it out’ moment. He struggles with himself for a few moments, deciding in the end to just spread his arms wide in an unspoken invitation, and say, “It’s cool if you’re sad about it.”

Shanice scoots her foot forward, but then seems to falter. Derek wonders what’s going through her head, what she could be looking so indecisive about. This happens, sometimes, where he swears she’s going to say or do something, giving him a look like he’s the key to a mystery she’s trying to solve. Considering his massively inappropriate crush, it’s hard to act suave when she’s looking at him like that, so he usually freezes and waits for her next move. That’s definitely what he’s gonna do right now.

She seems to finally make a decision, stepping into his space and looking up at him, worrying her lower lip as she mumbles, “You’re too nice to me sometimes.”

He blinks. “I don’t know what that means?”

Rather than explaining, she buries her face against his chest and wraps her arms around him, squeezing. He clutches onto her shoulders, trying not to be weird about how nice she smells, like vanilla shampoo and mint gum. Her breath is warm against his t-shirt, and the frame of her glasses digs uncomfortably into his chest, but he’s not going to complain. Hell no. He’s gonna be the awesome, super supportive friend who is definitely having a normal one about this.

“How’s your dad?” Shanice asks when she eventually pulls back, her shoulders a little less tense than they were before.

“Man, the same as he always is.” Derek drops into one of the armchairs, sighing and kicking fruitlessly at the edge of the area rug. “Sometimes I wish I really was Artemis Spark so I could just like, cast Zone of Truth and have a real fucking conversation.”

“Well, if you were Artemis and I was Rya, we’d probably have found the vampire a long time ago, so nobody else would’ve died.” Shanice chooses to sit cross-legged on the ground in front of him, mouth wavering in a smile. “And then we’d probably make out- if we were Artemis and Rya, y’know. Since they’re so horribly in love.”

“Right.” Derek grins back, until he starts to feel self-conscious about how big he’s smiling, and maybe it’s too much and too obvious. He schools his features and says, “Dad was calling Claude when I left. Bet we’re gonna get a text from him about meeting up.”

“You up for that right now?”

“Are you gonna go if he asks?”

“Probably.”

“Then yeah, probably.”

A strong buzzing in his pocket makes him pull his phone out. Yep, just as expected, a text from Claude: We need to meet. Usual place in 30 minutes?

“That him?” Shanice asks.

“Yup.” He texts back, Got it. I’ll bring Shanice. “Should we see if Jenna wants to come?”

“I think that’s a bad idea. She’s not a hunter and she’s already wrapped up in the investigation enough as it is.” She frowns. “Maybe you should stay home, too? Since you and your dad got pulled into this at Doug’s.”

“So what, you’re going to go track down a vampire by yourself?”

“It’s not just me though, it’s Claude and Tonya too.”

“Yeah, but, like, clearly that’s not enough people.” Derek scoffs. “You need an even number to watch each other’s backs. If Claude and Tonya are watching each other, who’s gonna watch yours? Nah, I’m coming.”

“Okay. Should we bring anything with us?”

“Claude has most of our equipment- but we left the walkies at my house.” Derek sighs. “We should pick them up before we head out. C’mon, I’ll drive.”

Back at Derek’s house, things are quiet, the tick tick tick of the hall clock the only audible noise as he steps inside. There’s a light on in his dad’s office, but he ignores it for the time being. He’ll grab the walkie talkies before he seeks out Abraham, in case their conversation ends in another argument about whatever the fuck they find to be at odds about next.

The walkies are sitting in their chargers on the edge of Derek’s desk, shoved onto the only corner that isn’t covered with loose computer parts and repair kits, or taken up by his pride and joy: a fully customized, state of the art PC. Its clear tower glows in an infinite hue of rainbow colors, little lights on the motherboard and graphics cards blinking in a rhythmic pattern, dyed blue water cooling the system as it rushes through the tubes within. 

Derek grabs an empty backpack out of his closet, tossing the walkies inside. He glances around the room to consider what else he should bring. Nothing strikes him as vital, but when he looks back down at the desk, he spots a familiar pair of objects sitting under his headset.

Nudging the headset aside, he picks them up. They’re mini hard drive cases, each small enough to hold in the palm of his hand and modified to hold a very small motherboard, an FM radio signal antennae, a battery, and some wiring. The top of each case has a flat red lightbulb, and on the side, a round red button. Derek clicks the button on the one in his left hand, and the one in his right immediately lights up.

The technology in these cases is primitive, at least a decade and a half old. Morse code machines, Abraham had dubbed them. The antennae in one sends a signal to the other when they’re in range, and turns on its light. Their worth is more sentimental than practical; the first electronics project that he’d ever designed with his dad. The memory burns brightly: seven years old, Derek’s legs swinging as he sat on the rickety stool in Abraham’s shop, following his directions, little fingers shifting wires and holding them in place while his dad soldered them onto the board. 

Derek had gotten interested in Morse code after reading about it in a book from the library about old technology, and for one glorious summer, Derek kept one case tucked into his pocket wherever he went, tapping messages as his mom drove him to camp or playdates with friends. They’d tested how far the signal could go before Abraham couldn’t pick it up with the other case, and measured about two and a half miles as the farthest distance.

Of course, as Derek’s interest in digital electronics grew, the less interested he became in Morse code. Nowadays he can really only remember a few letters and basic signals. The machines haven’t gotten used in at least a decade, but looking at them now, Derek contemplates the benefit of being able to quickly communicate across a distance without making noise. Walkie talkies are great, but if you’re trying to pursue a deadly hunter, staying quiet would be smart. He tucks the cases into the front pocket of the backpack and jogs his way back downstairs.

The light in his dad’s office is still on. When Derek pokes his head inside, Abraham is leaning back against his desk, arms folded, staring at The Corkboard. It’s been returned to its usual spot on the wall. Derek knows the layout of the board, and for a long time, nothing really moved from where it had been pinned, but Coco’s death changed all that. Everything’s been shuffled around. There are new printouts from articles written in the last month. Strings have been shortened as items have been pushed closer together. The messy web of connections has gotten even more difficult to suss out.

In the bottom corner of the board, there’s a new picture. Or rather, an old picture newly added. Derek recognizes it with a sinking heart. It was once sitting on the desk Abraham leans against, in a small wooden frame, among photos of loved ones. A shot of two men on a boat, both holding up large fish and grinning at the camera.

“Hey,” Derek says, drawing Abraham’s attention from the photo. “Just letting you know, I’m going out.”

“Claude said he was gonna message you,” Abraham nods. “When’s the last time you ate anything? You should get something before you go.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Nah. Take some of the chicken salad sandwiches in the fridge. You can share them with your little girl- with your friend.”

“Okay. Sure.” Derek motions to the Corkboard. “We’re gonna have to get you a bigger board.”

“I don’t think so,” Abraham says, glancing back at it. “Something tells me I won’t need it for much longer.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah.”

“You’ve got a lot of confidence in a bunch of twenty-somethings who’ve never even seen a vampire.”

Abraham shrugs. “You’re my son. You’ll figure it out.”

…What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? 

Derek ducks his head, mumbling, “I... thanks, Dad.”

“Here.” Abraham pulls his chain out from under his shirt, the dog tags swinging in the air. “You should take this. It protected me, and it’ll protect you.”

“I don’t think-”

“Just for tonight. For your old man’s peace of mind.”

Derek takes the chain from him, and rubs his thumb over the tags, feeling the sudden divot where the bullet struck over eighty years ago. He probably wouldn’t be here without these tags, four generations of Sandifords wiped out through a piece of metal no bigger than a marble. For his dad, these have always been a symbol of family solidarity, but all Derek can see them as is a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong in his own life. 

Abraham tried to give them to him when he first joined the hunters, but he’d refused. Tonight, he’ll humor his father to avoid stirring up another argument.

“Be careful. Stick together and listen to Claude.” Abraham turns back to the board. “And call me if you need a pick up, or supplies.”

Derek slips the tags over his head as he leaves. Their weight is as heavy against his chest as their legacy would imply.

~

9:49PM

“You hear that?” Claude whispers. “Something moved over there.”

Tonya raises her flashlight, peering through the trees. 

“That’s a raccoon, man,” she whispers back. “Just minding his business.”

Shanice groans beside Derek. “This is boring. We’re just gonna sit around all night and wait?” She motions ahead, towards the mouth of the cave - The Snare Hole - and says, “How do we even know it’s gonna come out of there tonight?”

“We don’t. That’s the point,” Claude counters. “But if it does, we’re the first line of defense between it and the rest of the town.”

“Let’s just go in and kill that thing!” Shanice scowls, folding her arms. “End this once and for all. C’mon, we’ve got all our equipment here, what’s the point in waiting?”

“Hell no. I know what happens to overconfident dummies who walk into a monster lair during their peak hunting hours; they get got. We are playing by horror movie protagonist rules. We stay together, stay outside, and if it hasn’t come out by daylight, then we can go scouting inside.”

“I’ve been thinking, though,” Derek pipes up. “What if this isn’t the only way in or out? Maybe we’re missing something.”

Claude shakes his head. “All the other caves nearby have been explored; there’s no connection to the Snare Hole. Until we find out otherwise, we need to treat this as the only entrance, and plan accordingly.”

“Fuck this,” Shanice says, shooting to her feet, nearly bowling over the lawn chair she’s been sitting in. “I’m not waiting around for somebody else I know to get merc’d!”

“Woah, woah!” Derek stands and grabs her wrist before she can stalk forward. “Look, I know you’re mad about Doug, but running in without a plan seems kinda foolhardy. Would Rya Goldenhand just rush in without a plan?”

Shanice throws her hands up. “Yes! Absolutely! And she has done so, many times, and has figured it out!”

“Artemis Spark has had to bail her out at least three times,” Derek reminds her. “And had to give up some pretty sweet magical items so the DM would agree to his plans. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“You really do owe him,” Tonya says. “I’m a very benevolent DM, but some of the shit you tried to pull… like, ‘Neecie, damn.”

“So maybe we wait,” Derek agrees, giving Shanice an entreating look. “We can go exploring in the morning?”

Shanice doesn’t seem happy about his request, but she doesn’t move back towards the cave, instead turning and stalking in the opposite direction.

“Where are you going?” Claude shouts.

“I’m taking a walk!” Shanice calls back.

“I said we stick together! For fuck’s sake… White girl’s gonna get us all killed.”

“I’ll get her. Here.” Derek digs a hand into his bag, grabbing one of the Morse code machines and tossing it to Claude before pocketing the other. “If either of us see the vamp, start clicking the button and it’ll light up the other one. ”

Claude squints at the case. “What about the walkies?”

“This is faster and quieter.” Derek turns on his flashlight and starts down the path, calling back, “Come running if you see the light!”

Shanice’s flashlight is easy to track in the darkness of the woods. Derek power walks down the trail, wanting to catch up as quickly as possible. She must hear him, because she slows down, coming to a stop next to a gnarled oak as he comes around a bend in the path. “You didn’t have to follow me.”

“But I did.” He shrugs. “What’s up? Why’re you all agitated?”

Shanice’s hands go to her hips. “We’ve been sitting around for weeks, Derek, weeks! We know where the vamp lives, we know what works on it, and we could’ve ended this a long time ago!”

“Look, I know you’re mad about Doug-”

“Of course I’m mad about Doug, but that’s not-” She stops, seems to struggle with something, then starts again. “I was already worried about Jenna, and now I have to worry about you too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Everybody saw your dad get pissed at the council meeting. And the next day one of the council members is dead? And you and your dad are at his house that afternoon, before the cops even know he’s dead? A detective might think you were trying to create an alibi for why your DNA is all over the place.”

“Are you suggesting we had something to-”

“Fuck no! Of course not. But Delmonico might. He loves engineering bullshit reasons to accuse people of things. That’s why we have to find the vampire. We have to find clear, undeniable proof that all of you are innocent!”

“Shanice...” Derek rests a hand on her shoulder. “Look, I’m not saying you’re wrong. But I don’t want you getting hurt in some desperate attempt to protect me and Jenna. Don’t give me a reason to worry about you, okay?”

She blinks up at him, eyes full of concern. “I wanna protect you though- all of you. Rya always protects Artemis from big threats; he’s a squishy guy, needs to stay on the back line.”

“Yeah, well, Derek’s not so squishy,” he says, winking at her. “And Shanice doesn’t get to protect him unless she lets him protect her too.”

Shanice considers him for a long moment, her gaze intense. “I need to tell you something.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Well…”

She never finishes. A rustling farther down the path makes them both twist in that direction, lifting their flashlights to brighten the woods. Derek doesn’t see anything moving, other than the leaves on the trees gently swaying in the wind.

“What was that?” Shanice whispers.

“Dunno...” Derek wraps one hand around the dog tags hanging against his chest, but finds little comfort in the action. There’s another sudden rustling to their left, much closer than the last. “Shit.”

Shanice grips his arm, stepping back from the direction of the new noise. “Should we be, like, running?”

“We should at least be power walking.” Derek nods towards the path back to their friends. “Come on, I’ll keep watch behind us. You watch the front.”

They start making their way back towards the cave, and for about thirty seconds, the woods around them are silent. Too silent. Derek feels the tension tight in his spine, not willing to let his guard down for even a second. His paranoia is rewarded when there’s a loud noise in the treetops just above them; he grabs Shanice’s arm and yanks her backwards, eyes tracking through the branches, searching, searching...

There.

“Fuck,” Derek says, lifting the dog tags up towards the sky. Towards the pair of slitted yellow eyes looking down at him, eyes that seem to float in a void of darkness, which makes no sense because they’re pointing their flashlights right at it. 

What the fuck. What the fuck!

“Shanice. When I say run, you run.”

“No way!” she argues, her eyes still searching the trees, seemingly unable to spot what he’s seeing. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

Derek hears a low, deep laugh that’s far too human.

Those won’t save you.

A voice. There’s a voice in his head, stabbing like knives into his consciousness, the pain sharp. He drops the dog tags back to his chest, the cool metal clinking uselessly.

I know your smell. Does your blood taste like his, I wonder?

“Derek?” Shanice is calling him. He’s gone to his knees, clutching his head, vision fuzzy, knees weak. He can’t move.

You should not have followed her. I would’ve taken only her. Now you’re both mine.

The pain radiates like brain freeze, each word an icepick digging into his skull. He can barely breathe, barely think, only knows that they are going to be so dead if he doesn’t do something...

It takes him a moment to notice it. The heat, the one point that breaks through the chill, burning into his hip. He gropes blindly, finding the edge of his pocket and shoving his hand in, fingers closing around the smooth plastic inside.

Derek gasps as the pain vanishes, and his vision returns. He yanks the Morse code machine out of his pocket as he stumbles to his feet, the case pleasantly warm against his palm. Sense memories flood him; the smell of soldering metal, the sound of case fans whirring, speeding up, slowing down.

Above them, yellow-slitted eyes squint. 

Derek doesn’t know what he’s doing, only knows that it feels right to lift the case high and start jamming his thumb against the button.

There’s a loud, hissing shriek, and something streaks away through the treetops as Derek yells, “Move!”

They scramble down the path, clutching one another’s hands, horrible crashing noises in their wake. An angry yowl echoes from the right, and trees splinter behind them as a concussive wave barrels across the path. Derek doesn’t look back. He presses the button on the case, over and over, certain that if he stops, whatever spoke to him will be on them in an instant.

“What the fuck!” Shanice yells, her nails digging into the back of Derek’s hand. “Is that the vampire?”

“The hell if I know! We need to get back to the others!” 

This isn’t the time to make a stand. They’re defenseless without their equipment, and it’s just the two of them. Derek refuses to let Claude be right about Shanice getting them all killed.

Thankfully, when they round the next bend, their teammates are hustling towards them, Claude’s arms laden with stakes and Tonya double-fisting a pair of crosses.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Claude shouts.

“We saw the button light up!” Tonya yells.

“It’s here!” Derek only slows down when the four of them reach the same point, panting as he explains. “The vampire, I think we saw it-”

“I couldn’t see shit, though!” Shanice presses a hand to her heaving chest. “What- what’d you see in the trees?”

“Yellow eyes! The… the same shit my dad saw.” 

Holy shit. Abraham was right. He was telling the truth this whole time.

“Okay, everybody calm down,” Claude says. “We need to go back and get the rest of our equipment.”

“No,” Derek snaps. “That thing was in my head, talking to me. Shanice saw; I could barely move. We need to get out of here, right now, and figure out what just happened.”

“But we know it’s here,” Shanice protests. “We can’t just let it go!”

“We have to! It’s too dangerous; we don’t know what we’re up against.” Vampire stories don’t tend to mention a paralyzing form of telepathy or the ability to produce shockwaves.

“Derek’s right,” Tonya insists. “Let’s just leave the equipment and go home. We can come back for it in the morning, when it’s safer.”

“This is such bullshit,” Shanice complains. “If somebody else dies tonight-”

“If we stay here, that somebody’s gonna be us,” Derek says, with absolute certainty. “Let’s get moving. Everybody sticks close to me. If you start hearing voices, tell me.”

The next few minutes don’t stick too hard in Derek’s memory. When he recalls them later, he’ll mostly remember the feel of the plastic button under the thumb of his left hand, and Shanice’s hand gripped firmly in his right. Every tree seems vampire-shaped. Every falling leaf is a sign that something was just there a moment ago. He is so certain that they’re about to die, but the terror keeps him moving, and thankfully, when they emerge onto the main street of town, Claude’s old Jeep is parked just where they left it. They scramble inside, locking the doors behind them.

“Everybody still breathing?” Claude asks.

“I think my heart just broke a new speed record,” Tonya answers, sagging back into the shotgun seat.

“We’re safe for now, I think,” Derek says, rotating his thumb. It’s sore from the repetitive motion of pressing the button. The Morse code machine has cooled in his hand to the ambient temperature of the Jeep’s air conditioning. “But I’m gonna have to talk to my dad.”

“What about?” Shanice asks.

Derek glances down at the dog tags around his neck, picking one up between his fingers and twirling it around. “If these worked for him, but not me, then I wanna know why.”

Chapter Text

July 14th, 2022

10:23PM

Even though he’s exhausted after the day’s events, Guillermo is still awake by the time the door to the hotel room opens and Nandor slips back inside. It’s not that he was particularly waiting up for the other man, but he wasn’t not doing that either. Winding down an evening playing Stardew Valley on his Switch has been a regular way to settle his nerves. There’s something soothing in the limitations of a pre-programmed experience. No vampires waiting to jump out at him while he woos 8-bit bachelors. A lot easier to figure out what they want, too; if only real life were as simple as giving somebody freshly-grown produce until they agree to be your paramour.

Nandor pauses in the threshold, uncertainty laced through his expression, like a dog caught out stealing chicken bones from a trash can. Guillermo glances at him briefly before returning his eyes to the screen. He needs these blueberries to get planted evenly so he doesn’t blow more money buying seeds to replace them. Pixelated farms are expensive.

“How’s Laszlo?” Guillermo asks.

“Quite stoned,” Nandor replies, shutting the door. “Nadja will have her hands full.”

“And you?”

“Not nearly as bad. I let him hit most of the joint. Thank fuck he smokes when he’s upset instead of drinking or we’d have a real problem on our hands.”

Guillermo lowers the Switch. “You know that’s not what I mean, right?”

Nandor sighs. He comes to sit across from Guillermo, pinching his thumbs and forefingers together, twisting them back and forth ceaselessly. Guillermo wants to take those hands, hold them still. He’ll start there, just hands, and maybe see what else Nandor will let him hold. But he doesn’t. Not yet. He waits patiently, and eventually, Nandor responds. “I am very good at putting my foot in my mouth, you know? Saying or doing something that distresses you. It’s a real talent.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad guy.”

“I… suppose it does not.”

Guillermo abandons the console to the bed, turning to face Nandor. “You yelled at me yesterday for being mean to your friend Guillermo. So today I get to yell at you for being mean to my friend Nandor. It’s only fair.”

Nandor’s brow creases. “I do not like you using my own words against me. It is very tricky.”

“Well, I’m supposed to be learning from you, right? So, I’m just being a good student. It’s pretty easy when you’ve got an awesome teacher.” If he can twist that into something self-hating, he deserves a fucking Oscar.

“I am trying to be kinder to myself,” Nandor admits, worrying at the skin around his nails. “Earlier, that was... I felt that way, all of the time. Not anymore, but it creeps back in sometimes, if somebody is angry at me. It is still hard to accept that they could be wrong, that I am being treated unfairly.”

A bitter knot rises in Guillermo’s throat, as he digs his nails into the bedspread. That’s… awful. Who the fuck had the gall to treat Nandor that way? Who could look at this sweet man, take that tender heart of his, and convince him it was anything other than beautiful and good? It’s unconscionable. Guillermo is angry at someone he doesn’t even know. How fucking dare they.

Guillermo is too busy fuming at this unknown monster to realize the silence has gone on for quite a while, until Nandor sputters out, “I wish you had not seen me like that! It- it is a lot to handle. Maybe too much.”

It isn’t fair, how much a simple admission from Nandor can feel like water in a desert, parching Guillermo’s thirst for connection. He swallows a bitter laugh, and says, “You know what’s funny - not haha funny but, funny as in horribly ironic? This whole time, I was thinking the same thing about myself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, isn’t it obvious?”

Nandor raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve seen me. I’m riddled with anxiety about, like, everything.”

“Yes, and?”

“Well, inevitably, people get tired of it. Everybody has their limit, right? One too many phone calls talking me out of a spiral. One too many times where I embarrass them in front of their friends. And like, you get used to it, eventually. Knowing that your relationships always have an expiration date. But when I met you…” 

He pauses briefly. Notes the clawing nerves in his stomach that tell him to stop talking. That he’s one step away from disaster. Better to shove it down, pretend he’s normal, pretend his fears make sense. He can’t be that honest, that vulnerable. He’ll ruin everything.

But then he thinks about Nandor’s chest beneath his hand, solid. Breath steady, voice never wavering, keeping count until Guillermo could do it himself.

If Nandor’s still here after that, maybe that means something.

“When I met you,” Guillermo explains, “I thought, it’s gonna hurt so much when I fuck this up. When I show him exactly how crazy I can be, he’s gonna run for the hills.”

“I would not!” Nandor protests. His fists clench in his lap. “I would not,” he says again, quieter this time, like solemnity will prove the truth of it. His expression is so earnest it nearly breaks Guillermo’s heart. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Guillermo. And if you are, then… maybe I am too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it would be pretty shitty of me to judge you for some anxious nerves, considering my own... colorful history.”

“Colorful history?”

“Colorful history,” Nandor repeats, slowly. His tone indicates Guillermo should drop the line of questioning, but his expression is sheepish. Aware of his own hypocrisy: Guillermo’s vulnerabilities get dissected on the metaphorical autopsy table, while Nandor keeps all his cards close to his chest.

“Look… you don’t have to talk about whatever happened to you, if you’re not ready.” Guillermo shrugs his shoulders. “But I took a chance and trusted you. Trust you. I wish you’d give me the same chance.”

It’s blunt, and maybe a little crude, but Nandor seems to genuinely consider the proposition. Regards Guillermo with a discerning eye, like the answer of whether to take that risk is written in the curve of Guillermo’s brow, or the quirk of his lip. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Nandor repeats. “I will try. But maybe not tonight.” He blinks. “I lied earlier- I am high as fuck. I need to sleep immediately.”

Guillermo can’t stop the snorting giggle he lets out, but that’s okay, because then Nandor is giggling too, and maybe only one of them is inebriated, but whatever the excuse, the laughter serves to clear up the heaviness of the air between them. 

Thank God. Guillermo didn’t want to be at odds again. Another night tossing and turning over a fight would suck.

Satisfied with where they’ve left off, Guillermo settles in for bed. Now he can get a decent rest, and be refreshed for tomorrow’s shoot.

~

11:11PM

Guillermo... Guillermo... Can you hear me...?

Nandor?

Yes, Guillermo... It is Nandor. The one you care for so deeply... the one you long to know...

Nandor? Where are you? I can’t see you...

Guillermo... you want me, don’t you? I can feel it, I can hear the way your heart beats faster every time you are close to me... Tell me you want me...

Of course I want you...

Then why won’t you let me in, Guillermo...?

Let you in? I don’t understand?

You can have me, Guillermo, you can have what you want... you need only let me in...

How? How do I do that?

Will you let me in, Guillermo?

Yes... okay.

Say it, Guillermo. You have to let me in. Say it.

Please, please come in, please...

Oh Guillermo... I was hoping you would say that.

~

11:12PM

It’s not a noise that wakes him.

There are noises, to be sure. The steady whirr of the AC unit in the corner. Nandor’s soft exhalations to his right. But those don’t wake him.

It’s not a movement, either. There are movements, to be sure. The rustle of the curtain over the window. The shift of the man beside him (not in the way he’d like the man to be beside him, but that’s not important right now).

It isn’t a smell, or a taste, or a touch, either. Though those are present, just as every other sense.

No. What wakes him are the feelings. The prickle at the back of his neck. The heavy dread that makes goosebumps break out all over his skin. A burning fire in his chest.

Feelings, and the sense of urgency, the voice in his head that echoes from the past through his DNA, driving him to get up.

Get up.

Get up, Guillermo.

Open your eyes.

You have to get up.

Wake up now!

NOW!

Guillermo’s eyes shoot open, adjusting to the darkness of the room with a speed bordering on - no, superseding - supernatural.

He feels himself take a breath, but it’s so slow, so achingly slow. Everything is slow, nearly frozen, and everything is magnified

- every sound and smell and sensation -

and there is something, oh God there is something standing

- looming, creeping, prowling -

there is something tall and thin and terrible standing over Nandor’s bed, and its inhuman eyes are staring into Guillermo’s soul.

Time has slowed to a crawl, but Guillermo is fast, so impossibly fast as his hand shoots out to the nightstand, fist curling around the gold chain of his abuelita’s cross.

The fire in his chest explodes as the chain in his hand burns without pain. The earthy smell of pozole floods his nostrils, the steady clacking of aluminum knitting needles echoing inside his head.

He screams -

“NANDOR!”

- and throws himself forward, driven by nothing but a pure roaring fury, the singular need to protect someone who’s protected him so many times before.

The thing standing over Nandor’s bed howls as Guillermo’s clutching fist swings towards it...

But all he hits is air.

Guillermo’s forward momentum is arrested as he collides with the lump in the bed, the man underneath him jerking and yelping in surprise. He feels two large hands grabbing his hips, as Nandor slurs out a confused combination of curses and Guillermo’s name.

Guillermo ignores him, snatching for the lamp chain and yanking on it. Amber light floods the room, revealing nothing solid, not another soul there -

But the faint hint of something dark slipping up through the vent in the ceiling.

The burning fury in Guillermo’s chest keeps him going. He wrenches away from the half-dazed man and scrambles out of the bed, stumbling one, two, three steps and snapping his head back, yelling hysterically into the vent.

“STAY THE FUCK OUT, UNDERSTAND? YOU AREN’T WELCOME BACK!”

“Guillermo!” He snaps his head around, panting, as Nandor stares at him, horrified. “What- what the shit is going on?”

“It- it was here!” Guillermo points frantically at the vent, eyeing the opening warily. He thrusts the little cross towards it, between his thumb and forefinger. “Nandor, it was in this fucking room!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The vampire, it was here! I don’t know how it got in- wait. Fuck! I think it tricked me!”

“Slow down,” Nandor says, stumbling out of bed, holding his hands up beseechingly. “Start again. What happened?”

“I was dreaming about- it doesn’t matter. But the point is that it asked me to let it in and I did and it was there, it was right there , right over you and, and- and it could’ve killed you! It could’ve... fuck!” Guillermo presses a hand over his mouth, shuddering through a sharp, choking breath as a powerful wave of fear finally crashes over him. The adrenaline is fading and he’s beginning to understand what just happened. “Fuck, I’m- I’m so sorry, I’m-”

“Woah, hey! Breathe, Guillermo.” Nandor takes a step towards him, hands still up. “I’m okay, and so are you. Nothing hurt us.”

Guillermo’s insistent babbling continues: “It was here, Nandor! It could still be here!”

Nandor hesitates, like he’s trying to decide whether the threat here is a real vampire or a hysterical Guillermo. He must choose the former, because he drops into a squat, digging his hand under the bed and pulling out a familiar metal bat. “We can check, okay?”

“You brought that in?” Guillermo glues himself to Nandor’s side as the man rounds the corner of the bed. He keeps one hand on Nandor’s shoulder, the other still gripping his rapidly cooling cross. He watches as Nandor pokes the vent with the tip of the bat, frowning up through the slats.

“Yes,” Nandor says. “A man died last night in this town. If nothing else, it is smart to have a little protection on hand.” When nothing jumps out at them, he continues, “It doesn’t look like anything is still in there. Let us check the bathroom as well.”

The bathroom and its vent are just as empty, but as they exit the room, a loud slamming against their front door makes them both jump. Nandor tugs Guillermo closer and raises the bat, Guillermo thrusting his cross out towards the door at the same time.

“Open the fucking door!” yells a familiar female voice.

They both glance at one another.

“She sounds pissed,” Nandor says.

Guillermo groans. “What else is new?”

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Nadja snaps when they open the door. “Gizmo sounds like somebody is murdering him!”

“Everything is fine,” Nandor replies, cutting Guillermo off before he can launch into a breathless monologue about his pretty kick ass reaction to a fucking vampire invading their room, and giving him a very pointed look. “Guillermo just had a bad dream .”

“Look, I don’t care what freaky little sex games you two idiots get up to-”

“Nadja!”

“We’re not-”

“I said I don’t care!” She gives them a warning scowl, like it would be a very bad idea to keep trying to correct her. “Just keep it the fuck down so the rest of us can sleep!”

“Sweet dreams to you too!” Nandor calls out as she stomps back towards her room. He closes the door behind him, shaking his head. “Yech. I forgot how much of a pain in the ass she can be when somebody disturbs her beauty sleep.”

“Why didn’t you let me tell her about the vampire?” Guillermo sticks close to Nandor as they retreat back to the beds, still on high alert. He’s thinking about how long and thick and unprotected Nandor’s neck is, and how easily some evil blood sucker could chow down if Nandor is caught off guard. Guillermo can’t allow that. Won’t allow that. Every instinct inside of him is screaming to shove Nandor under a comforter and sit on top of him, hissing at any possible intruders, like a cat marking its territory. But that probably wouldn’t go over well with the other man.

Nandor shakes his head. “Because there is no need to worry her about it tonight. You can explain it to everyone in the morning.” He raises an eyebrow when Guillermo chooses to sit next to him, rather than back on his own bed, but thankfully says nothing. “Are you feeling a little calmer?”

“Not really,” Guillermo admits, shifting restlessly. “What if it comes back? I told it that it wasn’t welcome here, but I don’t know if you can take back permission to enter. Vampire movies never really explained that.”

“I don’t know either.” Nandor shrugs. “Vampire tales were not a regular feature of my childhood like they were yours.”

“Do you even believe me?” Guillermo knows he sounds utterly insane, but if Nandor brushes him off or tries to downplay what just happened, he’s going to lose it. At this moment, Guillermo understands Abraham Sandiford’s frustration so clearly. “Please believe me.”

Nandor lets the bat slip down through his fingers, the end thunking gently on the carpet. “I believe you. At least, I think something odd is going on. I had this strange feeling when you woke me up, this...”

“Prickle at the back of your neck? A feeling of dread?”

“Yes.”

“Chest on fire?”

Nandor frowns. “Not that one. Is that still happening? That sounds more like a medical condition.”

“No, that’s stopped now. But my cross-” Guillermo holds his palm out flat, the little cross glinting in the lamp light. “It felt like it was burning my hand. Except it didn’t hurt? I don’t know how to explain it.”

Nandor reaches out, gently nudging the cross aside, fingertips barely brushing against the skin of Guillermo’s palm. It’s an exceedingly tender motion, his touch lingering briefly before he draws his hand away. “Well, since I am not seeing a burn mark, I presume it did not actually burn you.”

Guillermo drapes the chain back around his neck, tucking the cross under his t-shirt; no way in hell is he taking it off for the rest of the trip, not after it just proved its worth. “You aren’t hurt, right? It didn’t touch you?”

“I am fine, Guillermo.” Nandor smiles. “You made sure of that.”

Right, he did kind of body slam Nandor into the bed. “Sorry about that...” Guillermo apologizes. He probably ruined a great dream for Nandor, the opposite of the nightmare Guillermo just experienced.

Nandor shrugs. “Don’t be. It was kind of badass, actually.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh. Very Buffy the Vampire Slayer of you.”

“Well, Buffy wouldn’t be the slayer she is without Angel watching her back, so...”

“I’m surprised you’re even old enough to get that reference.”

“Shut up.” Guillermo shoves Nandor’s shoulder gently. The frantic anxiety from minutes ago has finally started to fade, and he smothers a yawn with one hand. “I’m not a baby.”

“Mhmm. You should sleep,” Nandor insists.

Guillermo shakes his head. “I can’t. Not if I know that thing is out there.”

“Guillermo, when was the last good night of sleep you actually got?”

“That’s... not the point.”

Nandor sighs, scooting back farther onto the bed. He grabs Guillermo’s elbow, tugging on it. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Here.” 

Nandor guides Guillermo to lay down, settling him against the side of the bed where he was lying a few minutes ago. The mattress still feels warm from his body heat, and the pillow smells deeply of his hair oil. The tension in Guillermo’s spine fades almost immediately. He’s not going to think about the implications of that. 

Nandor props himself up on an elbow, reaching over Guillermo to grab his phone. “You will sleep, and I will stay up, keep watch.”

“But you need sleep too.”

“Not as much as you do. Besides, it is only for a few hours. When the sun rises, the vampire should be gone, yes? I will sleep then.”

Guillermo smothers another yawn into the pillow, shaking his head. “I really shouldn’t...”

“Then don’t,” Nandor says, unconvincingly. “You can just lie there and I’m sure you will have no trouble staying awake.” His phone starts playing a familiar, tinny song, and Guillermo hears the sound of his fingers tapping rapidly on the screen.

“Can you feed Jamessica some carrots for me?” Guillermo mumbles.

“Certainly.” Nandor hums softly along to the simple music. It’s soothing. Guillermo finds his eyes fluttering shut.

“Wake me up if it comes back...”

“I will be sure to.”

“...you’re just humoring me.”

Guillermo feels a warm hand press to his shoulder, briefly. “I promise, Guillermo joon. I will wake you. But I want you to rest now. Please? For me.”

Guillermo joon. Some kind of nickname. That’s significant, it must be. Guillermo means to ask Nandor for the translation, but his mouth feels numb, brain sticky with fatigue. He drifts off before he can summon the wherewithal to speak up.

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

8:43AM

When Nandor opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of a sleeping Guillermo. His eyelids gently flutter, lips barely parting with each exhaled breath, expression peaceful, free of tension.

They’re lying side by side on Nandor’s bed, the morning light filtering through the curtain, gray and soft. Guillermo is close enough to touch. If Nandor was so inclined, he could reach out, tuck the errant curl hanging off Guillermo’s forehead back behind his ear. Could trace the shell of that ear with a forefinger, curl it down his jaw, hooking underneath to tug him closer, till there was no space between them.

I want to keep doing this, Nandor realizes. I want to keep waking up next to him.

The alarm clock on the nightstand tells him that he’s gotten about three hours of sleep. Not a lot, but Guillermo’s peace of mind is worth a little exhaustion. Nandor had kept his promise, had waited until the first rays of light crept over the horizon, and then settled back down to get a scant few hours of rest. Knowing Guillermo, he’ll offer to pay for Nandor’s coffee all day as thanks for the effort. He’s just that kind of guy.

While finding ways to keep himself awake, Nandor’s thoughts had often drifted back to Guillermo’s words: I took a chance and trusted you. Trust you. I wish you’d give me the same chance. 

And Nandor wants to. Hasn’t he told himself he wanted this very thing? But the idea that he could lay everything out for Guillermo and not drive him away seems so impossible, now that he’s got to put his money where his mouth is. He can look at all the evidence of Guillermo’s kindness, his compassion, his genuine heart, and it all sounds very logical and sensible, that he should be someone Nandor should trust. And yet…

Nandor has shut that part of himself away, for so long, inside a room locked and barricaded, the things inside too scary to allow out. Except they’re cracking the very foundations of him, and when they do escape, they leave so much damage in their wake. Look what happened with Laszlo and Nadja. He can’t let that happen with Guillermo, not when the core of what they are - whatever they are - is so new, so fragile. 

So much easier to destroy.

He spent the night arguing with himself, going back and forth, and he still didn’t have an answer when the skies began to brighten, falling asleep before he could decide. But in this delicate morning light, the rest of the world fades out, all the doubting thoughts quieting for a time, though he can’t be certain how long it will last.

Nandor reaches out, tucks the curl behind Guillermo’s ear. He watches as the man shifts, letting out a sigh, eyes blinking slowly open, heavy with sleep.

“Hey,” Guillermo says, a warm smile forming on his lips.

There will never be a better moment than this. He has to do it now.

“Don’t talk,” Nandor entreats. “Just listen. Please.”

Guillermo’s eyes open wider, curious, but he thankfully says nothing.

Nandor takes a deep breath, and begins.

“Four years ago… four years ago, I was getting tired of my usual exercise routines. I’ve always needed to be physically active, and once you leave school, it can be a bitch to find things you enjoy that don’t eat up a whole paycheck. Running around with Laszlo and Nadja, filming our little indie movies, that ate up some of my energy, but we were in a production slump. This was just before Laszlo snagged the contract that allowed him to create Shagged .

“One day, Laszlo sent me a picture of a flier for this studio class he’d found on a community poster board. High intensity jazzercise. It seemed ridiculous, but I was desperate for something, anything to occupy some time, so I decided to try one class. Couldn’t hurt. Might have a laugh, a fun story to tell my friends.

“That’s where I met her.” Nandor pauses, the name stuck at the back of his throat for an embarrassingly long time, until it isn’t. “Janaína. Jan. She’d been teaching these classes for going on a decade, and the students were effusive about how much they’d learned from her lessons. Her energy was incredible. I could barely keep up. When it was over, I was flat on my back on the mats, trying to catch my breath, and she came over, hands on her hips, and said, That enough of a workout for you, big man? Cause I’ve got a whole other routine we can do in the back if you’re up for it.”

“Wow, that’s- oh, shit!” Guillermo immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, mumbling an apology through his fingers.

Nandor smiles. “It is fine. Yes, Jan was fearless. Completely confident in herself. I, ah, have always had a thing for people who know their worth. It’s very appealing - not the only thing I can find appealing in a person, mind you!” A light blush rises on Nandor’s face as he continues, “But Jan knew what she wanted, and on that day, it was me.

“Our relationship was a wildfire. So fast, so intense. She made me feel like the luckiest man in the world. Talking about how attractive I was, what a catch I was. She was quite a number of years older than me, and she would say she was so impressed at how mature and wise I was for a person so young. I am not immune to flattery, Guillermo. For a while, it felt so good to be the center of someone’s attention that way.”

This is the easy part of the story. The start, when the potential of the future seemed limitless. Thinking back, it was a short period of time, but long enough to leave an impression that would drive every bad decision Nandor made for the next two years.

“When I introduced her to Nadja and Laszlo, they initially had no problem with her. She knew how to put on a good show in front of others, wine and dine and charm. But even then, maybe four, five months into the relationship, there were things going on between us. Things that, if I’d known what they’d meant, maybe I would’ve... But there is no sense wishing you could change the past, I suppose. The signs were small, back then. Comments about my career, how unstable it seemed. Other things, too. Questions that implied a certain way of thinking or speaking or acting was more in keeping with the ‘wise’ Nandor she preferred. Jokes about how lucky I was to have her to guide me.

“I fell for it all, so easily. So gullible, eager to please a woman who, at the time, seemed to make everything about my life better. I started questioning the choices I made. Doubting myself more, wanting to make sure the decisions I made were ones she approved of. It didn’t really matter whether I thought it was the right thing to do, as long as she did.” 

Nandor finds himself fidgeting with the tesbih beads, needing something to focus on. It’s hard, because Guillermo’s expression is already so full of empathy and concern. This isn’t even the bad part. Maybe it will be too much for him.

Nandor keeps going anyway.

“Eventually, Laszlo and Nadja suspected what was happening, but by then, it was too late. One night, I went over to their apartment to tell them the good news; I had decided to propose to Jan. They didn’t like that. Nadja said I was being a fool. Laszlo told me I had changed since I met her, and not for the better. We argued. It got heated; I said... many things that I regret now. Things I knew would be hurtful, things that Jan had told me about them - that they were self-absorbed, shallow, their work unambitious. They didn’t really care about me. They didn’t love me. They were just dragging me down, and I would be better off without them. So much happier with Jan, without them. I stormed out that night and didn’t go back. Not for two years.”

Nandor pauses, swallowing down the knot that’s been growing steadily in his throat as he’s been talking. The middle part is hard to talk about, but still nothing compared to the end. Even Nadja and Laszlo haven’t heard all of it. The end is full of things that stab him like knives every time they make their presence known. A flood of feelings that he can’t separate, echoing up from the dark, gaping hole in his chest; a hole that started small but grew and swallowed up the whole of who he was, until there was nothing left of him but a fragile shell in the shape of a man, hollow inside.

The feelings are bubbling up now, as he stares across the small distance between himself and Guillermo. For a brief moment, it feels like they’re going to overwhelm him. Like he’s not going to be able to get it all out. That survival instinct, it’s screaming at him to lock it all away, before it’s too late.

Then, slowly, Guillermo shifts his hand, sliding it across the sheet, until it rests at the center point between them. 

He doesn’t reach any further, but Nandor sees it for what it is. An offering of support. A reminder. I’m here. You’re not alone anymore. A connection, given freely, only if he wants to grab on. Only if he is willing to accept that trust.

When he rests his hand over Guillermo’s, twining their fingers together, all of those thoughts and feelings still seem so insurmountable.

But he will trust.

“We… we got married,” Nandor says. “And after that, it got bad. Really bad. Nobody else in my life was worth holding onto, it seemed, other than her. According to her. Nothing I was doing with my life was acceptable. No spouse of hers was going to waste his life away on a frivolous career in cinema. The money wasn’t even the problem. She just insisted that everything I’d worked so hard for was a childish fantasy. Pointless. There were much better uses of my time than making stupid little movies. I should re-enroll in college, get a ‘real’ degree, a ‘real’ job, so I could support a ‘real’ family. Laszlo and Nadja hadn’t counted as that, apparently.

“As time went on, I learned I could not do anything right. Always said the wrong thing, had stupid ideas, never did enough to show her how much I loved and appreciated everything she’d done for me. I drove myself crazy trying to always anticipate how she would react. Always trying to avoid starting fights, because all of our fights were my fault. I was immature, reckless, a poor lover, cruel, heartless. It was impossible to be good enough, perfect enough, man enough for what she expected. I lost so much of myself, throwing it away, because it wasn’t what she wanted. By the end... I don’t think I had much of myself left.”

Nandor lets his eyes fall shut, not wanting to look at Guillermo for this next part. He doesn’t want to lose his courage, if it hurts too much.

“One morning, I woke up and… wished I had not. Wondered what it might be like to just not exist. I’d had unnerving thoughts for the last several weeks; the sense that life would never get easier. That I’d lost everything, and could never get it back. But wanting to be gone... that was terrifying.” 

Nandor’s voice breaks on the last word, and he has to take a deep breath. Doesn’t think about how his eyes burn, his chest aches. They’re just words, all words, so why are they so hard to say? 

He feels Guillermo tighten his grip, just slightly. Just enough to remind Nandor that he’s here. He’s here. Nandor isn’t alone anymore.

Nandor can’t stop now. He has to get it all out.

“I’d never thought that way before. Not even when my maman passed, and if I had not wanted to be gone, even then, this hopelessness made no sense. That was a moment of clarity. I realized something was terribly wrong, had been terribly wrong for so long. I could not go on, feeling this way. If I did not make a change, if I remained… I would die. And I did not want to die, Guillermo. It was the one thing left that I didn’t doubt, and it drove everything that happened next.

“Luckily, Jan was going on a retreat with her friends for a few days. This gave me enough time to pack the few things I couldn’t part with, change the passwords on any important accounts, and move some money around. The night before she came home, I called a taxi and walked out of our apartment. Took it to Nadja and Laszlo’s. I don’t know what made me think that was a good idea. Not after everything I’d done. But when you’re desperate, you don’t always think clearly. Maybe a part of me remembered what it was like to be truly loved by people. In any case, they took me in, and I’ve been there ever since.

“So. That’s it. That’s why I am the way I am.” Nandor sniffs. “It is not a glamorous story, or even very original. But it is the truth. And that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” 

He wipes under his eyes, which are still shut, which feel so heavy, now that it’s all out. Everything feels heavy, four years of exhaustion finally catching up to him. He’s holding onto Guillermo’s hand so tightly, and he’s reluctant to let go, because it’s the only thing that feels like it’s keeping him together right now. 

He’s laid all his cards on the table. He’s done what Guillermo asked. It feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff, losing his balance, and he could go over the side so easily, if Guillermo decides to walk away.

The gentle way Guillermo cups Nandor’s cheek feels like being stabbed through the heart. He opens his eyes to see the other man wearing a look of utter devastation, tears streaming freely down his face. The depth of his sorrow is shocking. It makes Nandor feel seen, and that’s painful in a way that feels nearly impossible to articulate. It’s like... being forced to stare at the sun, until you’re blinded by it.

“Why are you crying?” Nandor asks. “It was not that bad of a story, was it?”

“I’m sorry!” Guillermo blurts out. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

Great, now Nandor’s eyes are burning even harder. 

“You shouldn’t cry,” he mumbles, taking a shuddering breath. “That is not fair...”

Guillermo’s hand slides from Nandor’s jaw to the back of his neck, and he tugs, gently. What can Nandor do, except let himself be pulled close? Because the words aren’t enough, the sorrys will never be enough to make all the hurt go away, but maybe he doesn’t have to carry it all alone, if Guillermo has heard every gruesome detail, and wants to embrace him anyway.

He’s still here.

Nandor buries his face in Guillermo’s shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, lets himself feel everything that he hasn’t, in so long.

“I’m sorry,” Guillermo murmurs, arms tightening around Nandor’s shoulders as he starts to quake, as the foundations of his taped together walls finally crumble. 

Collapsing like this once seemed so frightening, but he has to admit, as the first shuddering sob rocks through him, it’s not so scary to crumble when someone is there to catch you.

It’s amazing, really, how terrible and wonderful a moment can be in equal measure. Better than simply terrible, all the time, he supposes. Guillermo keeps whispering, “I’m sorry,” over and over, and Nandor is sorry too, for a lot of things, but maybe he does not have to be sorry for telling the truth. Even if it hurts someone he cares about. So deeply.

He feels so silly, for ever thinking anything about Jan could be compared to Guillermo. But it’s so hard to trust that things could be different. 

Are different. 

They are, aren’t they? Jan never said she was sorry. Never looked at him like he was worth shedding tears over. Never held him like he was something precious to be cared for. 

It’s strange. It almost feels as though he doesn’t deserve someone caring so much. Not after everything. But Guillermo seems to think he does, and maybe Nandor isn’t there yet, but maybe, just maybe, he could be. Someday.

Trusting that is the hardest part of all.

It feels like the falling apart goes on and on forever, though it must really only last a minute or two at most. Slowly, Nandor’s shaking subsides, his fists unclenching from the death grip they’ve held on Guillermo’s t-shirt. His breathing evens out, and he starts to notice how damp the fabric pressed to his eyes has become. He feels a little bad for that, even if he’s sure Guillermo doesn’t mind in the least. Guillermo also doesn’t seem to mind holding Nandor long after the crying spell has stopped. This feels important.

“Thank you,” Nandor says, when he feels able to speak again. “I really needed that.”

“Do Nadja and Laszlo know all of that?” Guillermo asks.

Nandor lifts his head, and Guillermo loosens his hold, but neither of them pull back. Neither of them seem to want to let go, and why should they have to? They’ve bared some awful things to one another in the last few days. And yet they’re both still here.

Maybe that means something.

“Nadja and Laszlo know… some of it,” Nandor says. “Not the worst of it.”

“But you told me.”

“I did.”

“So what... what does that mean, Nandor?”

Nandor answers him with a touch. His turn to caress Guillermo’s cheek like he’s something precious to be cared for.

Guillermo stops breathing.

Nandor’s eyes fall shut as he leans in, the inevitability of it all finally crashing into them...

...an inevitability that is unfortunately interrupted by a loud, banging knock against their door.

Nandor freezes. “Shit,” he mutters, pulling back slightly and opening his eyes.

“We could ignore it,” Guillermo pleads, lips puckered and infinitely ready to be kissed; his expression suggests a strong desire to murder whoever just interrupted them.

Nandor is tempted to take him up on that offer, until the banging starts again, and for the second time in a row, Nadja’s screeching voice demands attention. “We have a fucking emergency, open the fucking door!”

“For fuck’s sake…” Nandor sighs. “Let’s put a pin in it.”

Guillermo groans, flopping back dramatically against the mattress. Yeah, Nandor can relate.

Nadja wastes no time when Nandor opens the door, launching into the problem. “My stupid fucking husband was gone when I woke up, and left a note!” She waves it in Nandor’s face, and he squints at Laszlo’s atrocious handwriting, experienced enough to make out what it’s saying:

Went with hunters for exploration in SH, back later. XOXO

“Are you fucking serious?” Nandor growls.

Nadja throws her hands up. “That’s what I said! What the bloody fuck does the idiot think he’s doing?”

“What’s wrong?” Guillermo is apparently too shy to let Nadja see him sans pants, wrapped up in a sheet as he toddles over to look at the note.

“We need to go save Laszlo from his own fucking stupidity,” Nandor explains. “Come on, let’s go get Colin Robinson.”

“So much for a relaxing morning.” Guillermo mutters sourly. He gives Nandor a pointed look. “I was really looking forward to it.”

Nandor winks at him. “Another time, Guillermo joon.”

Guillermo bites back a smile. “Holding you to that.”

Nadja glances between the both of them. “Would you two stop eye-fucking each other and get a move on!”

Well, she doesn’t have to be so rude about it.

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

9:34AM

Let it not be said that Laszlo Cravensworth is a man incapable of learning from his mistakes. When he agreed to bend to his parents’ wishes to spend his university days with the other twats from Oxford, in return for not being written out of the will, he lasted a week before cashing out the bit of inheritance money he’d been left by a beloved aunt and hopping ship to the Americas, knowing that whatever struggle awaited would be worth his independence. When he’d presumed Nadja would never be willing to live with his free-spirited, promiscuous ways, and sat her down for a dreaded break-up conversation, she’d called him a fucking idiot, told him he could get his rocks off with whoever he pleased as long as he came home to her at the end of the day. From then on, their lovemaking had included passionate recounting of Laszlo’s trysts, as it only seemed to make their own encounters more amorous. And when he’d lost his best friend to a monster of a woman, he’d sworn that any future paramour of Nandor’s would be thoroughly vetted, and if found wanting in any capacity, would be gotten rid of as soon as possible, before they could dig their claws into the man.

It was a mistake to presume that his crew would be as heavily invested in discovering the truth in Coventry as Laszlo would be. After all, the success of the production itself lays heavily on his shoulders, and though he feels Nadja is his equitable partner in all things, he knows the executives don’t have quite the same opinion, the fucking pricks. Nandor has already shown himself to be far more invested in chasing a budding romance than a vampire. Laszlo can’t even be mad about that; Guillermo passed the vetting with flying colors, and their fresh-faced cinematographer has been doing a commendable job, so Laszlo isn’t worried about his future prospects. Colin Robinson seems the type to inevitably slither his way into a different production by virtue of the need for his select set of skills.

So it falls to Laszlo, then, to take on the difficult tasks the rest of his crew are reluctant to attempt. The opportunity to journey alongside the hunters being one of them. 

The only cave Laszlo has ever journeyed through is the metaphorical one: a Platonesque journey of self-discovery as his young mind found the limits of his formal education suffocating, and he searched for answers to expand his sheltered-little-rich-boy worldview to the breaking point. 

Also, the other kind of metaphorical cave - the sex-shual one.

Yes, those kinds of caves are nothing like the one he stands before now, listening to the young hunter Shanice’s careful instructions. She shows him how to secure his helmet, how to best pack the equipment he’d purchased early this morning at the 24-hour Walmart Claude had driven him to - quite the friendly chap, and eager to reminisce about the three years he lived in New York City before returning home to Coventry to care for his aging mother. Laszlo had been given a list by Shanice, the most experienced of the hunters at spelunking, and came back with a sturdy knapsack, a protective long-sleeve navy shirt, overalls, knee and elbow pads, and new hiking boots that are almost certain to give him calluses, even as he’s taken to pacing in circles to stretch them out as the rest of the hunters prepare to descend into the cave. He also picked up a GoPro and a mount to attach it to his helmet, in case the handheld camera fails. For the second time in twenty four hours, he’s ignoring the large, blatant NO TRESPASSING signs at the cave entrance - these have the fun addition of another warning: RISK OF DEATH AHEAD, DO NOT ENTER. The urgency of the warning is somewhat muted by the pretty white bell flowers sprinkled around sign posts.

“You always want at least three sources of light on hand,” Shanice is explaining, tightening the strap at his chin. “Never step anywhere one of us hasn’t stepped first; you’d be shocked at how easily something that looks solid will give way. The cave systems around here flood regularly, so you’re going to get muddy. And never take off your helmet. Stalactites hurt if you run into one.”

“You’ve been doing this quite a while, then?” Laszlo asks as she helps him slip into the harness they’ve provided for him, adjusting each strap so it sits comfortable about the waist.

“Joined a caving club when I was thirteen,” Shanice confirms, motioning for him to shift his weight around so she can see that it’s properly fitted to him. “I’ve been teaching the rest of them basic techniques for a few months. Thankfully, there’s only one pitch to get into the main area of the Snare Hole, or you wouldn’t be coming in with us.”

“And yet, I sense your hesitation to have me.”

“Caving is fun but it can be dangerous if you fuck around. You need to listen to everything I tell you to do, understand?”

Laszlo nods agreeably. “Certainly. Just as long as you allow me to get some incredible footage of your daring vampire hunt.”

“You really didn’t bring the rest of the crew with you?” Shanice adjusts the strap on her own helmet, then starts doing high-arm stretches, cracking her back. “Seems weird.”

“Yes, well, it was pointed out to me that perhaps my zeal for the truth comes with risks, so rather than have them take those on, I will be stepping up to do the hard work.” Behind Shanice, Laszlo spots Derek approaching, the other man making some odd faces as his eyes flick between Shanice and Laszlo. “All right there, old sport?”

“Yeah, uh. What’re you two talking about?” Derek asks.

“Teaching him the basics,” Shanice replies, smirking up at him. “I remember your first expedition.”

“I wasn’t that bad!” Derek scowls. “I only needed like, five Band-Aids at the end.”

“You’re not supposed to need any Band-Aids, dude.”

“And yet you brought them?”

“I’m prepared! And I was right to be.”

“I guess. You did a great job patching me up afterwards.”

“Well, you stayed still and didn’t bitch about the antiseptic wipes. Made it easy.”

Their vaguely cringe-inducing flirtation fades into the background as Laszlo hears the sound of footsteps crunching down the path behind them, and his heart sinks a little when he turns to see a group of four familiar faces approaching.

“What the shit are you doing!” Nadja screeches at him, face red with fury, her hand fisting the little note he’d left her a few hours ago. Behind her, Guillermo, Nandor and Colin Robinson trail along, clearly unwilling to get in the way of a Nadja on a rampage.

Laszlo smiles uneasily. “Darling, I thought we were going to sleep in this morning! Give everyone some time to rest and recuperate after the events of yesterday.” This doesn’t seem to soothe Nadja’s rage in the least bit; if anything, it only seems to stoke it, her left eyebrow starting to twitch. That can’t be good for her blood pressure.

“You were included in that we , Laszlo!” she snaps. “Were you just hoping I’d sleep through whatever little charade you’re pulling here?”

Laszlo shrugs, muttering, “I was hoping we’d be down in the Hole before you realized-”

“Are you serious? This is the stupidest plan you’ve come up with the whole time we’ve been here!”

“Nadja is right,” Nandor chimes in, arms folded, frowning. “Why do you insist on being reckless with our lives?”

Laszlo scowls. “Why do you think I left to do this by myself? I heard you all loud and clear last night, and I’m trying to respect your wishes, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to compromise my vision for this film, for my art-”

“ Fuck your bloody art!” Nadja stomps up to him, jabbing him in the chest, eyes wild; it’s unfortunately both highly attractive and utterly terrifying. “You can’t show a finished piece at TIFF if you’re in a fucking body bag!”

“Now, that’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it?” Laszlo cups his hands around Nadja’s, putting on a mournful look. “This isn’t that dangerous of a cave, according to our intrepid hunters.”

“As much as I love watching you two scream at each other, he’s actually correct; on a risk assessment scale, this probably falls somewhere in moderately safe. With an experienced caver going along, Laszlo should be fine.” 

Everyone turns to stare at Colin Robinson. 

He shrugs. “What?”

“How do you know this?” Nadja asks.

“Oh. I go caving all the time! I’m a regular spelunker.” Colin motions towards Shanice’s gear; she, along with Derek, have been slowly inching away from their group, but now they freeze in place. “You’re a big fan of Petzl gear, I see. That’s the Superavanti harness, right? I prefer the Fractio myself.”

“...I like that it’s lightweight,” Shanice replies. “How long have you been caving?”

Colin Robinson taps a finger against his lower lip. “Hmmm, going on almost two decades? My uncle took me caving on a vacation when I was in my teens and then challenged me to get out with my own wits. And by challenge, I mean I turned around and he wasn’t there anymore. He looked really shocked when I hitch-hiked back to his house three hours later. I think he expected it to take a lot longer than it did. Anyway, ever since, I love hitting up the local caves when I have time. I actually brought my gear on this trip, hoping to find some time to explore the area. But well, things happen, am I right?”

“And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?” Nadja frowns. “That you had some kind of useful expertise for the project?”

“You didn’t ask,” Colin Robinson replies, matter-of-factly. “None of you really ask me about my life, do you? Outside of Laszlo.”

“Quite right,” Laszlo answers, finally feeling like he’s got the upper hand here. “This is a perfect solution, then. Colin Robinson shall join me on this expedition; between himself and the young chappess here, we’ll be quite safe.”

“Colin Robinson does not know how to operate the camera equipment,” Nandor points out.

“I suppose it’s fortunate that I do, then,” Laszlo counters. “Come now, do you really want to go crawling around in the caves this morning? And I doubt I’ll convince our young Giz- Guillermo after the events of yesterday afternoon.”

“Hell no,” Guillermo shoots back, immediately. “I’m not going in there, and neither is Nandor.”

Nandor glances at Guillermo, and some kind of silent conversation passes between them. No words, just the tilt of a head, the subtle raise of an eyebrow, and, shockingly, the hint of a smile - for the second time in 24 hours! - on Nandor’s normally beleaguered mouth.

“No,” Nandor agrees, looking back at Laszlo. “I will not be.”

Oh. Something has changed, hasn’t it? Something between them. Nandor... he’s letting Guillermo take the lead on something. Putting trust in him. 

Interesting.

“As I thought,” Laszlo says. “Now, why don’t you both go back to the hotel with Nadja and review the footage we’ve shot so far? Seems like the perfect opportunity. Maybe order in some brunch. Colin Robinson, you said you’ve got your gear with you?”

“It’s all in the back of the van,” Colin Robinson confirms. “I’ll go grab it.”

“I do not like this, Laszlo,” Nadja says as everyone around them disperses, Guillermo and Nandor following Colin Robinson back to the van, Shanice and Derek off to join their friends. “We do not know what’s down there.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in the vampire, darling?”

“I don’t, but I do believe in bears and mountain lions and other things that won’t be dissuaded by a pissy little cross and garlic.”

Laszlo rests his hands on Nadja’s shoulders, smiling up at his beautiful, stubborn-minded spouse. “I will be fine. I’m more spry than I look. I’ll get the footage we need, come back and then we’ll take the industry by storm once more, and set ourselves up for even bigger projects in the future. You and I, together against the world.”

Something passes over her expression for a brief moment. It almost looks like... guilt?

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Nadja?”

“It- it is nothing.” She pulls out of his grasp, turning towards the path back to the van. “Go and have your adventure. And you’d better come back, or I’ll find you and kill you myself!”

“I would expect nothing less...” He trails off as she walks away, unsure as to what just occurred. Usually, Nadja’s response to something that she dislikes is anger, but guilt? No, impossible. Nadja never feels guilty about anything.

Still. He wasn’t unnerved before, even at the prospect of diving into the dark. But now... he’s troubled.

Something’s going on with her. It’s vital he finds out what.

~

10:01AM

As previously stated, Laszlo has never been in a cave before. These are the things he notices: it’s far louder than he expected, every scrape and scuff of a boot or a hand echoes off the walls, and in the distance, he can hear the sound of rushing water. It’s nigh impossible to get a sense of the size of the caverns; any part of the tunnels that isn’t being lit up by their headlamps exists in a perpetual darkness. There’s a scent to the air that he can’t name, but it isn’t unpleasant, and it’s as easy to breathe as they descend as it is on the surface.

The beginning of the passage has a gentle downward slope, but about a hundred or so feet in, past a leftward bend that cuts off all light from the outside, there’s a sharp drop off, at least a sixty degree angle. If you fell off the edge, it’d be quite the nasty roll down to the bottom, what with all the jutting rocks, but potentially survivable, as it isn’t a straight drop off.

“Okay, so this is a bobbin,” Colin Robinson explains, holding out a long, red, two-sided metal object, large holes between each side and screws all about the thing. “It’s what we’re going to use to descend. It’s going to hook onto your belay loop and the rope will thread through. You control the descent by controlling the tension on the rope. Your left hand is going to guide your direction. Your right hand is your break hand, if you need to stop, slide your hand below your waist and the rope will stay tense. No matter what, your right hand doesn’t let go of this rope, understand? Take your time, and go slowly. I’ll be right behind you.”

“You sound like Nadja on one of our spicier nights at home,” Laszlo jokes, pleased when he gets a smirk out of the other man. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this chuffed to be doing something.”

“I’ve never really gotten to teach somebody before.” Colin Robinson glances over the side of the drop - the pitch, as he and Shanice have called it - his headlamp spotlighting the aforementioned hunter as she works her way down the rope with a smooth, practiced technique. “It’s weird. Every time I find a group of people to go caving with, very shortly after, a whole lot of in-fighting and repressed grudges make their way to the surface. It always ends with the group disbanding, even ones that have been caving together for decades.” He chuckles. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I’m the cause!”

“Well, it’s their loss,” Laszlo affirms. He’s grown to quite like the man. Despite his odd mannerisms, his generally perturbing personality, and his inability to have a conversation without peppering in at least three accidental insults, he seems like his heart is in the right place. Nothing that a self-help book about social skills couldn’t fix. Perhaps some guidance on when discretion is the better part of valor. If Laszlo can be friends with Nandor, a man who once inadvertently sent the results of his STD test to their entire junior year cohort - he had a clean bill of health, which got him a few return emails from classmates asking if he’d like to get coffee or dinner sometime - then he can be friends with Colin Robinson.

After showing him how to secure the bobbin and a few more tips about descending, Colin Robinson helps him step to the edge of the pitch, and for the first time, Laszlo finds his nerves creeping up, glancing back into the darkness below. “You’re certain I’m capable of this, Colin Robinson?”

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and turns to see Colin Robinson give him a smile. It isn’t awkward, or forced, or unnerving, or anything he’s used to from the man. It’s simple and real.

“You’ll do fine, Laz.” Colin Robinson says. “And... just call me Colin, okay? Feels like we’ve reached that point in our relationship.”

Laszlo nods, stepping back with his hands tensed around the rope as Colin Robinson - no, just Colin - pulls away. “Right then. Off I go, I suppose.”

It takes him a good twenty seconds to take that first step down, and another ten for the second, and then he’s officially off flat ground, pressing his heels firmly into the rock as he begins to lower himself down the slope. 

It isn’t easy, but it isn’t quite as difficult as he’s built it up in his head. He does as he’s been instructed, takes his time, gets one foot planted firmly against the slope before taking another step back. 

Colin gives him a thumbs up as he goes, calling out, “Doing great, Laz!” when he’s about halfway down. He starts to relax. This isn’t so bad.

Ten or so feet from the bottom, Laszlo’s boot connects with a loose rock that breaks off under his heel. 

“Shit!” He staggers to the side, losing his balance, yelping as his knees - thankfully padded - hit the slope, and he struggles to stay upright. The rope begins slipping through his left hand, and for a moment, his brain floods with sheer panic.

“Pull your right hand down!” Colin yells. 

Laszlo listens automatically, and the rope goes taut, throwing him the rest of the way off balance. He falls sideways, right side slamming into the slope, but his grip on the rope holds firm, and he finds himself gasping, heart hammering as he lies there, no longer in danger of falling.

“Are you okay?” Shanice shouts up from the bottom.

“I- will be! Bloody hell. Give a moment, if you would.” Christ, that was embarrassing. First time on the rope and he almost beefs it. Thank fuck Colin had the good sense to give him direction. Good to know he’s reliable in a pinch.

Laszlo lies there for a bit, and when he’s settled, he lets go of the rope with his left hand so he can push himself back to his feet. This time he’s more careful about where he steps, finally touching down to the bottom with a relieved sigh.

“You made it, man.” Claude slaps him on the back as Shanice helps him unclip from the rope. “Welcome to the Snare Hole.”

Laszlo sweeps his light across the cavern. It’s at least thirty feet high, and perhaps fifty feet in diameter. Large stalactites cover the ceiling, dripping condensation, and the walls are made of rock of a multitude of colors and textures. There are some tunnels beyond the main chamber, though his light doesn’t shine more than a few feet down before being devoured by the blackness.

He feels the hairs stand up at the back of his neck as he stares into the endless darkness of one tunnel. Being down here… it feels like a place humans weren’t meant to go. 

To distract himself, he pulls off his pack, checking that the equipment stowed inside is undamaged. He cushioned the camera as best he could, and thankfully, it looks fine, so he turns it on and tests it out as they wait for Colin to descend.

When he gets off the rope, Colin shuttles over to him, Laszlo capturing his concerned expression in the viewfinder. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

Laszlo nods. “I’m alright. Certainly not looking forward to the ascent though.”

“Oh, I feel like you’ll enjoy going up more than down,” Colin replies. “More effort, but at least you’re moving forwards.”

Laszlo grins. “That feels like a metaphor of some kind. Possibly innuendo. We’ll workshop it.”

With everyone on the ground, the group can head farther into the cave. “We’ve got the most up to date map that we can, but there were still unexplored tunnels at the time the cave was shuttered,” Shanice explains.

Tonya opens up her knapsack and starts distributing items: a wooden stake, a handmade necklace of garlic bulbs and a silver cross to each person. Laszlo takes the garlic necklace but waves off the other objects, hoisting the camera. “Afraid my hands will be occupied for this one.”

“Make sure you don’t wander from the group, then,” Tonya says.

“We’ll stick together,” Colin affirms, twirling his stake in one hand. “You could say this falls within my job description.”

“Fighting cave vampires?” Derek asks.

Colin shakes his head. “Risk assessment.”

“We’ve trained for this, y’all,” Claude reminds them. “You see any kind of movement, you let everybody else know. If we’re lucky, the vampire will be hibernating right now. Easy to kill.”

“Derek, you said you saw the vampire yesterday evening, yes?” Laszlo asks, fixing the camera shot on the hunter.

Derek nods warily. “I think so. We got away, and I’m still not completely sure how but... if anybody starts hearing voices, get ready for some action.” He presses a hand against his hip, something bulging in his pocket that Laszlo can’t identify.

They begin with the leftmost tunnel. Shanice takes the lead so she can keep an eye out for hazards, and Colin takes the rear, in charge of marking the path with metallic tape as needed. Derek trails behind Shanice, then Claude, then Tonya, and finally, Laszlo, keeping to the side of the tunnel so he can capture the hunters’ movements through it. 

The path slopes gently downwards, limestone walls trickling with water as they trudge along. Laszlo’s boots quickly become thick with mud. His clothes were already streaked after his tumble on the pitch, and now Shanice telling him to bring a spare set makes sense. It’s going to feel bloody disgusting when they get outside again. If they get outside again - no, can’t think like that. Surely, if they find anything down here, the hunters will be more than capable of taking care of it.

“Nobody’s been down here in decades,” Colin marvels as they go. “The path isn’t beaten down, no refuse, no signs of human life. It’d be a shame if we died down here and messed that up.”

“Bloody Christ, Colin,” Laszlo mutters, swinging the camera around towards him. “I’d appreciate you not considering the possibility of our untimely demise within my earshot.”

“Cave ecosystems are very delicate! A corpse would absolutely mess with the internal floral composition. In fact, we could probably discern if the vampire is real based on taking samples of the bacteria to determine what kinds of creatures live in the cave, although being undead and all, it might have a vastly different impact-”

“Hey, too much talking!” Claude hisses, giving them both a look. “You wanna give our position away?”

“Pretty sure the sound of six people walking through a tunnel will already do that,” Derek mutters.

“We do have to be awake to fight the vampire,” Tonya reminds them. “And if he keeps talking that might be hard.”

“Woof, rough crowd,” Colin replies. “Guess I’ll zip my lips. But you know, with those bags under your eyes, a nap might do you good.”

Laszlo snorts loudly, glancing back at the other man. Colin appears completely serious about the suggestion, unaware he’s just insulted anyone. Probably is. Delightful.

The first tunnel is a dead end, just as it was marked on the map. A sudden wall greets them when they turn a corner, and it’s quickly decided to turn back. They have no luck in the second tunnel either, though it’s much longer than the first, and takes them at least twenty minutes to traverse, trudging through shallow pools of water that have condensed atop the loamy ground. The mud continues to slow them down, and Laszlo has to stop every so often to kick his boots free of the sludgy dirt.

 After they discover another solid wall, they return to the antechamber, and they stop for a brief break to drink from their canteens before trying the third tunnel. By this point, all conversation has died down, everyone conserving their energy for simply moving through the caves. The roar of water builds as they walk, and soon they emerge into a smaller chamber, where a steady waterfall cascades into a pool whose bottom can’t be seen, even when they shine all of their lights into the water.

“You think vampires make their lairs at the bottom of cave pools?” Tonya asks, giving the group pause. 

Derek has the idea to tie one of their spare ropes around a rock and let it sink below the surface of the water, to try and measure how deep the pool is. For five minutes, they stand there, watching the rope disappear, but despite at least 60 meters of length, the rock never hits the bottom.

“Well, I don’t think any of us are going in,” Shanice says, helping Derek pull the rope back up. “Cave diving is a whole other mess and a hell of a lot more dangerous.”

“I doubt blood suckers take watery naps,” Claude says. “But if we don’t find the thing, we can think about getting some kinda submersible drone, come back and check later.”

There are more tunnels branching off from this point, but unfortunately, they’ve reached the end of the mapped portion of the cave. “Laz, listen,” Colin says, tugging Laszlo aside as the others try to decide what to do. “I know you want this footage, and the tunnels up until now have been pretty safe, but further on there could be pitches that need climbing equipment, or unstable ground, or flooded passages, or any number of other hazards. I can’t stop these kids from going ahead, but Nadja’s already threatened multiple pairs of testicles on this trip, and I’m pretty sure mine are next in line if anything happens to you.”

Laszlo scowls. “Colin, be reasonable, can we really stop now that we’re close to the truth? Creating art requires some risk taking.”

“Yeah, but you’re not just risking your own life here,” Colin points out. “If things go really bad, the studio pulls the plug. No more documentary. You can kiss everybody’s future opportunities with VC Productions goodbye. Also, my job. That’s kind of important to me, compadre.”

“Surely we can go just a bit farther-”

“No can do. You had enough trouble navigating a fairly reasonable slope. I’m calling it.”

Laszlo folds his arms. “What are you going to do, drag me out of here?”

Colin quirks an eyebrow. “Maybe. That’s actually a good suggestion; I do weight lifting on the weekends and can probably bench press your body weight. You wanna test me out?”

Huh. File that information away for later. “Fine. But I’m giving Claude the GoPro,” Laszlo insists. “Bought it with my own money.”

“Your loss if it breaks,” Colin shrugs. “Hey! Youths!” 

The hunters glance over at them. 

Colin points back to the tunnel they came through. “We’re heading back. Claude, have you ever used a GoPro?”

Once Laszlo has successfully transferred the helmet camera to Claude, he and Colin part from the hunters and start picking their way back up the tunnel, Colin taking the lead. The trip back is harder than the way in; uphill instead of down, and Laszlo is starting to feel the fatigue of struggling through muddy, uneven ground. If he had to estimate, they’ve been down here at least an hour and a half, maybe two hours. He’s going to need a long nap after this expedition - though considering the state of his clothes, probably a long shower first.

The silence begins to agitate his nerves, so Laszlo asks, “How’d you become a studio man anyway, Colin?”

“Huh. Nobody’s ever asked me that.” Colin clambers onto the ledge of rocks they had to jump down earlier, then turns to hoist Laszlo up behind him. “Well, I grew up in LA, and half the town winds up going into the film industry for their careers. I’m not exactly a creative guy, but all the fussy, artsy types need somebody to reign in their worst impulses, and I’m not easily swayed by displays of emotion.”

“I feel as though I should be insulted somehow,” Laszlo muses, grabbing hold of the other man and nearly stumbling into him when Colin displays the strength he was bragging about, easily lifting Laszlo up to the next level. “Bloody hell, you weren’t joking.”

Colin grins at him, only letting go once Laszlo gets his feet under himself. “It’s less an insult and more a reality. Don’t worry, you’re a hissing kitty cat in comparison to some of the personalities I’ve worked with.”

“Alright, now I’m definitely insulted.”

“Don’t be. I’m grateful, honestly, that you’re only mostly stubborn and partially full of yourself. I’ve got too much on my plate to deal with anything worse.”

“Is this about Evie?” Laszlo asks, toddling along behind him. “You’ve mentioned being on the outs with her.”

“I don’t know what to do, Laz,” Colin sighs. “Do you ever get the feeling that some people are just born to drain other people of all their energy? That’s what it feels like.”

Before Laszlo can answer him, a fluttering noise echoes through the passage behind them. 

Laszlo whips around, taking a few steps back, bumping into Colin. An icy lance of fear shoots through his chest. “What the shit was that?”

Colin rests a hand on his shoulder, peering down the tunnel. “Huh. Not sure. Could be nothing, maybe the wind. We could check it out.”

“The hell if I’m going back there!” Laszlo hisses. “You want to see so bad, you go look!”

Colin shrugs. “Okay.” 

He takes one step past Laszlo, then two, then three.

The fluttering sound explodes through the tunnel. Laszlo glimpses something swooping at the edge of his headlight. Instinct kicks in, and he twists around, taking off towards the entrance, Colin shouting for him. There’s no thought in his head other than to flee, and flee he does.

If he were more experienced, Laszlo might have the sense to take care where he steps, might’ve remembered that they’re in a cave system and the terrain isn’t always as stable as it seems. Of course, even an experienced caver who was on the run from a possible vampire might be careless, and so it isn’t any surprise when the toe of his boot hits a small stalactite. He goes tumbling to the side, hand shooting out to catch himself on the wall, only for the stone beneath his hand to crumble away, the earth beneath his feet starting to give. 

Laszlo lets out a scream as the wall collapses, and he finds himself falling into a black wound that threatens to swallow him up-

Two hands grab his shoulders, yanking him back, out of the darkness. He lands against a firm, solid body. Those hands keep a hold as Colin hauls him away from the rubble, and Laszlo goes without resistance, stopping when Colin comes to a halt, gasping for air as his heart hammers in his chest.

“Fuck,” Laszlo pants, sagging back a little against the other man. “Thought I was a goner.”

“That was a really stupid move,” Colin scolds. “Bats, Laszlo. They were just bats. Hunters must’ve spooked them out of the other tunnels.”

“Well, that’s a more comforting explanation than the one my brain went with.” Laszlo steps away, turning to fix Colin with a slight grimace. “Apologies, old chap. Impressive showing on the rescue.”

Colin frowns, reaching out to brush a thumb against Laszlo’s forehead. Laszlo goes very still. 

“You’re bleeding,” Colin says by way of explanation. “But we don’t worry about that kind of injury until we’re clear of the worst danger.” He motions to the hole in the wall, which is a little wider than a meter and about as high as where Laszlo’s hand went through. Some of the ground around it has slumped into the hole, and Colin tells him to wait while he inches closer, testing the ground.

“Looks alright,” Laszlo comments as Colin shuffles around the spot. He watches as Colin peers into the darkness, frowning. “What? What is it?”

“There’s... something in there.” Colin drops into a squat, pressing down against the ground ahead as he keeps testing for stability, shuffling closer to the hole. It seems as though, after the initial collapse, the ground is holding, but who knows if that will change.

“Is that wise?” Laszlo asks. “You were the one insisting I take more care.”

“I think it’s alright,” Colin comments. “The hole doesn’t go that far beyond the opening- actually, I think you might’ve just found somebody’s hidey hole. They just piled some loose rubble over it.” 

He goes to his knees, crawling to the edge of the opening, and then reaches inside. 

Laszlo holds his breath momentarily, letting it out when Colin leans back. There’s a box in his hand: simple, ancient looking wood with little clasps. It’s about thirty centimeters long and a little over half as wide. Likely it’s been buried here for a long while; everything about the construction looks antique, rougher than what modern equipment would produce.

“Wonder what’s inside,” Colin says, straightening back up. He holds it out to Laszlo. “Wanna check?”

“Let’s get to the surface first,” Laszlo replies, shaking his head. “I’m about done with dark caverns and clambering about in mud.”

Hopefully, whatever they’ve found will have made the trip underground worth it.

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

10:44AM

“Where is my bloody Egg McMuffin, Nandor?”

“I am sorting through the bags! Yeesh, so impatient.”

Nadja yanks one of the paper bags across the table, scowling at Nandor as she digs around inside and retrieves her breakfast. “Was that so difficult?” She shoves the bag away towards Guillermo, who sits to her left, scrolling through the footage from two nights ago on the company laptop. “Here. Eat your fucking McGriddle. And don’t get grease all over the keys if you want to keep all your fingers. Gizmo, are you listening?!”

“Yes, I’m listening!”

“Nadja,” Nandor says, far too calmly, hands folded on the table, looking at her with something suspiciously close to pity. “I know you are worried about Laszlo, but do not take it out on Guillermo.”

Nadja squints, pointing directly at Nandor as she rips a chunk off her sandwich and chews threateningly, swallowing before she says, “I’m not going to change how I talk to your little boyfriend just because you two have gotten on the bone town train together.”

“Nadja!” Nandor yelps, Guillermo’s face coloring to the shade of pomegranate juice. “We- we are not-”

“I. Do. Not. Bloody. Care.” She whips her finger around to stab it towards Guillermo. “Did you find the relevant footage by now or are you just fucking around on that thing?”

“I’m looking!” Guillermo squawks, his swiping finger speeding up on the laptop touchpad. “There’s a lot to sort through. The way this software names the video files makes no sense to me.”

“Well, look faster! I want to know exactly what you saw in the woods that night.” 

Stupid, they’re so stupid! If she had just reviewed this footage already, maybe she’d have had something to shove in Laszlo’s face this morning. A reason to not let him go gallivanting off into some pig-shit hole in the ground with his pasty new best friend and the local juvenile delinquents. There is no way Laszlo should be participating in any kind of risky physical activity; he has all the grace and balance of a swan hitting a tractor trailer windshield. If he hasn’t already broken his neck by now, Nadja will consider it a miracle.

“Hey.” Nandor reaches over, resting his hand over hers. “Laszlo will be fine. Besides, you and I both know he is quite flexible and an expert at navigating holes of any size.”

He has the audacity to grin at her. She’s going to claw his eyes out.

Guillermo looks skyward briefly, mournfully. “I didn’t need to know that...”

“If you’d hurry the fuck up, you wouldn’t have to hear about my husband’s amazing sexual prowess!” Nadja crows at him. The McMuffin is sitting sourly in her stomach, and she feels restless, keyed up, and these stupid lovesick idiots are far too composed by contrast. She snatches her hand out of Nandor’s and shoves to her feet, beginning to pace behind Guillermo, glancing over his shoulder as she watches him steadily work his way through the video files. He’s narrowing in on the right one; she recognizes the footage from the council meeting, the sour knot in her stomach tightening when she sees Doug Peterson’s face come into view, sitting relaxed next to Barbara Lazarro, still alive here, but only for a few hours longer. His pale, open-mouthed death mask flashes in her mind, a sight she’s not going to erase from her memory for a long time.

For a moment, the image of his face morphs into a sickeningly familiar one - deep brown eyes empty and flat, the twinkling mirth that always lies there gone, blood flecked through his thick beard, pouring from his massive throat wound into his well-loved red bandana - and she curses under her breath and storms into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

She leans against the sink, nails digging into the ugly yellowing porcelain as she takes a few deep breaths. It’s been a while since she’s felt so on edge, cracks in her normally peerless composition starting to show. The reason for this isn’t just Laszlo’s reckless spelunking, either. She emailed the Guide last night, promised her that Nadja would have an answer about whether she’s going to take the job or not by tomorrow morning. Maybe a stupid promise, but fuck, she can’t just keep pushing it off! She has to make a choice. Which means she’s going to have to tell Laszlo. Which means he has to come back with all limbs intact. Which means she has to trust Colin fucking Robinson to keep him safe. Ugh.

The bathroom door opens, and Nadja glares up at Nandor through the mirror on the wall in front of the sink as he slips inside the small space. “I could’ve been taking a shit, you know,” she growls.

“You weren’t,” Nandor confidently replies, leaning back against the door, folding his arms. “What’s going on?”

“Who says I want to talk to you about it?”

“No one. But, since Laszlo is not here, and Guillermo is hard at work doing the thing you asked him to - and doing it very well, by the way - I figured I am the best choice. You do not have to accept it if you do not wish.”

“Good, because I do not accept, because we don’t do this anymore.”

“This?”

Nadja scoffs. “Talk! We do not talk anymore, Nandor! Not how we used to. So why should I tell you anything, if I’m not bloody good enough to confide in?”

“I did not say you were not-”

“You did not say, Nandor. Anything! And that is the fucking problem!”

“That is not fair,” Nandor insists. “Maybe I am not always good at trying, but you are not always good at listening.”

“I am a great listener!”

“You are not listening right now. When I am trying to talk to you! Do you think I came in here because I love the smell of musty toilet water? No! I am here because you are my friend and despite what you think,  it makes me sad when you are hurting.”

“I am fine-”

“You are a very bad liar.” The look she shoots at him has sent stronger men screaming into the night, and yet he does not budge, fixes her with a steady stare right back. “And you don’t listen, not in the way I need.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, I am not the same person I was before, Nadja. So the way we were with each other… it can not be the same, either.” His throat bobs, and he glances away briefly. “All of the yelling and the arguing, it used to feel like friends being silly and stupid with each other. It doesn’t feel like that anymore.”

“No. It doesn’t. Does it? It shouldn’t, not after…” She bows her head, fixes her gaze on the ugly brownish lines that streak towards the drain. Feels the barest quiver of her lip, the hint of something like shame threatening to wash through her. She swallows it back, continuing. “You are very different. It feels like you are speaking a whole different language and I cannot translate it.”

“You do not even try.”

She glances back up at him. “I am not good at being touchy-feely. You know this.”

He sighs, reaching up to slide his hands through his hair, fingers twisting in the locks. “I don’t need touchy-feely, Nadja. I just need somebody who will listen, even if I am not always good at explaining. And will give me some space, if I am not ready to explain. I- I need a friend.”

“I am your friend,” she says, automatically, because that has never been in question. At least, not to her. Though now that he is explaining, maybe that did not always seem true to him. 

“Okay. You are my friend. Then act like it. Stop taking your anger out on me.”

“...Fine. I will try. But I want a promise.”

He raises an eyebrow. “A promise?”

She straightens up, twisting and stalking over to him. He stays very still as she stops right in front of him, hands on her hips, fixing him with a wary eye. “Yes, because we are both very stubborn and will fight about things in the future.” Just for a moment, her expression softens. “I want you to promise, to remember, that even if we are fighting, that I- care about you. And I always will, you stupid vlaskas. So don’t get your knickers twisted thinking otherwise.”

“Okay. I will try.”

“Why can you explain this now, when you couldn’t before? What changed?”

“I realized... it is not as scary as I thought it would be. Being honest. Trying to fix things.” He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck, shooting her a sheepish smile as he continues. “Trusting somebody, if it’s the right somebody.”

“So you told Gizmo what happened.”

“I told Guillermo,” he confirms. “And now I want a promise from you.” He points a thumb back at the door behind him. “Don’t take your anger at me out on Guillermo. Give him the same chance to impress that other people gave you when you first got out of school.”

“Ugh. Fine,” she grumbles.

“And he’s not a Gremlin. Call him Guillermo.”

“I only asked for one promise!” She folds her arms. “Fine, fine! Just know that if he ever takes an interest in jazzercise, I will be personally shredding his vocal cords into fettuccine.”

“I will be taking that as a sign you do care about me and not a threat against my- friend.”

“Oh ho ho, friend?” She grins. “That’s what you’re calling him?”

“Well, if you hadn’t interrupted this morning-” He pauses, seemingly realizing what he’s just admitted, a light blush blooming on his cheeks. “Shit.”

Her eyes light up, wickedly gleeful. Oh, this is priceless. Pathetic, but in a way that makes her hopeful, rather than depressed. She giggles, “You must be so sad that my stupid husband’s recklessness prevented you from getting your dick wet.”

“Shut up!” he hisses. “It was not like that!”

“Just put a sock on the door next time, and I will leave you be.”

“I changed my mind, we are still fighting.”

“Ooooo, you really like him, don’t you? You’ve never been this shy about discussing your sex life with me.”

“Maybe I am a little older and wiser and more inclined to like my privacy. Did you ever consider that?”

“Absolutely not.” She waves him off. “Definitely a mega crush.”

“Anyway,” he insists, like a coward, “What about you? Something has you heated and it’s not just Laszlo, I am guessing.”

She sighs. “I do not want to talk about it. Not right now. Maybe ask me later.”

They both twitch at the heavy knocking on the bathroom door, Guillermo’s muffled voice calling through. “Hey! I found something!”

Nandor turns and opens the door. The look on Guillermo’s face is concerning. “What did you find?” he asks.

Guillermo motions to both of them. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

Nadja is expecting to see a paused frame of night-vision footage when they gather around the laptop, but that’s not what Guillermo has pulled up. Instead, it’s a shot of the woods at night, trees lit up with bright white artificial light. The camera seems to be held at waist height, partially obscured on either side by black fabric.

“When is this from?” Nadja asks.

“After we shot the night-vision,” Guillermo explains. “We were trying to see what was making those noises, and I put the camera back in the bag, but I forgot to turn it off. Look.” He taps his finger against the screen, and Nadja has to lean in further to see what he’s pointing at. There’s some kind of gray smudge, barely visible in the darkness, at the edge of the large tree; it’s hard to tell it’s even there, because the frame of footage is full of digital static.

“What is it?” Nandor asks.

“I looped the next two seconds, hold on.” Guillermo taps a couple buttons, and then nods. “Watch.”

When he presses play, Nadja catches the muffled sound of his voice, high and panicked, yelling, “- the fuck back!” and then the beginning of Nandor, saying, “What the -” before the whole thing loops. That’s not what holds her attention, though. As she watches, the gray smudge moves, shifting like water, the static converging around one glowing, yellow spot - no, not a spot. An eye - before disappearing behind the tree. And then it repeats, reappearing at the edge of the tree, and as she watches, she tries to catch more details, but the thing streaks as it disappears from frame, like an echo being stretched out of shape. The only thing she can discern for certain is the eye.

“Fuck!” Nandor takes a step back, clearly disturbed. “That can’t be more than a few feet away from us.”

“Yeah.” Guillermo is pale, fingers twitching against the tabletop. “I told you I saw something.”

“Maybe- maybe it is an animal?” Nadja suggests, wanting a reasonable explanation for whatever the fuck that distorted streak could be. “What about the night-vision footage?”

“There’s nothing,” Guillermo says. “I checked. Whatever I saw, it didn’t show up on camera.”

“But that makes no sense,” Nandor points out. “If it was the same creature, why would it show up here and not on the night-vision?”

“Maybe something about the light spectrum?” Guillermo replies. “Even night-vision needs some light, even if the human eye can’t see it. The thing I saw, it swallowed up light, so it would be invisible on film.”

“Except the space around it would be lit up, and give a negative outline of the object-”

“Wait. Both of you, shut up.” There’s something unnerving about what Guillermo just said. Nadja nudges his shoulder. “Show me the night-vision.”

Guillermo dutifully pulls up the footage, and Nadja nudges him out of the chair, plopping down and pressing play. She watches as the camera starts facing the path ahead, swings in a wide circle, slowly panning across the green-hued woods, doing a complete three-hundred and sixty degree turn - or rather, about three-hundred and forty degrees, because suddenly it jerks the last twenty degrees and downwards as Guillermo’s voice bellows through the speakers, “THE LIGHT! TURN ON THE-” She immediately pauses, rewinds, rewatches. Nothing out of place appears through the whole turn, and there’s nothing on the path as Guillermo jerks the camera sideways.

“See?” Guillermo says. “It isn’t there.”

“What you saw here, did it look like what you caught later?”

“No.” Guillermo shakes his head. “It was just... darkness.”

“Hmmm...” Nadja rewinds a third time, leans in, and turns on her editor’s eye; she’s been watching the footage as one would an audience member, eye drawn to the most obvious parts of the frame. But the success of a shot often relies on what the audience is missing - something that sticks in the peripheral vision and thus sticks in the unconscious mind - and there’s something bothering her, something she’s missing...

On the fifth rewatch, she snags it. 

“Look at this,” she says, pausing the frame and then rewinding, before turning the setting that lets her play the footage at a tenth of the speed. Then she presses play.

The video begins in the second before Guillermo jerks the camera sideways and down. With the frame rate set to about two and a half frames per second, his voice comes through the speaker hauntingly slow, distorted, inhuman. That’s not what she wants them to focus on, though. As the frames click through, Nadja keeps her finger pressed to the lower left side of the frame to draw their focus. Fifteen frames in, there’s a tiny burst of static, no more than a few pixels tall. It grows a few more pixels on the sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth frame, expands out a few pixels into the frame, and she pauses at each one to let Nandor and Guillermo see it. 

The shape is intangible, but that isn’t the important part, because after the edge of the static creeps into the frame, the space inside of it is completely black. Just a sliver of pure darkness, starkly contrasted with the greenish glow of the night-vision.

“Holy shit,” Guillermo breathes. “I completely missed that.”

“Of course you did,” Nadja says, though there’s no pleasure in her admitting it, only the sensation of cold water rolling over her, head to toe. “You were making a leftward turn, looking through the viewfinder with your right eye, yes? Which means whatever you saw, it was with your left, not through the camera lens.”

“But that doesn’t make sense! How could I see it in the pitch black?”

“How the hell should I-” A memory flashes in her mind from just a few days past. “Fuck!” The fear kicks in. She stands up swiftly, snatching her boots off the floor. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Nandor asks.

“Where do you think? Back to that fucking cave! Laszlo needs to see this immediately.”

Nandor frowns as Nadja shoves her feet into her shoes. “How do you plan on telling him, exactly? They are probably still down there, and Claude said walkies don’t work very far underground. Colin Robinson said he would call us when they were out.”

“Fuck what Colin Robinson said! You saw the footage, Nandor. There is something unnatural going on here, and those two idiots are in more danger than we thought!”

Nandor shakes his head. “Hold on, this is what gets you to believe it? After everything else we’ve been through? A blurry gray shape and some static? I don’t buy it. What are you not telling us?”

“Yeah, you’ve been pretty skeptical so far,” Guillermo pipes up. “Why this?”

Nadja clenches her fists, wanting to yell at them to stop questioning her motives, to hurry the fuck up, but she supposes explaining will be faster. “I saw something at the graveyard. The first day. When we left the crypt there was this... impossible darkness when I looked back. I could brush it off as a trick of the light once, but not twice.”

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” Nandor yelps. “Shit. I’ll get my bat.”

~

11:54AM

“So, do either of you know anything about caves?” Nadja asks as they approach the entrance of the Snare Hole.

“Are you seriously planning on going in there?” Guillermo jogs after her, expression severely unimpressed with her current plan. Too bad. If he wants to stand around until nightfall so the vampire can eat him too, that’s his prerogative.

“The hunters left extra equipment outside of the cave, yes? It cannot be that difficult to work out how to use it.” She is sure she can figure out the basics with ten minutes on Youtube, especially if Colin Robinson trusted her less-than-physically-adroit spouse to pick it up quickly. With the specter of a real danger looming, suddenly trying her hand at amateur spelunking seems the less risky option than letting Laszlo and Colin Robinson and the hunters explore without the knowledge they picked up off the footage.

“This is not a good idea!” Guillermo insists.

Infuriatingly, when they reach the mouth of the cave, Nadja feels a large hand clamp down on her shoulder. “Nadja, stop,” Nandor says, wincing but holding firm when she digs two nails into the webby flesh between his thumb and forefinger to try and get him to let go. “Look, if Laszlo finds out I let you go stomping in there by yourself, I won’t need to wait for the vampire to kill me because he’ll do it himself.”

“Laszlo is not my keeper, and neither are you,” she growls. “I am not here for the Nandor and Guillermo Chauvinism Hour -”

“That’s not what this is!” Guillermo counters. “We’re not just going to let you go getting yourself hurt for no reason!”

“It is not no reason!” Nadja shouts back at him, wrenching her shoulder free of Nandor’s grasp. “My husband is going to-”

“Going to what?”

The three of them turn to see two figures emerging from the cave mouth. Relief washes over Nadja when she recognizes them. Laszlo has one arm draped over Colin Robinson’s shoulder, limping slightly, a shallow cut bleeding freely from his forehead. Colin Robinson is stooped low to accommodate the height difference, but his arm is firm around Laszlo’s waist, and he appears relaxed.

Nadja takes off with a burst of speed, crashing into Laszlo and bundling him up in a tight hug, pressing eager kisses across his face as she croons, “Darling, you’re okay!” Smartly, Colin Robinson slides away, though she notes a look passes between him and Laszlo as he does. “What happened? Are the rest of them dead?”

“What? No, my dear.” Laszlo shakes his head, gently extracting himself from her grip. “Colin, could you show them all what we’ve discovered?”

“Sure thing, Laz.” Colin slides his pack off and rustles through it, gently lifting an old looking box out of the bag. It’s small and square and can’t have been made within the last century.

“What is it?” Nandor asks.

“No idea,” Laszlo replies. “The hunters are still exploring down there, but Colin insisted we leave when it got too difficult for a new spelunker to continue. Found this on the way out.”

“Well, at least somebody had the good sense to turn around,” Nadja sighs. “You are limping, though?”

“Laz may have fallen through a wall a little bit,” Colin explains.

“He what ?”

“I’m quite alright,” Laszlo reassures her. “A little rest and ice and I’ll be right as rain in a few hours. We’re going to need some time to see what we’ve found, after all!”

“Should we open it here?” Guillermo asks. “Do the hunters know you found it?”

“Not yet, they don’t,” Laszlo admits with a wry smile. “Figured we’d get the first exclusive crack at it. Not often we’ve managed to discover something first, on this shoot.”

“Other than the dead body, you mean,” Nandor pipes in, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, this isn’t a dead body.”

“There’s a first aid kit in the van,” Colin points out. Then he motions down to his clothes, which look like the earth vomited all over his body. “Also, I’d like to change. We can fix up Laszlo, get into something less disgusting, and then check out the contents within.”

“A good plan,” Laszlo agrees. “I will need a little help hobbling the rest of the way there.”

“I can help,” Nadja says, at the exact same time Colin Robinson says, “Allow me, Laz.”

They pause, staring at one another.

“Actually, go ahead, Nadja.” Colin Robinson gives her an oddly cheery smile. Something about the other man feels... off. What is going on with him? Did something happen down there?

When they get back to the van, Nadja has Laszlo sit on the back of the trunk, carefully wiping down the cuts and scrapes on his arms and forehead. Laszlo is quiet, having one of those moments where he gets lost in his own head and it usually takes a very obvious outside sensory stimulation to bring him back to the present. It’s fine for when she needs him to sit still, but once she’s done fixing him up, she smacks him gently on the knee a few times until he looks up at her.

“You are really okay?” She would be lying if she said she wasn’t still a little concerned. Laszlo has the penchant for getting himself into trouble if she isn’t around. It’s part of why she’s afraid of leaving - they haven’t been truly apart since they were nineteen, and she’s not sure that she trusts him to make it a whole year without her.

“I’m all right, darling. I promise.” He shoots her a soft smile, the same one he charmed her with all those years ago; it’s always been something just for her, their own private moment. It shifts into a different sort of smile as he continues, “Colin kept me quite safe, even if I did beef it a bit at the end there. We didn’t run into any vampires, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You didn’t, but Nandor and Guillermo might have.” She relays the information they discovered on the footage to him as swiftly and efficiently as possible, watching his expression darken and grow concerned with each passing second.

“Bloody hell,” he says when she finishes. “I do hope the hunters will be okay...”

“No more running off on reckless goose chases, Laszlo,” Nadja affirms. “Promise me.”

“Alright, yes. We’ll all stick together from now on.”

Once Laszlo and Colin have gotten out of their disgustingly muddy caving clothes - Colin Robinson was smart enough to bring a few of New York State’s most valuable contraband, single use plastic bags, to keep them in - they all pile into the van, Laszlo blasting the AC as Guillermo carefully cracks the seal on the box and lifts the lid.

Inside, there’s a book; bound in leather and wrapped in a leather cord. The yellowing pages crumble at the edges from age, but the box has kept it relatively well maintained. 

“How old do you think that is?” Nandor asks as Guillermo gently lifts the book out, resting it flat atop one palm as he unties the leather cord.

“Bloody ancient,” Laszlo says, leaning over the driver’s seat, eyes lit up with excitement. “What’s it say, Giz-Guillermo?”

Guillermo quirks an eyebrow at him, but focuses back on the book as he opens the cover. “Nothing on the first page, let’s see... oh!” He turns to the next page, which is covered in scribbled handwriting, the ink faded but still legible. “Okay... holy hell, it’s dated March 1st, 1762.”

“Three centuries old. Be careful with it!” Nadja snaps.

“I am! Uh, kind of hard to read but, looks like it starts… I do not know how to begin a thing like this, only that it must begin with our understanding of mutual destruction if this were ever to be found...”

“Ominous,” Colin Robinson comments. “Suddenly it makes sense why that thing was buried under some rocks in a cave.”

“Yes, but what exactly is it?” Nadja asks.

“I think... I think it’s a journal?” Guillermo turns to the next page, frowning. “But wait, the handwriting changes... A decade on, and every morning I awaken across from her, wishing she were you...”

“Oh ho ho!” Laszlo grins. “A little love affair, is it? A bit of Romeo and Juliet, in fair Coventry we lay our scene.”

“I’ve never heard of a journal with two authors; usually it’s just the one,” Nandor says. “Are we certain that’s what this is?”

Guillermo continues to flip through the pages, and as he does, Nadja can see the handwriting change back and forth between two distinctive styles. “Today I saw you with your son at the market; the boy has grown as beautiful as his father. It has been a fortnight since we were together; when can we meet again? Um, I think Laszlo is right about the love affair...”

“The entry after, what does it say?” Nadja asks.

Guillermo turns the page twice before he finds the next entry. “I promise soon, she will be visiting her mother at the end of the month, and if you can make an excuse to your lady -” He pauses suddenly, eyes going wide. “Wait, if they’re both trying to sneak around their wives... Men. They’re both men!”

“Even spicier,” Laszlo drawls. “Romeo and Romeo, truly star-crossed lovers.”

“So they’re writing to one another here.” Nandor shifts a little closer to Guillermo, head tilted curiously as he flips to the next page. “Things they could not say in a public sphere. And with the date, this was not long after the founding of the town, was it?”

“They must’ve been some of the first settlers here.” Guillermo nods, continuing to flip through the pages. “And if the first entry is accurate, they’d at least known each other for a decade, or maybe that’s how long they’ve been together. No wonder they didn’t want this found.”

“Any names?” Colin Robinson asks.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Nandor replies. “Smart, although it would be hard to disguise the handwriting, if it ever were discovered, and there would probably be plenty of context clues to go off of.”

“Hold on...” Guillermo frowns as he continues flipping through the pages. “It looks like the back and forth handwriting stops after a while. Just one author at the end. And... yeah, there’s only about a dozen entries after that.”

“Go back to the first entry where it becomes a single author,” Nadja directs. “Perhaps there will be an explanation as to why?”

“Okay... yeah, here. This is dated for April 9th, 1763. I am lost without you, I cannot understand why I still write to you, except with the hope that I might come back here one day to find you have written to me again. Impossible and yet, the sight of your words on the page is a bitter comfort. I miss the stroke of your pen to the page as much as I miss the stroke of your hand against my cheek - Shit. Looks like a bad breakup.”

Something is tickling the back of Nadja’s brain, some missing link that begs to be connected. They’ve seen something or heard something that relates to this, she knows it. “What was the date again?”

“April 9th, 1763?”

“The earthquake - it was a week before this!” She motions excitedly. “It wasn’t a break up. His lover died!”

Guillermo’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god. Wait, remember what Barbara said? About Albrecht, and the other guy... Uwe?”

“You don’t think...” Nandor frowns. “It would make sense, considering the timeline.”

“Keep reading,” Nadja encourages. “Maybe he’ll talk more about Albrecht’s death.”

Guillermo nods. “Okay. Next entry... the fuck? This doesn’t make sense.”

“What?”

“It was wonderful to hear from you, beloved. I understand why you can no longer write to me, and though your words are sharp and painful in my ears when I hear them, I know it is because of the place you have gone to. That is why I am determined to bring you home to me. I care not any longer what the others think of me. Let them wallow in their grief and despair. I know in my heart that when I am done, we shall be together once more. You have given me the knowledge I need.”

“Sounds like he’s gone off the deep end,” Laszlo comments. “Hearing voices, telling him how to get his man back.”

“Well, if this is a little love diary between Albrecht and Uwe, we know what happens at the end,” Colin Robinson points out. “What’s the last entry say?”

Guillermo turns to the final page of writing; the last third of the book is blank. “Okay, this is a couple of months after the earthquake... It was difficult today, attending the farce of a ceremony. Placing your body into the tomb, pretending tears, when I know it is only a matter of time before you rise to greet me once more. I shall come to you each night, await the day when you push away the lid and take me into your arms, and we shall be together eternally.” He looks up, eyes overflowing with sadness. “It’s got to be Uwe. It all makes sense, and Ms. Lazarro said they found him dead in the crypt the next morning.”

“This is quite an incredible find, Laszlo.” Nandor rests a hand on Guillermo’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Thank you for reading, Guillermo joon.”

“Yeah. We can’t keep it though, can we?” He looks to Nadja, correctly determining who’s going to have the final say here. “It’s part of the historical record. Ms. Lazarro will want to have it.”

Nadja nods. It wouldn’t be right of them to keep it, though that doesn’t mean they can’t hold onto it for a little while. “We’ll take it back to the motel and get some high quality shots of each page. I’ll bring it to Barbara later on today. That should give the hunters enough time to do their little vampire scavenger hunt and return to the surface before anyone else finds out they were down there.”

“You think she’ll call Delmonico on them?” Laszlo asks.

Nadja shrugs. “I do not know, but I am not looking to get him involved, and if they are still in the caves when I go to her, she may feel obligated.”

“The less contact we have with the cops, the better,” Nandor grumbles.

“Agreed.” She holds her hands out to Guillermo for the book. “I will hold onto this. You did a good job reading. Perhaps we shall get some recordings of you doing so later.”

“Oh... thank you.” He looks surprised as he hands it off to her, but she supposes that makes sense, considering how she’s treated him, and the rarity of compliments directed his way. She’s not going to go out of her way to shower the man with praise, but she did promise Nandor to give him a chance.

He’d better not blow it.

~

1:27PM

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come in with you?”

Nadja shakes her head at Colin Robinson as she opens the driver’s side door. Despite his trek through the caves, he was the first to volunteer to come with her. Laszlo was wiped, and Guillermo and Nandor are still reviewing the video footage to see if they can spot the vampire. “Just stay here. I will just drop the journal off to her, and then we can go and get lunch for everybody. Maybe see how the reviews are for that diner that the girl, Jenna, works at.” It would be nice to check in on her, see how she is holding up. They’d gotten a text twenty minutes ago that her little hunter friends made it out of the caves with all of their body parts intact, so she’s probably as relieved as Nadja was when she saw Laszlo stumbling out into the light.

The library is quiet - obviously - when Nadja steps inside. There aren’t any patrons around, and whoever was watching the front desk seems to have stepped away, so she heads directly for the stairwell into the basement.

Unlike her previous visit, all of the overhead lights are off. Far in the distance, she can see light pouring between the shelves, coming from Barbara’s office. The door is ajar, but from this angle, Nadja can’t see anything except a small section of the wall. When she gets to the bottom of the stairs, the shelving blocks her view.

It’s definitely creepier down here with most of the lights off. To soothe her nerves, she pulls out her phone and turns on the flashlight, unsure of where the light switches are located. 

In the dark, the rows of shelving seem to loom over her, shadows casting off the beam of her phone light as she pads across the carpet. Something in her gut keeps her from calling out. Perhaps just the knowledge that shouting in a library is considered gauche.

Coming around the corner of the last shelf, she freezes. The color drains from her face as she looks through the half-open door, sees the large pooling of some dark red liquid on the shiny blue linoleum floor inside the office.

“Fuck...” Despite the curdling terror in her chest, she takes a step forward, quietly calling, “Barbara?”

No answer. Another step forward, and she can make out the distinct sound of something... dripping. Inside the room.

“Hello?”

Still no response. She takes another step, swallowing as she presses her hand to the flat of the wood. Slowly, she pushes it open.

“Is anybody- HHAAAHHH!” Nadja slaps a hand over her mouth, breathing in sharply as she takes in the gruesome sight before her.

Sitting in her rolling chair, slumped down over the desk is the still form of Barbara Lazarro, hands splayed out across the worn wood. Blood is splattered over every inch of the desk, across her lap, across the floor, sprayed across the walls of the office. Her head is bent sharply to the left, eyes glazed and empty, jagged muscle and flesh hanging from the remains of her throat. 

She’s dead, she’s dead, oh fucking shitting Christ she’s dead!

Nadja stumbles back, tears welling at the edges of her eyes. “No, no, no, no, no...”

She whips around when the HVAC system kicks on behind her, staring into the threatening darkness of the archives, darkness that could hide all sorts of foul creatures. Before she can think otherwise, she steps over the large blood puddle into Barbara’s office and slams the door shut. She fumbles with her phone, looking away from the woman as she calls her crewmate’s phone number. “Come on, pick up, pick up...”

Blessedly, the reception is good enough to get a call off.

“Hey, what’s up?” Colin Robinson answers.

“Barbara Lazarro is fucking dead down here!” Nadja shrieks into the phone.

“Woah, what? Are you okay?” She can hear him shifting, the sound of the van door opening.

“No I am not fucking okay! I mean - yes, physically I am fine but mentally... Look, I am in her office and I am not stepping foot outside until somebody comes to get me, so... come and fucking get me!”

“Okay! Okay, I’m coming. Stay put.”

While she is waiting for him, she stands frozen, paralyzed, staring at the door, because she can’t look anywhere else or she’ll see something horrible. Not that this won’t be burned into her memory for the rest of her life. It feels like she stands there for hours, though when she looks back, she knows it can’t be more than a minute or two. The whole while, she listens for some horrible new noise, a hint that whatever did this to Barbara is still here.

She jolts when she hears a knock at the door, her adrenaline spiking as she grips the door handle. “Who- who is out there?” she shouts, her voice definitely not quaking.

“Just me.” She feels the odd sensation of relief at hearing Colin Robinson’s voice, of all fucking people. Quickly, she yanks the door open, grateful when she sees that the basement is now brightly lit. He must’ve found the light switch.

“Holy hell,” Colin Robinson says when he sees the body. “That’s... yeah, she’s dead, alright.”

“This is not good, this is not good at all. Fuck!” Nadja sways side to side, wanting to pace but not wanting to get blood on her boots. “This is the second time we’re stumbling into an active homicide crime scene, Colin Robinson! Delmonico is going to rip us a new asshole. I don’t want to sleep in a jail cell!”

“Did anybody see you come down here?” he asks.

“I do not know. Why?”

“Take the box and leave. I’ll take care of it.”

“What the shit are you going to do?”

“I’m going to call Delmonico and tell him I came by because Laszlo wanted to see if we could arrange another interview with Ms. Lazarro, and she wasn’t picking up her phone. You’re going to walk out of here, take the van to a drive thru, and act very shocked to see cops outside the building when you come back. Think you can handle that?”

Nadja gapes at him. “Who are you, Walter fucking White or something?”

Colin Robinson tilts his head sideways, considering. “I did dress up as him for Halloween once- look. Smoothing things over is part of my job. I can handle this. So just trust me, please?”

She hesitates, but only briefly, because if Colin Robinson is willing to take the heat, she’ll gladly allow it. She can’t believe she’s going to owe this man something.

Fucking Christ. This has been the shoot from hell, and she can’t imagine it’s going to get any less messy from here.

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

3:28PM

It’s been suspiciously slow at Henderson’s this afternoon, though Jenna isn’t liable to complain about that. After the events of the last several days, she’s fine with her meager tips, if it means there are fewer eyes watching her walk around the diner, trailing her through the doors to the kitchen, peeking at her over the racks separating her from the kitchen staff - she seems to have drawn everyone’s attention, and not in a good way.

Shanice texted her a couple of hours ago, letting her know that the hunters had made it back to the surface, no vampire in sight. Every tunnel they’d gone down had come up at a dead end, and they decided to retreat and reconsider their tactics. On the one hand, she’s relieved that none of her friends were hurt, though according to Shanice, the camera crew got a little roughed up. On the other, she almost wishes they’d found something besides empty tunnels and dead ends. Selfishly, she wishes they’d stumbled on some evidence that they could bring to Delmonico, could shove in his self-important face and say here, here’s the truth we’ve been telling you all along, Jenna had nothing to do with Coco’s death, now could you leave her alone?

But with the eyes on the back of her neck everywhere she goes today, she’s starting to wonder if anything will ever be enough to convince the people of Coventry that she’s innocent. Right now, the things standing in the way of her and a jail cell are a coroner’s report, a team of rag-tag twenty-somethings determined to find a supernatural explanation, and a camera crew determined to find a story more interesting than “Local Girl Killed By Cougar.” It doesn’t feel like very good odds.

The first hint that things are all going downhill is the way that Mrs. Henderson sweeps into the diner, looking like a woman on a mission from God himself. Jenna has always gotten the sense that she doesn’t like Jenna very much, but with Mr. Henderson in charge of the diner, that dislike doesn’t seem to have translated into any kind of issues for Jenna at work, other than feeling awkward when the woman deigns to make an appearance at the diner. She’s not sure what she did to get on the woman’s bad side, but even before Coco died, Francine was giving Jenna a cold shoulder, and afterwards, it was an ice wall. Now she ignores Jenna completely as she strides towards the back, pushing through the doors to the kitchen and disappearing through.

Well, Jenna doesn’t have any kind of excuse to go investigate, except it’s so rare for Mrs. Henderson to show her face around the diner nowadays, and her expression had been so intense, whatever she’s come to talk to her husband about, it must be important. And if it’s related to Coco, Jenna wants to know. Maybe it’s something that could help clear her name. Besides, she’s yet to take her break today, and all of her customers are in the middle of eating. She’s got time.

“I’m taking my fifteen,” she tells Paula, the nice hostess who has sent Jenna home with homemade babka two years in a row during Hanukkah. Paula merely nods, lost in some phone game, not paying attention as Jenna slips into the back.

The door to Mr. Henderson’s office is cracked open, muffled voices coming from within. Since the pantry is right next to it, Jenna takes quiet steps until she reaches the door and sequesters herself inside the little room, leaving the door just wide enough to be able to hear the conversation emanating from the room just beside her.

Francine is talking. “-a liability, John. I don’t know why you insist on keeping her. After everything with Coco-”

“She had nothing to do with that, Francine. We both know it.”

“You’re so quick to believe her! You know how she and Coco got along, what makes you think she couldn’t be responsible?”

Jenna realizes with dawning horror that they’re talking about her, as Mr. Henderson continues. “I know her better than you; the kid wouldn’t hurt anybody, and even if she did, she’d fess up immediately. Besides, I do know how she and Coco got along, and it was better than when they were in school. Seemed like they were kind of becoming friends.”

“Sure. Friends.” There’s something disconcerting about the way Francine says it, like there’s some hidden meaning. “Lord save us from weird little dykes who want to be friends with our daughters.”

Oh. Oh. What the hell? That’s not- Okay, Jenna doesn’t have great self esteem but even she’s got enough to not fall head over heels for her old high school bully. This isn’t an episode of Glee, this is her real life. And as for Coco, Jenna supposes she can’t know for certain somebody’s sexuality, but she’s gotten pretty good at reading people, and one time Jenna showed Coco a picture of Gwendoline Christie dressed up for the British Fashion Awards and got an “oh, that’s a nice dress” and nothing else , which, like, definitely says something.

Mr. Henderson sighs. “I don’t need to hear this right now, Francine. Leave her be.”

Mrs. Henderson’s voice rises as she snaps, “I just don’t understand it, John! How can you be so sure it wasn’t her? Don’t tell me you’re really starting to believe that vampire bullshit.”

“I didn’t say that. But just because you and Delmonico want to believe it’s her, doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“At least the chief is doing something about it, not just sitting around and letting their own daughter’s killer go free! What kind of man, what kind of father- ”

“ENOUGH!” Jenna jumps at the sound of a fist slamming some hard object. The distant kitchen noises quiet down as John continues. “I’m done with this conversation. Go home.”

A chair scrapes, shoes hitting tile. “Fine. I’ll go home. And until you come to your senses, I don’t want to see you there.”

“What? You’re kicking me out of my own home?”

“It’s not really a home anymore, is it, John? Not without Coco.”

Jenna presses herself deeper into the pantry as she hears the office door swing open, waiting until she can’t hear Francine’s angry steps anymore. She also can’t hear Mr. Henderson moving, and she doesn’t know how he’ll react if he catches her eavesdropping, so better to leave now before he does so.

Unfortunately, her sneakers squeak a little too loudly on the floor as she emerges from the pantry, and her stomach drops as she hears movement from the office. She ducks back into the pantry, turns and tries to figure out what would be realistic to pretend she’s getting: do they need more potatoes peeled in the kitchen? Maybe add rice to the rice cooker? But what if it’s already full, and then she looks really suspicious for doing something that obviously doesn’t need to be done, and-

“Guess you heard some of that, huh.”

Jenna slowly turns, stomach plummeting when she sees John holding the pantry door open staring at her. He doesn’t seem angry, looking more inquisitive than outraged at her eavesdropping.

“I- I was just-” She tries to think of a good excuse, but she’s too caught out to come up with a lie at the moment, so she shuts her mouth and waits to get yelled at, and probably fired.

John sighs and beckons at her. “Come into my office. We should talk.”

The seat in John’s office that Jenna plops down into is still warm from the previous inhabitant - the woman who seems to think Jenna was seducing and murdered her daughter, like some weird lesbian crime villain from a 90s movie. Jenna almost wishes that she was so confident and capable to pull something like that off. No, she can’t even overhear a private conversation without getting caught, and now it’s going to cost her the job that was her ticket out of this town. 

She can see the next two decades playing out like a sad tragedy. She’ll get fired, and nobody else will hire her, and even if she escapes prison for something she didn’t do, she’ll be trapped here forever. So she does the only thing she can think of. 

“Please don’t fire me,” she asks, hands fisted into her dress, looking up at John Henderson with all the desperate energy of a woman at the end of her rope.

John sighs, folding his arms. “I’m not going to fire you, Jenna.”

“Oh.” Her body sags back into the chair, relief washing over her. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Sure. Now that we’ve cleared up that misunderstanding, how are you holding up?” he asks. “With everything that’s gone on.”

“You’re... asking me?” She frowns. “I, I feel like I should be asking you. Considering.”

“Everybody and their mother is asking me how I’m doing, Jenna. So much so that I’d like them to shut up for a while and leave me be.” He leans back, reaching behind him for the door of the little mini-fridge he keeps behind his desk. Opening it up, he retrieves two cans of Sprite, sliding one across the desk to her. “No, I want to know how you’re doing.”

“Not great,” she admits, cracking the seal on the can, listening to the satisfying hiss as the carbonation escapes the aluminum. “It’s been really rough, actually.”

“Heard you called out yesterday,” he affirms, taking a sip of his soda. “I got worried, after Delmonico took you down to the station.”

“I shouldn’t talk about it...”

“Heard your mom got a lawyer. You talk to them yet?”

“A little.”

“What’d they say?”

“They said the department doesn’t really have a great case but...” She pauses, realizing something else the lawyer had told her. “I’m not supposed to talk to anybody about it, actually. Client attorney privilege?”

To her surprise, John gets a little smile. “Good. Was hoping you’d say that.”

Jenna blinks. “I don’t understand?”

“What?”

“Why do you care?” she asks, honestly. “Everybody thinks I killed your daughter. Even your wife. So, why do you care if I’m okay?”

John lowers his can back to the desk, staring at it as he traces his fingers up and down the side, through the condensation on the metal. It’s an action so familiar, but it takes her a moment to realize that she hasn’t seen him do it before; Coco used to draw her fingers up and down her soda can in the same way, bent over the front counter in the hot summer months, bored during the slow hours of work. 

John says, “Six weeks ago, I lost the most important person in my life. Part of me died the day Coco did, and ever since, I’ve prayed for an explanation. Something that can help me make sense of why this happened. The pastor tells me everything happens for a reason; God has a plan. The coroner tells me Coco did the one thing she would never do: chase a strange noise into the woods. Delmonico tells me that you hated my daughter so much you’d kill her in cold blood. And none of it makes sense to me. Nothing satisfies.

“I could believe any of these explanations. Let somebody else do the thinking for me. I can’t blame Francine for thinking how she does. Do you know what it’s like to sit with the not knowing? No answers, no certainty? It’s horrible. Who wouldn’t want the comfort of a lie, when you might never find out the truth?

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s not the truth.” He looks back up at her. “I don’t want the comfort of a lie. I don’t want to know that my daughter’s death was used to ruin anybody else’s life. I want to honor her memory, and the only way I can do that is to keep searching for the truth, no matter what that truth is. Even if it takes me the rest of my life. How could I live with myself otherwise?”

Jenna squeezes the Sprite can between her fingers, looking down, the soda sitting heavy in her stomach. The truth. He wants the truth. Everybody wants it, and everybody wants her to have it, and it’s not fair, it’s just not fair, because he says he wants it, no matter what the truth is, except does he really mean it? Because... because Abraham Sandiford has been looking for the truth for fifty years, and look at what happened to him, and Jenna doesn’t want to be him, Jenna doesn’t want to know what she knows because she doesn’t want to spend the next fifty years as the town pariah, because what’s the point of the truth if nobody would believe you, because they never believed him? 

When has the truth ever been important in Coventry? What has the truth ever done for the people strong or stupid or foolish or brave or unlucky enough to face it?

“Jenna?” She looks back up, sees the concern on his face. “Are you okay?”

“...Can I go home?” she asks, whisper soft. “I don’t feel good.”

John says nothing for a while, like he’s waiting for a further explanation. The clock on the wall ticks and ticks and ticks, sharp in the silence, each second another second where he could ask what she saw in the woods that night, six weeks ago.

If he did, she thinks she might just tell him.

“Okay,” John says, finally. “Go ahead and call a ride. We’ve got enough coverage for the rest of the afternoon.”

She doesn’t quite flee his office. But she doesn’t quite not flee it either.

~

5:45PM

Jenna has known for exactly eighty-three minutes that Barbara Lazarro is dead, after opening the door to her mother’s truck and seeing her grim expression, an explanation following shortly after. 

For forty-three of those minutes, Jenna bawled her eyes out, because Barbara has been helping her pull library books off the shelf since she was knee-high and couldn’t reach them herself, and always asked what kinds of book she might like to read next week, and never made her feel small, or less than, and that can’t be said for a lot of adults in this town. 

For twenty minutes after the tears dried, Jenna stared hard at the stack of unreturned library books in her room, thinking about the truth, and whether this time, it could’ve made a difference. 

Twenty minutes ago, she called Shanice for a ride. 

Five minutes ago, Derek opened his door, expression shocked, because they never go over his house, because Derek never wants them to, and for most of Jenna’s life, she accepted that as a reasonable thing. 

But now, sitting on the floor of Derek’s room, surrounded by stacks of motherboards and graphics cards, Jenna wonders if maybe anybody had listened to Derek’s dad, Barbara would still be alive.

“You said you wanted to tell us something,” Shanice insists, sitting on her knees across from Jenna, side by side with Derek. Their hips are bumping together, but neither of them are scooting away, and for a brief moment, Jenna is afraid, so afraid of what that means. Afraid that she’ll be left behind, that telling them this - that she lied, and what the truth is - will just give them an excuse to stick together and push her farther away. 

They’re not kids anymore. The things they say and do feel like they have more weight to them. Will they always leave room for Jenna, or will she find herself slowly cramming herself into a smaller and smaller space, until she doesn’t fit anymore?

But Barbara Lazarro is dead, and Doug Peterson is dead, and Coco Henderson is dead, and Solomon Sandiford is dead, and the Lacroix family is dead, and so many more people back through the centuries, and it’s not going to stop, is it? It’s not going to stop, unless this whole town is willing to face the truth. Derek’s dad can’t do it by himself. 

So Jenna has to try.

“I saw something else,” Jenna says. “The night Coco died.”

June 7th 2022

2:02AM

Jenna hates the closing shift. It’s always the last stragglers; drunk college kids who tip poorly, and truckers who either give her barely enough attention to wait on them, or far too much. Once the last customer has finally staggered out the door, she has to wipe down all the tables and counters, check that nobody is still in the bathrooms, make sure everything is locked up, and haul the last of the trash out to the dumpsters before she can get in her shitty Malibu and drive home. She’s rarely got more energy to do anything besides toss her greasy-smelling clothes into a pile and collapse into bed, hopefully able to sleep in late and not on schedule for the morning shift.

Tonight, the addition of a moderate rain makes the task of hauling trash particularly unpleasant. The plastic bags are slippery in her hands, and she almost loses them once or twice, cursing and hoisting them high over her head as she tosses them into the dumpster. She brushes the rain-damp curls out of her eyes, huffing with exertion, gagging a little when her heavy breathing brings the rotten, nasty smell of garbage into her nose.

When she turns to leave, she sees the blood, and the opening in the trees, and this part of the story plays out as she’s told it so many times before. Following the trail, unsure of what she’ll find, stumbling across a horrifying scene: Coco, laid out on the forest floor, limbs spread-eagled, blood gurgling out of her throat.

What she hadn’t told anyone were three things.

One: Coco was still alive when Jenna had found her. Even with her neck torn open, her eyes had met Jenna’s for a brief moment. The sorrow in them, Coco’s knowledge of her own demise, will be burned into Jenna’s memory for all her days to come.

Two: Someone was kneeling over Coco. Someone wrapped in a dark, black cloak, darker than the midnight sky on a moonless night. Impossible to see the folds of it, more a mass of fabric that resembled a human thing. The person was kneeling over Coco, and the front of their garment dripped with blood.

Three: Whoever had been kneeling there had noticed Jenna’s presence. They began to rise as Jenna stumbled back two steps, the scream she wanted to let out caught in her voice box, like her body was desperately trying to keep her quiet at all costs, as if that would save her now.

There is actually a fourth thing that Jenna hadn’t told anyone. It seems so absurd, except... except in everything that occurred in that moment, was it any less absurd than the other three secrets she’d kept?

You see, Jenna is at heart, a complete nerd, but a nerd beloved by two other nerds who’ve had her back through thick and thin. Whether that’s standing up to bullies in the real world, or fighting off undead fiends as Rya Goldenhand and Artemis Spark, Jenna and Jennelf know that their friendships are powerful, and will always protect them.

Last year on Jenna’s birthday, Shanice and Derek gave her a gift. A little necklace, a silver chain with a pewter amulet shaped like a scroll, bound up in a tiny leather cord. 

“Artemis infused it with a spell from the Forgotten Realms,” Derek had explained. “Protection from Good and Evil. It will keep Jennelf safe if she ever gets separated from Rya and Artemis.”

“And I infused it with a protection spell too,” Shanice had added. “It will keep you safe from evil in the real world.”

When the cloaked figure had risen to its feet, Jenna’s hand had reached for the little scroll, and as soon as she’d touched it, the figure had gone very still, and let out a low, angry hiss.

This will protect me , Jenna had thought, backing away, eyes locked to the figure. It was the only truth she could allow herself to believe in this moment. The only thing that kept her legs moving, kept the flight survival instinct from regressing into freeze. For Jenna and Jennelf to survive this encounter, that belief had to stand firm, and as the thing she’d found in the woods remained still, she began to believe it, more and more. The little seed of belief, the knowledge that her friends’ love for her would protect her, it grew and grew, more powerful with every step she took.

It wasn’t long before she reached the edge of the woods, stepped back into the parking lot. Only then did she turn her back, certain with the knowledge that she would make it to her car, and certain that, if she kept her hand on the scroll, if she simply believed it would keep her safe, it would. All the way down the street, all the way down the block, all the way through the doors of the police station.

Only then did the spell break, and the nightmare of the next six weeks truly begin.

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

5:03PM

Lucky Brew’s Bar and Grill is the only local establishment serving alcoholic drinks at this hour - unheard of on a Friday afternoon in the city, but maybe not in a place where the local liquor store closes on Sundays. This is the primary factor which decides where the whole crew go after Nadja and Colin Robinson escape the Coventry police station, following another lengthy round of questioning. Guillermo is thankful to be out of the line of fire for interrogation this time, and double thankful that he wasn’t the one stumbling over a mutilated corpse. Poor Barbara. From the haunted look in Nadja’s eyes, it couldn’t have been a pretty sight.

A nice woman named Lucy takes their drink orders, all five of them shoved into a round corner booth near the door. The space is dark and divey, the tables worn and eternally sticky with an unknown residue. Guillermo orders a martini, figuring it’s pretty hard to mess up and strong enough to calm his restless nerves. He’s been relegated to the middle of the booth, Colin Robinson a respectable several inches away on his left, Nandor practically in his lap to his right, their shoulders and hips pressed flush together. Not that he’s complaining. Nor does he complain when Nandor very obviously drapes his arm across the back of the seat behind Guillermo; he simply shoots Nandor an equally obvious look, shaking his head when the other man grins at him. After that quiet moment in bed this morning - the kind of perfect rom-com scenario that should have led to a lip lock, only to be so rudely interrupted - Nandor has been sticking close by, though they’ve yet to have another moment that felt perfect enough to pick up where they’d left off.

If he doesn’t kiss this man before the end of the day, Guillermo just might go a little insane.

“Anything for you?” Lucy asks Colin Robinson, who is keenly focused on his phone, touch typing with his index finger like a Boomer, gnawing on his lower lip with the intensity of a hostage negotiator.

It takes a nudge from Laszlo for the other man to look up, seemingly consider what he’s been asked, and say “Boulevardier, ” before returning his gaze to the screen at his fingertips. The phone faintly vibrates and his eyes whizz across the words, snapping back like the head of a typewriter.

“Is our company not scintillating enough for you, Colin?” Laszlo drawls, leant back against the faux leather seat in a slouch, fingers twisting the end of his red neckerchief - a nervous affectation if Guillermo ever saw one. He’d been pretty frantic earlier when Nadja had called him, her tinny voice shrieking through his phone speaker as she’d snapped a few barely comprehensible sentences about Colin Robinson and Barbara and the vampire, a combination which sent the man barreling out the door of the hotel room he and Guillermo and Nandor were holed up in as they tried to contact some of the leads they’d found on their canvassing tour - nobody seemed interested to talk to them after word got around about Doug. By the time Guillermo and Nandor had made it to the porch, Laszlo had already contacted the hunters for a ride, since they had no way to get to their crewmates without the van. Derek was reluctant but willing to drive them over to the police station.

“Just- taking care of some business.” Colin Robinson locks his phone and slips it into his pocket, eyeing up Nadja, who is picking at a flecking piece of wood on the table, nails pressing permanent marks into the softened varnish. “You should stop that; don’t need Delmonico getting on us for property damage.”

“Mind your own bloody business,” Nadja hisses, tight-lipped, ignoring him to pick further at the splinter. “You weren’t the one who found-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Colin Robinson taps a finger near her own to draw her attention. His gaze flicks out to the other tables - a few other patrons, but not exactly a packed house. Looking back at her, he continues, voice a little lower, “As far as everyone here is concerned, I was.”

“Quite right,” Laszlo says, leaning forward to settle his hand over Nadja’s. “I’m just glad the both of you are alright. Gave us quite the scare, you did!”

“How are you so calm?” Guillermo asks Colin Robinson. “If it was anything like Doug’s body...”

“It’s my job to stay calm,” Colin Robinson shrugs. “Somebody needs to make decisions in a crisis. I considered going into search and rescue at one point, with my spelunking expertise and general demeanor.” He waggles his eyebrows disturbingly. “Hard to pull a fast one on ol’ Colin Robinson.”

Laszlo smiles with far too many teeth and says, “I think a review of our circumstances is in order, don’t you all? Today has been quite the adventure. Lots of new information.” He nods towards Nandor. “You want to give it a go?”

“But is Nadja usually not the one who... okay, yes, I can do that.” Guillermo can’t blame Nandor for giving in so easily; Laszlo’s expression implies he’ll be a dead man if he finishes that thought. Nandor clears his throat, and says, “Ah, so there was everything that happened last night, which I still do not understand entirely. Suffice it to say, neither Guillermo nor myself slept well. Then we discovered odd footage this morning from the night Guillermo and I were in the woods. It is not exactly clear what we saw, but... Nadja insisted our crewmates be informed, so we headed back to the Snare Hole, only to find Colin Robinson and Laszlo had returned from their expedition into the caves with a joint journal from the late town founder and his probable lover. A book that seems to indicate something odd going on with the state of mind of said lover after the founder dies. No signs of vampires in the caves it came from, according to the hunters. Finally, in trying to deliver the journal to the proper caretaker, Nadja and Colin Robinson stumbled on the unfortunate corpse of the late Barbara Lazarro.”

“Rest in peace,” Guillermo mumbles, hand flicking up, down, and side to side; it’s instinctive, to cross himself in circumstances such as these. Whatever happened to Mrs. Lazarro was horrible. He wishes Coventry’s coroner luck convincing anyone that she had her throat ripped out by a wild animal in the middle of the closed archives. That death was calculated, utterly unholy, and with last night’s unexpected visitor, Guillermo worries about what the twilight hours will bring. He and Nandor have already talked about taking shifts sleeping. In the same bed again, of course. Can’t be too careful. Have to stay close.

“How bad is this going to look to the studio?” Laszlo asks, vocalizing to the group what he’s clearly asking the only man with that kind of knowledge.

Colin Robinson shifts awkwardly in his seat. Guillermo hears the heavy vibration of the other man’s phone in his pants’ pocket, an insistent demand for attention that Colin Robinson ignores as he says, “We showed up and four days later, two people are dead. Two of the three town council members, in fact. Doesn’t look great, Laz!”

“It’s not like we bloody killed them!” Laszlo huffs. “All we’ve done is talk to people, and some mild trespassing. We are victims of coincidences and circumstance. Besides, they should be eating up the fact we are getting this much access to the meat of the story.”

“Is that all we’ve really done, though?” Guillermo wonders. It feels too much of a coincidence that they arrived and suddenly the Coventry murders resumed. Like someone was waiting for them to come. Someone wanted them to be here, to witness it all. Even if the vampire isn’t real - which Guillermo is slowly losing hope is true - there are other, just as sinister explanations for the deaths.

“If you’re suggesting our mere presence here has brought about these deaths, I’ll stop you right there,” Laszlo snaps, clearly irritated. “I won’t take responsibility for things we couldn’t have anticipated.”

“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be the first time that a psychopath killed for the cameras. Even if we posit all the past deaths were animal attacks, that doesn’t mean Coco and Doug and Barbara were too.”

“Maybe it’s one of us.” Four pairs of eyes turn to look at Colin Robinson, all in various states of incredulity. “What? We’re the common denominator.” He nods towards Nandor. “No offense, but you did disappear for two years. Could’ve developed a taste for serial killing.”

“Yeah, well you’re an unassuming white guy who blends into crowds, so it’s probably you,” Guillermo shoots back, triggered by a flare of annoyance that he begrudgingly smothers. Colin Robinson is the only one here who doesn’t know why Nandor was gone.

“Enough! We are not doing this.” Nadja has apparently decided to finally join the conversation. “If we cannot trust one another, then we will never have a chance to figure out what’s going on.”

The conversation pauses for a brief moment as Lucy returns with their drinks, and as nobody seems hungry enough to order food right now, she tells them to wave her over if they need anything before heading back towards the bar.

“My beloved wife is right,” Laszlo affirms after she walks away. “I’ve met plenty of Hollywood weirdos who I wouldn’t go to a secondary location with; none of you are the type. No, we have three possible explanations. One, these truly are deaths of random happenstance, which I presume none of us believe at this point.” A round of nodding heads confirms this. “Two, one of the townsfolk is committing these murders. Possibly even killed Derek’s grandfather, though they’d have to be quite old by now.”

“I would prefer that answer,” Colin Robinson posits. “Logically, it makes the most sense. A place like this, you can’t tell me it hasn’t resulted in one or two people who could commit homicide.”

“I am starting to think logic and the truth have much less crossover than I once believed.” Nandor’s fingers drift to skim against the back of Guillermo’s neck as he leans forward to pick up his drink. The shiver that runs down Guillermo’s spine isn’t from the air conditioning. He sips his martini and tries to stay focused on the present moment, even though his mind wants to drag him into hypothesizing how good those hands would feel in other places.

“You’re agreeing with the hunters and Mr. Sandiford, then?” Laszlo asks. “Explanation number three: There’s a true blue vampire living in Coventry, who’s been preying on the townsfolk for centuries.”

“I did not say that.” Nandor frowns, seemingly lost in thought for a moment, before fixing his gaze back on Laszlo. “What I have experienced on this trip... for good or ill, I want to understand it. I want the truth. Isn’t that why we came?”

“Technically, we came to get a good story,” Colin Robinson points out. “And sometimes, stories don’t wrap up in neat little bows, all plot threads resolved. Real life doesn’t work that way.”

“It’s still a story worth telling though, isn’t it?” Guillermo asks. “Even if it doesn’t have a real resolution. The pilgrims in The Canterbury Tales never make it to Beckett’s shrine, but people have read those stories for centuries.”

“The journey is more important than the destination,” Laszlo agrees. He lifts his hefty pint of beer, tipping it towards Guillermo. “Quite right, Mister Lead Cinematographer. Cheers to that.”

Guillermo smiles, and clinks his glass against Laszlo’s.

“All of this philosophy is very grand and touching, but we still have practical considerations,” Nadja drawls. “Things around town are getting heated. Delmonico was close to apoplectic when we left the station. I don’t know what that man is capable of, but I would like to not find out. Most of our contacts except the hunters aren’t willing to speak to us anymore- or they’re dead! And we’re supposed to be here another three days? Is it bloody worth it, at this point?”

“What are you suggesting?” Laszlo asks, frowning. “That we just leave, after we’ve come this close to the truth? Are you mad?”

“Darling, every single one of us here has been subjected to horrific things. Perhaps it is time we take the hint, before one of us ends up the next victim?” Nadja is displaying a shocking amount of empathy considering her general personality, but when it comes to Laszlo, she usually has a softer touch.

“I would very much prefer not to die, yes,” Nandor pipes up. “I would not be devastated if we chose to leave.”

“Do you not agree, Colin Robinson?” Nadja asks pointedly.

Colin Robinson, shockingly, does not immediately agree. Instead, he looks down at his drink, seemingly thinking aloud as he says, “Leave, huh? Go back to our regular lives and everything that entails... Sounds kinda whack, honestly.”

“You’ve got to be bloody kidding me,” Nadja says, stone-faced.

“Hey, even with all the murder and mayhem, it’s been nice traveling with everyone.” Colin shoots Laszlo a grin. “Had some pretty neat adventures, wouldn’t mind some more.”

Laszlo smirks back at him.

“Were you not just saying the studio will have a problem with us getting more mixed up into trouble?” Nandor points out.

Colin shrugs. “I said it didn’t look great, sure. But there’s a much better chance of justifying what we did if we have a satisfying conclusion for the film. We find a murderer - vampiric or not - and suddenly all the chaos had a point.”

“We are evenly matched, then.” Nandor looks at Guillermo, and unlike most times Nandor looks at him, Guillermo does not appreciate the attention. “You are the final vote. I presume you want to get the hell out of here just as badly as I do?” He raises his eyebrows entreatingly. “The sooner we get home, the sooner we’ll have time to talk about... post-production. Yes. A very important topic that I will need to spend much time teaching you all about.”

“Bloody Christ,” Laszlo groans. “Enough with the foreplay, you twat. Cannot believe I’m saying this, but... Guillermo, I need you to keep your head out of the gutter and consider the project. As much as I love Chaucer, is that the legacy you want to leave? An unfinished story?”

Fuck, Guillermo should’ve put his opinion out before everybody else got the chance to. Of course he gets put on the spot, no option but to disappoint at least half his team.

Except... He doesn’t actually know what he wants to do.

On the one hand, Guillermo is highly tempted by Nandor’s talk of post-production; he doesn’t love lumpy hotel room beds, or getting chased through the woods, or falling through floors, or supernatural nighttime visitors, actually. It would be grand to go home, to his own bed (even if he’d miss the calming presence of a certain person, slumbering just a few feet away). But on the other hand, this is Guillermo’s first post-graduation production. It’s a big opportunity, and a big risk if it fails. They could spend the next three days turning over rocks and coming up short, but they could also uncover something incredible. Something career-defining. What a way to start, if they did.

His conversation with Colin Robinson the previous night comes to mind. Unlike that decision, this one would affect whether the entire crew stays or goes. If Guillermo felt overwhelmed before, it’s nothing compared to now.

Here’s the thing. The last four days have been a shit show, but not everything has turned out badly. If he knew last week what he knows now, he’d still be here. Tucked into a corner booth, surrounded by people he’s grown to care about, three grounding fingertips brushing his shoulder, promising something more.

“One more night,” Guillermo says. “Let’s just think it over. Besides, if we leave now, it’ll still take us time to get packed and checked out and on the highway. Home is hours away, and it’s going to get dark. Does anyone want to be driving through the woods when it does?”

The silence around the table is confirmation enough.

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

6:34PM

It takes them a long time to calm Jenna down, after she lets it all out. Well, to be fair, Shanice is the one doing most of the comforting, Derek sitting in stunned silence, occasionally providing a word or two of reassurance that he isn’t mad at her. Technically that’s true, because he doesn’t know how he feels. The raging ball of emotions inside his chest has no clear shape or defined labels to it; it’s messy, full of contradictions and threads tied to things far outside of Jenna’s control. What’s wrong with telling one lie to a woman who spent her childhood with a normal parent who had normal wants of their child?

All of his life, Derek has felt like he’s been looking through a pane of glass at the rest of the world; just a little bit removed from everyone. Looking out from a room where he and his father spend time circling one another, like two dying stars threatening to collide into a kilonova. People can see into this room, if they stand at the right angle. See the way the foundations threaten to crumble with every new stressor imposed on it - from within and without. Who would want to join them here? Who would look at what’s going on, the way they both destroy and are destroyed by one another, by all the things weighing down on them, and choose to step inside?

So no, he’s not really mad at Jenna. If he’d been in her shoes, he’d have done the same. She didn’t ask for this; she was a casualty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But she’s here now, in this home of sorrows, with them. A new gravitational force that could knock everything out of orbit.

He’s mixing his metaphors here; his English teachers used to get on him about that. Too complex, keep things simple. You’re only learning the basics. How to form the right language, how to make things make sense to other people, never mind yourself. Except it doesn’t make sense, it could never make sense. They’re speaking two different languages, this town and his family, and very few people have been willing to bridge the gap, to attempt a fuzzy translation at best.

“I’ll be back,” Derek says, suddenly, hiking himself up off the floor.

“Where are you going?” Shanice asks, looking at him with concern.

“I just- I need a minute.” He shakes his head when she moves to get up, to follow. She needs to stay with Jenna, who only just stopped shaking and started breathing normally again. He’s had a lifetime of practice managing how to carry this kind of thing.

Derek leaves the room, padding quietly down the hallway towards the stairs, but he only gets halfway when he sees the light on in his dad’s office. It stands between him and access to the front door, and if he passes by, he’s sure his dad will come out, and will want to say something to him. 

And it isn’t that he’s unwilling to talk, but what would he say?

Here’s a not so secret. For most of Derek’s life, he believed his dad, completely, wholeheartedly. Defended him to the cruel, sneering kids whose parents put opinions about Abraham’s sanity into their heads. How could he not? It’s his dad . A seven year old wouldn’t understand the impossibility of Abraham’s claims, didn’t understand how that pure, unconditional love for his father would lead to the divide between himself and his peers. It was only as he grew older, his childhood emerging into puberty, and the fraying threads of his parents’ marriage finally dissolving, that he could grasp it. Even after the divorce, it took several more years for Derek to stop believing him entirely.

But then came friends. Then came Claude and a promise to clear the tarnish off their family name. Then came the world turning from black and white to grey, as he left the volatile emotions of adolescence behind, and began to see those around him in a new light. His dad morphing from a martyr, a prophet, into a monster, a villain, and then finally, just a man. A man who watched his own father bleed out in the woods fifty years ago, and then refused to accept a lie, fought for the truth so hard, it set him apart from everyone around him. It upended his marriage, scarred the relationship between himself and his son. And still, he kept insisting on it.

Derek thought his dad might be insane. And maybe the truth makes you a little insane, if no one else believes it.

He descends the last few steps, walking with purpose towards the office, and he’s expecting to see his dad where he always seems to be: leaning back against the desk, staring up at The Corkboard, trying to connect all the pieces for the ten thousandth time. Instead, Abraham is facing the desk, bent over a worn cardboard file box, flipping through a handful of old photographs. 

He’s got this... look on his face that Derek’s never seen before. Wistful. Nostalgic.

“Hey,” Derek says, knocking on the door jamb. “You busy?”

Abraham doesn’t look at him, but waves him over with a hand. “C’mere. Want to show you something.”

As Derek steps to stand next to his father, he gets a better view of what Abraham is holding. They’re old Polaroids; old as in, taken in the past, and old as in, that past was probably sometime during the Nixon administration, based on the bell-bottom jeans and large afros the people in the photograph are sporting. A man and a teen boy, the latter the spitting image of Derek six or seven years ago. The two of them are engaged in a variety of activities, including posing at a backyard barbeque, holding up fishing poles with a meaty catch on the end of their lines, and reading a map in some woodsy locale. The teen is sometimes in the pictures, but sometimes it’s just the man alone, and one photo is taken at an awkward angle with the teen boy’s face squished close to the lens while the older man waves from behind. A 70s selfie.

It takes Derek a moment to put two and two together, but when he does, he reaches for the photo on the top of the pile: a picture of the older man in profile, standing before an endless sky of blue, hand over his eyes as he squints into the sunlight.

“Grandpa,” he states, unprompted.

“Mmmm.” Abraham tugs the picture of himself and his father holding fishing poles out of the pile. “Both of these were from the same trip. Summer of ‘72. Dad loved photography, spent a lot of time hiking all over this mountain and the valleys to capture the beauty of nature. He bought me a camera when I was thirteen.”

“You never took pictures when I was a kid,” Derek points out. “Mom did that kinda stuff.”

“I liked tinkering with the insides more than taking pictures. And after he passed, it stopped being fun.” Abraham hands him the other photograph. “This was the last trip we ever took together.”

“You guys look really happy.”

“We did alright. Just the two of us after your grandma passed. My uncle Ray, when they weren’t at odds. Yeah. He would’ve liked you, I think.”

“I wish I could’ve met him.” Derek stares at the picture of his grandfather, thinks about what he’d do if Abraham was gone, and suddenly it’s almost too easy to say what he’s been holding inside for so long. “Wish we had done this kind of stuff together when I was a kid. You never really seemed interested.”

“...I had a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah.”

“But I should’ve. Taken you places more.”

“I did things with Mom. And you took me to your shop a lot. That was always fun for me. It wasn’t all bad.”

“We still could. Do things, I mean. If you were up for it.”

“Yeah. Think I’d like that,” Derek says, and holds the photographs out to him.

Don’t mix your metaphors. Keep it simple, back to basics. Maybe they aren’t dying stars, after all. Maybe they’re just a father and son, trying to shore up the foundations of their home before it collapses in on itself.

Abraham pushes the photos back towards him. “Keep ‘em. You should have some pictures of him. How’s Jenna doing?”

“Better. Shanice is with her. I think she’s relieved to get it all out.”

“She tell you what happened?”

Derek strangles the last little voice in his head that refuses to admit the truth, and says, “She saw something standing over Coco. Said it looked kind of like a person but couldn’t tell because it was wearing a big cloak.”

He sees it, the moment his father stills, and something like fifty years of tension rolls off his spine, his hands starting to just barely tremble as he croaks out, “She uh, she didn’t get a look at the face, did she?”

“No, but I don’t think it matters, does it? We both know what it was.”

“Shit,” Abraham says, the first time Derek’s heard the man curse in front of him in years. “It really is back.”

“Three people this time. I don’t think that many people have died at once, other than the whole Lacroix house stuff.”

“Something doesn’t make sense to me.” Abraham shakes his head. “The thing’s never acted like this before, killing one person and then showing up six weeks later to kill two more.”

“What’s changed?”

“Nothing much changes in this town, except when new people arrive. That film crew shows up and two days later, Doug and Barb are dead? That can’t be a coincidence.”

“You think it has something to do with them.”

“I think it’s worth us going to have a talk with them- don’t look so cocky about it.”

Derek is only half successful in keeping the smug look off his face. “I’m just saying, I’ve got some good ideas sometimes. Oh!” He remembers something. “Jenna told me something else too, and I’ve been thinking.” He digs his hand into his pocket, pulling out the dog tags and holding it out to his father, who tucks the pictures back into the file box before taking it from him. “I don’t think these are gonna work for me. I think they worked for you, though.”

“So why do you think that is, then?”

“What if it’s not about some kinda religious belief protecting you?” Derek blurts out, knowing the percolating theory in the coffee pot of his mind seems wild, but pressing on anyway. “What if it’s another kind of belief? Jenna said that when she touched the necklace Shanice and I gave her, the creature hesitated. And last night, in the woods...” He digs into his other pocket, this time coming back with the two Morse code machines. “The tags didn’t work, but these did.”

In the grand sum of the universe, Derek is far more clever than people give him credit for, and he got those smarts from somewhere. Now, Abraham’s mind works a mile a minute, his thoughts playing out across his face, until he looks up and smiles. “Huh. You really thinking...?”

“It’s what makes the most sense,” Derek says, nodding. “Can’t be any weirder of an explanation than anything else we’ve seen.”

“If that’s true, then we need to adjust our plans. Everybody needs to have one of these... belief objects with them when you go hunting.” Abraham turns the dog tags over in his hands, thinking. “Now I’m worried that we know a lot less about beating vampire than we thought we did.”

“We’ll have to take that chance,” Derek affirms. “It could kill again, tonight. Nobody in this town will be safe until we destroy it.”

“Call Claude and your friend Tonya. Tell them to come over and bring every last bit of the hunter gear with them.” Abraham turns towards The Corkboard, walking over. Carefully, he drapes the chain of the dog tags over the red push pin that’s keeping a picture of Solomon in place. He steps back, hands on his hips, and says, “We’re going to finish this. Tonight.”

Derek lets out a little whoop! and pumps his fist, a giddy rush of excitement running through him. 

Time to slay a vampire, and clear his family name.

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

7:45PM

Laszlo Cravensworth prides himself on his ability to read other people. He can charm with ineffable charisma, or devastate with a well-timed insult, and depending on the circumstance, he might manage a clever combination of both. It’s brought both pleasure and pain, this skill. Countless times, he’s ended up with his back to the wall, someone’s hand prepared to pin him for a hungry kiss (Nandor, the first), or to knock a new tooth loose as it cracks against his jaw (his father, often).

A silver-tongued devil, some have called him. A man who’ll say whatever he needs to, in order to get what he wants.

Laszlo has a secret, though. The man of a thousand clever words sometimes stumbles, sometimes has trouble finding the right thing to say.

When he’d taken a knee on the streets of fair Pari, ring in one hand, Nadja’s clenched in the other, he’d been prepared to espouse her brilliance, her beauty, his ardent desire to keep her close, never let her go. But the words had flown from him like a flock of birds, spooked by a loud noise, the gravity of the moment stealing his voice, ‘till finally, with stumbling patter, he’d croaked, Would you? and she’d grinned and replied, It’s about bloody time.

The night of The Argument had dissolved in such the same way, all of Laszlo’s charm and wit failing under the weight of the hurt, the anger, the terror. Nadja’s hand on his elbow, her own words as sharp as her nails digging into his skin. The stranger before them, the man who resembled the shell of their former best friend, spitting venom in a foreign tongue. Words that made no sense, that held the distinct aftertaste of a woman who had already begun to break this man down into nothing, and build him back up in her own image. And Nandor couldn’t see it. He couldn’t bloody see it.

Yes, Laszlo might have a silver tongue, but silver is soft, and can crumble so easily, with the right amount of pressure.

In the end, it doesn’t take much to get Nadja to fold. He’d known she was holding onto something, had known for quite a while, but she kept her cards close to her chest until she was ready to show them. And she always does show them, eventually. There’s something to be said about discretion, though sometimes it seems less the better part of valor, and more the defense of a woman with an unfortunate amount of practice needing to keep herself safe.

(Nadja had told him, once, that she’d seen her own mother’s ghost in Nandor’s eyes on the night of the Argument, and that had shaken Laszlo to the core.)

Her explanation is brief, and almost surely the result of many hours of rumination, picking the right language, cutting out the bits that might seem gauche. The brass tacks are this: an incredible offer, a year overseas, and five thousand miles between them.

So much for keeping her close.

“Why now?” Laszlo asks. He’s sitting on the edge of the queen-sized hotel bed they’re sharing for the trip; there was no king suite available, and the other queen in the room is taken up by camera equipment and their suitcases. Nadja leans against the wall across from him, arms folded, the toe of her boot tapping against the ratty brown carpet. Laszlo is drumming his fingers against his knee, but their rhythms are discordant, off beat. Lacking the perfect, easy synchronicity he so often feels around her.

“She wants an answer by tomorrow,” Nadja says, a hunted look in her eyes. “I could not give her one in good conscience without talking to you first.” Her foot stops tapping. “What do you think?”

“What am I supposed to say?” Laszlo draws a hand through his beard, stroking the whiskers of his mustache as if a man of philosophy, considering how to weave together the threads of a grand new idea. He searches, now, for the words that will weave together all his feelings into something perfectly coherent. Persuasive. Something that will solve everything. Neatly, easily.

But Laszlo is no philosopher, and all his grand ideas as of late have fallen apart.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, finally, because he can’t think of anything else.

She presses her mouth together, and he can see the answer behind her lips, straining to get out. Knows that she wouldn’t hesitate if it was the one he wanted to hear.

“...Yes, I suppose that makes sense.” He rises off the bed, turning towards the door.

“Where are you going?” she asks, unmoving as he slips his feet into his moccasins, though there’s a tension in her body, as if waiting to spring forward.

“I need to think. Might go for a bit of a walk.”

“The sun is going down,” she points out. “It will be getting dark, and it is dangerous-”

“I fucking know that!” he snaps. Nadja freezes. The air in the room stills, and a second later, the guilt hits him. “Sorry. I’ll be alright. I just- I’ll be back in a while.”

He’s torn as to whether he wishes she’d follow him. She doesn’t. Probably for the best.

The air is thick with humidity outside; the forecast called for a whopper of a thunderstorm tonight, and the rain should start within the hour. The sun is setting past the tree line, and Laszlo walks along the porch of the motel, stopping before it ends. There’s a gravel path that leads towards a wooded trail; the map the motel provided shows it goes a mile or so into the trees, emerging at the edge of a cliff-face that looks out over the valley. Could be a lovely walk in the evening sunset.

On the other hand, there’s a motel room to his left. Muted sound, likely from a television, is coming from underneath the door.

Laszlo turns from the trail and knocks thrice on the wood.

Colin looks surprised to see him, eyebrows rising as he leans into the door. He’s still dressed in his white button-down and beige slacks, though he’s got his sleeves rolled up - scandalous. “Hey, Laz. What’s up?”

“Well, you see, the thing of it is...” 

And for the second time tonight, Laszlo’s words fail him. He makes a few guttural sounds, then lets his mouth fall shut, and simply looks at the other man.

“...I’ll get you a drink.” Colin leaves the door open, and Laszlo steps inside.

There’s a particularly loathsome network television channel playing on Colin’s TV. “Didn’t take you for, ah, someone with that kind of political bent,” Laszlo comments as Colin hands him a glass of something deep amber.

“I’m not. But a lot of the studio bigwigs are, and, well, know thine enemy. Besides, it’s kind of entertaining, watching the pundits work themselves up into a frothing rage. Terrifying, too.” He shuts off the TV, watching as Laszlo downs the whole glass - ah, bourbon, delightful - in one go. “That bad, huh?”

Laszlo nods, holding out the glass so Colin can pour him another finger. “I’ll give you the short version.”

He takes the chair Colin offers him, facing the foot of the bed. Colin perches himself on the edge of the mattress opposite Laszlo, sipping from his own glass as Laszlo relays everything Nadja told him not ten minutes ago.

When he’s done, Colin tilts his head inquisitively, nudging his glasses up his nose as he asks, “Well, what do you think?”

“I don’t know!” Laszlo sighs, swirling the bourbon in circles. “My immediate instinct is to tell her to tell this bloody woman to piss off. What’s she got to offer that sticking with the tried and true Cravensworth-Antipaxos team doesn’t?”

“Well, a new opportunity to work with new people, for one,” Colin says, counting off on his fingers, to Laszlo’s great consternation. “Oodles of money, a reputation for artful filmmaking - not that you don’t have that, but the Guide has a longer track record - an all-female team to go full girlboss-”

“Yes, yes! I get it!” Laszlo scowls. In his frustration, he gives a particularly hard swirl of the glass, and the golden amber liquid inside splashes up the sides, a bit of it wetting the tip of his forefinger. Not one to waste good liquor, Laszlo lifts his hand and sucks it off his skin, glancing up and meeting Colin’s bewildered look across the gap. “What?”

“Nothing.” Colin sets his glass on the floor, mouth set in a thin line. “If that’s what you think, then why don’t you tell her?”

“Because of what you just said. There are plenty of fantastic reasons for her to take this job. I’d feel like a right arsehole asking her to give it up. I’ve always wanted people to recognize how brilliant she is, and this is the perfect opportunity for her to show off.”

“Then tell her to go.”

“It’s not that simple!”

“Dunno, Laz. Feels like you’re overcomplicating things.” Colin shrugs. “You just said you wanted people to recognize how amazing she is. And she doesn’t have to leave for a while; plenty of time to do post-production. I don’t see a downside.”

“...I don’t want her to go.” Laszlo downs the rest of his drink, reaching behind himself to rest the glass on the table. “We’ve never been apart that long, not since we first met. What if... what if she realizes she’s better off on her own?”

Colin breaks into a wheezy laughter, the sound loud and obnoxious, only stopping when Laszlo glares at him. “Oh. You were serious?”

“Yes, I was bloody serious!”

“Well, sorry buddy, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Colin smiles at him, and Laszlo knows it’s genuine, because Colin is genuine to the point of concern. Really, the man has no filter. “I mean, did you even see her this morning? I had to make sure you got out okay, because if I came out of that cave without you, she would’ve killed me herself. Woman’s crazy about you.” His smile fades slightly, and he glances off to the side. “Seems pretty nice to be loved like that.”

“Well, you’ve got your own lady, don’t you?” Laszlo feels flush from the alcohol, undoing the top button of his shirt and tugging the knot of his kerchief down to give his throat some cool air. “Isn’t it the same?”

Colin is silent for a long time before he answers, a silence laden with an unexpected heaviness. Laszlo’s ear is drawn to the tick tick tick of Colin’s wristwatch, barely audible. Seconds ticking away, time passing in discrete intervals, ones you don’t ever notice unless you’re really paying attention.

“Evie broke up with me.” Colin clasps his hands together, fingers fidgeting with one another as he leans forward, and Laszlo mirrors him. “Said she had too much going on, other things she was focused on, and clearly I did as well.”

“Shit.” Laszlo reaches out, patting him on the knee, then leaving his hand there, because he knows it’s nice, sometimes, to feel a comforting touch. “I’m sorry, old chap. She’s a fool.”

“No, she’s kind of right.” Colin smiles, something tight at the corners of his mouth and his eyes, the expression one wears when expressing some uncomfortable truths about oneself. “I was drifting. Other things taking up my time, my interest.” He shrugs, wetting his lips with his tongue. Laszlo notices they shine in the lamplight after. “No regrets, though.”

“None?” Laszlo presses, something welling up in him that he doesn’t understand.

Colin finally looks at him again. “Wouldn’t change a thing.”

The knee under Laszlo’s hand is warm and firm and the eyes fixed on him are far too honest and everything feels like it’s falling apart and Laszlo is a weak, weak man, a creature of impulse. It’s gotten him in trouble and given him blessings in equal measure, but he never knows, in the moment before he gives in, what the outcome will be.

He thinks, as he leans forward, as he curls his other hand around the back of Colin’s neck and tugs him close and presses their mouths together, that this time will be a bit of both.

Colin is as frozen as a virgin on her wedding night - for about three seconds. Then he shifts just a little, slotting Laszlo’s lower lip between his own and kissing back. He tastes like Listerine and the angle is awkward and this is madness, what is he doing, he shouldn’t be doing this... but when he pulls back to say just that, Colin is looking at him with a little something like awe, and what is Laszlo supposed to do with that?

Oh, he is a weak, weak man.

The second kiss is far more desperate than the last. Something has come upon him, a temporary insanity that blocks out any hope of reasoning this away. Laszlo grabs the front of Colin’s shirt in his free hand and pulls, wanting him closer, and Colin goes willingly, stumbling up so he can slide onto Laszlo’s lap, his knees braced around Laszlo’s thighs, his weight a grounding thing. Colin lets out a low, satisfied hum when Laszlo swipes his tongue against his lower lip, a noise Laszlo’s never heard him make before. Immediately, Laszlo wants to make him do it again.

Colin kisses Laszlo like his mouth is a cavern he’s exploring, probing at the edges with his tongue, careful before venturing further, but with confidence once he knows it’s safe to enter. It’s the opposite of the way he normally approaches people: with an enthusiasm that borders on nearly caustic, recklessly stepping on toes without truly understanding how easily that could push everyone away.

Colin doesn’t have many friends, and the few he makes don’t linger long. Laszlo knows this. Understands it, on a basic level. Yet, as Colin’s hands slide up from his shoulders to cradle his jaw, and he tilts Laszlo’s head - just, so, just precisely so - to nip gently at his lower lip, Laszlo can’t help but think that, maybe if Colin had kissed more of his friends, they would’ve stuck around.

Laszlo rests his hands against the small of Colin’s back, feels the heat emanating through the fabric there, but it’s not enough. He rucks up the material until he can get his palms against the warm skin, Colin letting out a heavy groan as he does, Laszlo sighing contentedly. He can feel another heat building inside, something that threatens to blaze over, and when Colin shifts his knees a little, rocking forward, it’s clear he’s been... affected in the same way.

Oh. Well.

“Bed?” Laszlo asks between near breathless kisses. It’s going to be hard to do anything pleasant while he’s pressed into this shitty motel chair; Laszlo worries it might just crack apart beneath their combined weight.

“Mmmm... sure,” Colin murmurs, sliding his legs back to stand, but staying close otherwise, mouth rarely leaving Laszlo’s own. Laszlo is confused when he feels Colin’s hands on his knees, gently pulling them apart, and then flabbergasted when Colin grips under his thighs and lifts him out of the chair.

“Fucking hell,” Laszlo gasps, grabbing Colin’s shoulders to keep steady, legs wrapping around his waist. Colin straightens up, barely a hint of strain in his arms. The man is bloody strong, alright. Laszlo doesn’t think he’s had someone pick him up since Nandor did it all those years ago. It’s a little unnerving, but in an exciting way, like getting to the top of a roller coaster and anticipating the drop ahead.

Colin grins, winking at him. “Told you I could lift you. Not for long, though.” He twists around in one, two, three steps, and then lets himself fall forward, Laszlo’s back hitting the bed with a thump, Colin wincing a little when his chin connects with Laszlo’s shoulder.

“All right?” Laszlo asks, pulling him up so they can continue where they left off.

“Fine,” Colin affirms, bracing himself over Laszlo, looking down at him thoughtfully. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Laszlo raises an eyebrow. Grabs Colin’s hips and rolls his own up, making his pressing need quite clear. 

Damn the consequences. They’re a problem for a future Laszlo. Right now, he wants this. Needs it.

Colin swallows. Nods. “Okay. Yeah.” 

He looks a little intimidated by it all, but that’s alright. Laszlo will just have to show him the ropes. It’s only fair, since Colin showed him the ropes this morning.

This is probably a terrible idea.

Fuck it. Just another one to add to his ever growing list.

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

8:41 PM

“-so I told her, Nadja, just leave it alone, because it really was a very nice store, and Laszlo had already gone through the trouble of having his tuxedo tailored and ordered through them, and if I stopped going to every store where someone gave me nasty looks or said shitty things under their breath, I’d never go to Target again, but she insisted. Kicked up a fuss, got all her money refunded, and then dragged me and Laszlo to a place in the Bronx a week later. Also a very nice store, and we had our suits two weeks later.”

“Swes uwopaple,” Guillermo says around a mouthful of General Tso’s Chicken. Nandor gives him a funny look before he swallows, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry. I said, she’s unstoppable. Guess I shouldn’t talk with my mouth full.”

Oh, the opportunity is too perfect. “Mmm, you’re not the first man who’s said that to me,” Nandor answers, raising his eyebrows devilishly.

Guillermo snorts into his next bite, somehow not getting rice all over the comforter. “Shut up. Don’t need Colin Robinson bitching at us for extra dry-cleaning charges.”

They’re seated on Guillermo’s neatly made bed, the one that didn’t get much use last night, and facing each other, the distance between them so close their knees almost touch. They could be sitting at the table; considering the Chinese food, they probably should be. But they’d been a bit aimless after getting back into the room, neither of them seemingly knowing how to capture the magic of this morning. Luckily, Guillermo had a pack of Uno cards in his suitcase, and one likes to be comfortable when stacking plus fours, the other person glaring daggers at you. It was decided they would adjourn to the bed. The food came later, after Nandor’s third victory to Guillermo’s single one.

Nandor’s Egg Foo Young is passable, but that isn’t really his focus. Not so important, in the grand scheme of things. Today was amazing, if a little dampened by the unfortunate passing of the kindly Barbara Lazarro. Nandor has felt lighter than air for most of the day, a weightlessness that he sometimes manages on the rarest of days, as of late. Usually, come evening, the heavy stone of bitter, painful feelings drops itself back onto his shoulders, and it isn’t as though it’s gone, as though all of his sorrows have vanished. But today, it feels like there are others helping to carry the load. Laszlo. Nadja. Guillermo.

Sweet, optimistic, starry-eyed Guillermo.

“You know, I thought you would want to leave,” Nandor admits, shoving another bite of chewy egg into his mouth as Guillermo gives him a curious look. He waits to swallow before continuing, “Of all of us, you have had the worst encounters with some pretty horrible shit.”

“I mean, yeah. It hasn’t all been great, but...” Guillermo swirls his chopsticks around in his noodles, definitely flicking gravy onto the bedspread. Ah, well. So much for the dry-cleaning. He bites his lower lip for a brief moment, the corner of his mouth curling into a soft smile as he glances up at Nandor. “It hasn’t been all bad, either.”

“Oh?” Nandor eats more egg, because the words aren’t coming, he can’t make sentences when Guillermo looks at him like that.

“Even with all the horror and death, this place feels... Okay, think of a snow globe, right?” Guillermo lowers his waxed paper carton to his lap, freeing a hand to lift and curl between them, palm upwards, as if holding the very object he’s named. “It’s this perfect little encapsulation of winter, some tiny town of miniatures, forever buried in an endless frozen wonderland. That’s what being in Coventry has felt like. A place out of time, so disconnected from everything in my regular life. And just for a while, some worries have faded into the background. Not all, but some. Haven’t thought about my student loans in two days, for instance. So, maybe I just want to stay disconnected. Just for a little longer.” He sighs, lowering his hand. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? A snow globe is an endless winter; the snow never melts into spring. Change, for the worse, or the better, will never happen if I stay here and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist.”

“I think your metaphor is a little shaky,” Nandor chides, not meaning to rain - or snow - on Guillermo’s parade, but finding fault in his conclusion. “I have changed, being here. Learned a little something about myself, about trust. And you have changed as well.”

Guillermo lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, yeah? How so? I’m still an anxious mess, a lot of the time, and not half as confident in my place on this team as I wish - and I know, I know what you said, but I can’t help what I feel.” There’s a momentary flash of something behind his eyes - first guilt, then nervousness, and finally, acquiescence - before he says, “Since we’re on the topic of trust, can I tell you something? Promise you won’t be mad.”

“I find it very hard to get mad at you, Guillermo.”

“Okay. Well, I talked to Colin Robinson last night and... asked if he thought I should stay. If I was good enough. He told me he could get a replacement if I wanted to leave, but to think it over.”

Nandor bristles at the revelation - at the idea that Guillermo would ask Colin Robinson, out of anyone on this team, the only one not an experienced filmmaker - but not with anger; no.

With... fear.

Perhaps the feeling is better described as anxiety - that constant, familiar state of Guillermo’s being - but at its root, what is anxiety except a milder version of fear? The fear that Guillermo’s uncertainty would drive him away. Out of Coventry, out of Nandor’s life. Nandor knows him well, now, knows that the embarrassment of up and leaving would mean unanswered phone calls, unread text messages, and the slow, inexorable drift apart of the tenuous threads binding them to each other, no matter how hard Nandor tried to grasp them.

And oh, that would hurt. Worse than anything he can imagine.

“Did you- think about it, I mean?” Nandor is trying to keep his expression neutral, but he’s lowered his container to the bed, the Egg Foo Young sitting sour in his stomach, appetite vanished. The HVAC unit clicks off, the room settling into a sudden quiet. So quiet, almost unnaturally so, like the universe is waiting to hear the answer.

Guillermo nods, slow - frustratingly slow. “I did, for an hour, maybe two. Then a vampire tried to eat you, and you told me a story, an awful story, that I know was hard to tell, and we read a book about two men who risked it all for love, and... I guess, the things I was worried about seem less important now.”

In this moment, this hotel room is their own little snow globe, disconnected from everything outside. Nandor swallows, softly, and asks, carefully, “So if they’re not important, what is?”

Guillermo’s smile is an answer, one that doesn’t really need words, a hopeful warmth blooming in Nandor’s chest as he says, “When we go home, I was wondering if you... might like to come by for dinner. Meet my folks.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“I would. Like that.”

“Okay. Cool.” Guillermo’s cheeks take on a pinkish hue, and he starts to babble. “I know that meeting the parents isn’t exactly first date material, but I live with them, so I can’t invite you over without them being there, and we’re, y’know. Eating now. Um. So maybe this counts as-”

Nandor leans in, cupping Guillermo’s cheek, silencing his stumbling words with a kiss.

It’s just... it felt like a perfect moment, and he wasn’t about to let another one pass.

When he draws back, just a little, just to see, Guillermo’s eyelashes barely flutter open, brushing Nandor’s cheek, his gaze a tad dazed but his smile warm as a summer night.

“Don’t stop,” Guillermo breathes.

So Nandor doesn’t.

He surges forward, kissing Guillermo again, hand sliding down to curl around the back of his neck, to keep him still, here, exactly where Nandor wants him.

Needs him.

He thought it would feel like falling, kissing Guillermo. That it would feel like before, when he poured his heart out, bled his pain all over the sheets of the other bed, cracked wide open for another’s view. He thought it would feel like swan diving into unknown waters, praying you’ll come up for air. He thought it would feel like a star collapsing in on itself, all the potential energy channeled to a kinetic burst, wiping out any life for thousands of lightyears.

But kissing Guillermo feels like flying.

Of course it does.

He pulls away, only so he can press back in for a third, a fourth, a fifth time, shivering when one of Guillermo’s hands finds its hold on Nandor’s hip. A firm grip, like it belongs there. Like it’s only returning home, to a place it’s been a thousand times before. Familiar. Comfortable. Certain.

“Nandor,” Guillermo sighs against his mouth.

“Guillermo,” Nandor whispers in return.

“No- Nandor, the food. It’s gonna spill, we should-”

“Oh.” Right. Nandor sits back, tearing his eyes away from the reddish tinge Guillermo’s lips have taken on - did he do that? He did... how lovely - so he can scoop up their food containers and deposit them on the floor. They’ll have to risk stepping into the cooling takeout if they forget it’s there; Nandor isn’t willing to move any farther away. Once that’s done, he turns back and shifts to kneel so he can slide closer, catching Guillermo’s mouth again as he wraps an eager arm around his waist.

Guillermo sighs again, such a beautiful sound, not of exasperation but of contentment. One of his hands finds its way up, up, up, skimming up Nandor’s spine to brush at the fine hairs along the back of his neck, then continuing its journey, fingers dragging against the rough stubble on Nandor’s jawline, ending with a gentle caress of his cheek. Everywhere Guillermo has touched him tingles with heat, with want, and Nandor wants more, wants to feel what it’s like for Guillermo to lay his hands everywhere, map the broad plains of Nandor’s chest, chart the crests of his mountainous shoulders, explore the valleys of his inner thighs. He wants to be unraveled, undone, by Guillermo’s hands. He wants, he wants, he wants , in ways that he hasn’t wanted in so long. Maybe ever.

Nandor nudges him back with no resistance, pressing him into the flat pillows against the headboard as he slips the man a little tongue and savors the quiet groan that escapes Guillermo’s throat, feels it vibrate through his lips and down his spine and into his belly, where it sparks a pleasing flame. Guillermo slides his legs down, wraps them slightly around Nandor’s knees, his socked heels digging into the bare skin of the back of Nandor’s thighs. Keeping him close, pinning him in place.

The hand at Nandor’s jaw slides into the thick hair on his scalp, still tied up in a messy knot that’s sure to get even messier. Guillermo gets a good grip on his head this way, and even though Nandor’s the one on top, suddenly he’s the one being maneuvered, positioned, as Guillermo angles his mouth so he can draw Nandor’s lower lip between his teeth and bite.

The flare in his belly erupts into a wildfire, as Nandor gasps, “Fuck,” and digs his fingertips into the pleasing give of the rolls around Guillermo’s hips. He starts to nudge the fabric of Guillermo’s t-shirt up, wanting to get his hands on the other man; they’re far too dressed, Nandor has decided, and this needs to be remedied.

“Hey,” Guillermo gulps, tugging Nandor’s head back by the hair; not hard, but enough to make it obvious who’s in charge here. He smiles mischievously, licking his lips - Nandor wants to chase that tongue, fuck, he’s so done for - and asks, “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“A movie?” Nandor frowns. “You don’t want to... keep doing this?” Shit, he probably pushed too far, went too fast. Stupid, so stupid, too eager...

“I do! I do,” Guillermo reassures him. “But the walls of this motel are thin and I thought, maybe we should put something on. Just in case.” Now he’s starting to blush - oh! Oh.

Shit. Well. So much for Nandor’s assumptions.

“What do you want to watch?” Nandor asks, dipping his head to start pressing kisses to the curve of Guillermo’s jaw.

Guillermo shivers. “Ah...I, I was thinking- Fuck, you’re distracting me.”

“A pity,” Nandor deadpans, gasping when Guillermo tugs him back by the hair again; fuck, that feels so good. “Fine, fine. Well?”

“Maybe Interview with the Vampire?” Guillermo grins sheepishly. “It’s-”

“Your favorite movie,” Nandor finishes.

“You remembered.”

“My memory is shit, but it isn’t that shit.”

“I was going to say, it’s thematic, considering where we are. Could be nice to think about vampires who aren’t planning on murdering us, for a change of pace. And you said you’ve never seen it before.”

“I have not. Though, if you are looking for me to pay attention while we watch, that could be... difficult.”

“You think you’ll get distracted by something.”

“I know I’ll get distracted by something.”

“Guess I’ll just have to make you watch it again, later. When you’re less... distracted.”

Nandor grins. “But you said it is a very good movie, right? Perhaps I should be respectful to the craft. No, we should definitely be focused on it, eyes on the screen - in fact, we’ll be on separate beds, no touching-”

Guillermo shuts him up quickly, dragging him back down and claiming his mouth in a fierce display of desire that leaves Nandor panting and feeling more restricted than he likes, but patience, he must have patience. That will come (heh) in time.

“Put on the movie,” Nandor wheezes, when Guillermo finally lets him up for air. “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

“I didn’t say you could leave this bed,” Guillermo teases, kissing him one more time before releasing him. “Don’t be long?”

“A minute at most, Guillermo joon,” Nandor reassures him.

“What does that mean, joon?” Guillermo asks as Nandor slides off the bed.

Nandor winks at him. “I’ll tell you when I get back.”

In the bathroom, Nandor leans over the porcelain sink, hands resting on the sides, though not too hard - this thing looks like it’s about to pull away from the wall. He stares at the mirror, looking at the man within; strands of hair pulled out of his bun and stuck to the sweat on his forehead, lips bruised and bitten red. It’s a little debauched, but not nearly as much as he wants to be. Giddiness vibrates in the hollows of his bones, dragging his mouth into a delighted grin, and he can’t help letting out a very, very manly giggle, shaking his head, unable to believe his luck.

“Okay,” Nandor says to himself, taking a deep breath. “You’ve got this, Nandor. Everything is going to be fine. You don’t have to perform or impress him. Just go out there, be yourself, and knock his fucking socks off.”

Did he come into the bathroom for the express purpose of giving himself a pep talk? Maybe. Does Guillermo need to know that? Fuck no. It’s perfectly reasonable to be nervous about these things, especially when the last person you slept with made you feel like nothing you ever did was good enough.

Well, fuck you, Jan. Guillermo has always made him feel good enough, and if Guillermo believes in him, then he’s going to believe in himself.

He straightens up, fidgeting with the beads around his wrist before looking down at them. Ah... he probably should take them off and put them somewhere safe; he loves his maman, but she does not need to be involved in what he’s about to do, oh no.

Nandor flushes the toilet for cover, and when he opens the bathroom door, he can hear the steady patter of rain hitting the patio outside. The storm’s finally started up in full. In the bedroom, Guillermo is standing by the table, pushing his feet into his sneakers, as if he’s leaving. Nandor frowns, slipping the beads off his wrist to place on the table as he asks, “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m thirsty,” Guillermo says, shrugging. “Figured I’d get us some drinks from the machine before the movie.”

“It is raining outside.”

“Yes, I can hear that. It’s just a little water. I’ll be fine.”

Nandor’s romantic side has a sudden urge, and he grabs Guillermo’s shoulder, blurting out, “No, let me. I insist.”

Guillermo blinks in confusion, before shrugging again. “O-kay? Yeah, if you want to.”

“I do,” Nandor insists, stepping into his personal space, grinning down at him conspiratorially. “I will go and purchase our refreshments, and when I get back, I am sure I will be quite drenched, and will need help getting out of all my wet clothes.”

Nandor has seen apex predators stare down their prey with a less terrifyingly intense focus than Guillermo has on Nandor after that no-so-subtle implication.

“Well,” Guillermo breathes, “I’m sure somebody here could assist with that.”

Three minutes later, after another desperate make out session - Nandor ends up pinned to the wall, somehow, the little rascal is fucking strong! - Guillermo lets him go, laughing as Nandor shoves his feet into his boots, not even bothering to do up the laces as he snatches his wallet off the table and flees out the door.

The rain is coming down in sheets, the moderate wind kicking up droplets in a gentle spray. However, the porch is covered, and it's only a few unprotected steps from the edge of the porch to the hallway between buildings, where another overhang protects him from the storm. Hmmm, he’s not going to get as drenched as he expected, like this. Maybe he will stand in the parking lot after he gets the drinks. Just for a minute, to let his white t-shirt really soak up the rainwater. It turns translucent when it’s wet.

What? He’s not above a little... strategic display of his personal assets.

Wait. Laszlo mentioned something about condoms in the van, should he go get the keys? That might be a little too presumptuous... and it would require making an extra two pit stops which - yeah, fuck that. They’ll make do.

Under the hallway overhang, he can’t hear anything outside of the rain, the drops landing fat and heavy against the thin metal sheeting above his head. Nandor hums under his breath, mumbling the words to a tune under his breath whose name he can’t quite recall. It’s in Farsi, something his aba used to sing to his maman in the evening hours, holding each other and swaying to the music playing on the sound system in their living room. “[Mumbled words]...?”

Nandor fumbles a few dollar bills out of his wallet, straightening them out against the side of the drink machine. He feeds the first one into the slot, frowning and cursing when the light blinks red and it shoves the bill back out into his hands. “Stupid fucking thing...” He’s not in the mood for difficult vending machines tonight; there’s a handsome, horny twenty-something waiting back in his hotel room, and the faster Nandor can get back to him, the better.

When the patio light flickers a few times, he glances over, but sees nothing awry. This is an old building. Probably some power fluctuation because of the storm. He shrugs it off, pumping his fist when the machine finally accepts his first dollar. The second quickly follows, and the machine finally dispenses his bottle of iced tea - a local brand, and it’s even in a molded glass bottle. Environmentally friendly, how nice.

Okay, now for Guillermo’s drink.

He feeds the third bill into the machine, only to have the same problem as with the first: the angry red light, the rejection.

“Come on,” Nandor grumbles, glaring at the bill slot. Maybe they could just share the tea...

The patio light cuts off at the same time the lights along the porch do, throwing the hallway into an eerie darkness. Only the faint blue glow of the vending machine remains.

Nandor’s eyes slowly adjust to the dim light as he glances around, a prickle of fear tickling the back of his neck. He can’t see much; the rain is a wall, cutting off his view of anything beyond the ends of the hallway.

Okay. Fuck this creepy shit. Time to go.

He turns to leave, but a skittering sound at the end of the hall near the patio makes him whip around, yanking his phone out and turning on the flashlight. The harsh white light reveals a space devoid of life; nothing but a trash can and some candy wrappers that didn’t make it inside the can littering the ground around it.

Nandor swallows. Takes one step back. Then another.

It’s funny, you see. The thing about the fight-or-flight instinct, that survival mechanism that has kept the human species alive for tens of thousands of years, is that it’s just that. An instinct. Not a conscious response to danger. There’s no thought involved, just the basest, most primal part of the hindbrain activating in a fraction of a second. You don’t choose how you react, a lifetime of behavioral patterns and hardwired evolutionary heritage combine to do it for you.

Still, plenty of people believe that, when it comes to fight-or-flight, they know, somehow, without ever having experienced true danger, exactly which one they would do.

The other thing about the fight-or-flight instinct people don’t consider, is that it’s a bit of a misnomer, or rather, it’s too simple of an idea. There are other responses, besides fight and flight.

Freeze, for instance.

When the wizened, thin hand with the too-long nails clutches onto Nandor’s shoulder, curling forward to dig into his collarbone, that hindbrain kicks in, and Nandor... freezes.

Not for long, but long enough that, by the time his conscious brain kicks in, and he opens his mouth to scream, there’s another fetid hand pressing over his face, cutting off the sound, smothering his breath and smelling of grave soil, its nails gouging into his cheek.

The glass bottle shatters on the concrete ground as Nandor drops it, his phone clattering away as he reaches up to claw at the inhuman limb, trying desperately to jerk it off, but the thing drags him back anyway, and he’s swallowed by an unnatural darkness.

“ Sleep ,” hisses a voice in his ear, harsh and painful.

Nandor’s conscious flickers out.

~

??:??

When he comes to, he’s lying on his back. The ground below is hard, gritty. His shoulders are brushing up against flat surfaces on either side of him, but when he opens his eyes, it’s all darkness, not a sliver of light, so he can’t tell what it is.

He lifts his head - too far. His skull collides with rock, and he yelps, clutching his forehead as he lies back down. Shifting his legs has a similar result, his knees smacking into a flat, gritty stone surface above if he tries to bend them.

“Fuck...” Nandor reaches up, hands meeting the stone barely a foot or so above his head. He slides his hands across the plane, feeling for the edges, but there are none. Or rather, the stone hits a sharp ninety degree angle on either side and continues on down. That’s what his shoulders were brushing against.

Shit. Oh, shit. The rock is all around him.

Nandor pushes up against the flat stone, grunting, gasping, but it doesn’t budge. He tries again, and again, and again, the panic bubbling up inside of him. His feet kick out to brush against the stone walls around him, searching for any kind of opening, hands leaving the stone above to skim along the sides, but there’s nothing, the stone is everywhere, and it’s immoveable.

He bangs his fists against the ceiling, breath starting to come in shallow gasps as he screams for help, for anyone who can hear him, somebody has to hear him because he’s trapped and he can’t get out and he’s in a fucking stone box and he’s going to suffocate and-

ENOUGH!

It’s a voice, but it’s in his head and it hurts, hurts so bad, leaves him clutching his skull and whimpering and trying to curl in on himself, but his elbows and knees keep banging the sides of this box, this fucking tomb and that just starts it up again, the panic and the screaming and the overwhelming terror. He claws his nails into the ceiling, pushing and pushing and finding no give. More screaming, starting to sob, begging to be let out, please, somebody get him out of here, he’s not supposed to be here!

No one can hear you.

That voice again, it burns the words into his brain, worse than the worst migraine he’s ever had. Nandor twists onto his side, openly weeping for the second time today - if it even is still today. There’s no way of telling where he is, or how long he’s been here.

When Nandor was no more than seven or eight, one of his awful older cousins locked him inside a cupboard in his mamani’s kitchen, laughing and walking away as Nandor yelled and pounded on the inner door. By the time he was let out, over an hour later, he was covered in his own sweat and snot and tears, sobbing helplessly into an older relative’s chest - he can’t quite remember who, maybe his amme Farah? - as he babbled out an explanation for what happened. That cousin couldn’t sit down for a week afterwards, but it left Nandor with a lifelong fear of small spaces, so this is pretty much a nightmare scenario.

“Please...” Nandor gasps, shaking uncontrollably. “Please let me out!” He doesn’t even care if there’s a vampire out there; he’ll take a bloodsucker at his neck than the sensation that the walls he can’t see are slowly closing in on him.

It will not be long. He will come for you.

His head is on fire, and even though he knows the answer will hurt, he has to ask the question. “Wh-who?”

The Slayer .

Slayer... is it talking about the Coventry Slayers? Derek or Claude? Maybe Abraham?

“H-how, they don’t even know where I-”

HE WILL COME. OR YOU WILL DIE.

Nandor chokes down a terrified scream and digs at his pockets, trying to find his phone... only to remember that he was holding it, and almost certainly dropped it. It’s gone, he has no way to call anyone for help. Not that he could tell them where he is; no, he could yell and plead and beg for someone to come save him and no one would, nobody could, he’s alone. Always alone, in the end.

(He felt like this once, a long time ago, or maybe not very long at all. Imprisoned not by stone but by his own mind, twisted and warped into believing himself unworthy of anything more than the gilded cage of his own life.

Nobody else would put up with your bullshit, Nandor.

You’re lucky to have me.

Pathetic. I’ll forgive you, this once.

Where the fuck did you go?

Why is all your stuff gone?

Answer me, Nandor.

ANSWER ME!)

After another minute of straining to lift the stone above him, he collapses back onto the floor, exhausted already from trying to escape. 

It’s not fair, he thinks, wiping away the tears that won’t stop. I want to go home, I want to curl up in bed like we did this morning, let Guillermo hold me and never leave. What did I do wrong?

His wrist feels so empty without his prayer beads on them, their usual comfort escaping him, but he presses the bare skin to his lips anyway, clenching his eyes shut.

Please, maman, he thinks, help me. Let someone hear these words.

Rabbi asʾaluka khayra mā fī hādhihi al-laylati wa-khayra mā baʿdahā wa-aʿūdhu bika min sharri mā fī ḥādhihi al-laylati wa-sharri mā baʿdahā...

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

9:12PM

Guillermo will take this knowledge to the grave; while Nandor is procuring their drinks, he is frantically Googling phrases like “how to please your man” and “tips for giving a great hand job,” because it’s been kind of a while and, after everything Nandor has been through, Guillermo refuses to let whatever happens next be anything less than stellar for him. As for Guillermo, well, Nandor could probably touch his dick for three seconds and he’d shoot off like a firecracker.

Like he said, it’s been a while.

He’s on tip #3 of an article titled “Blowjob Gurus Give Their Secrets for Success” when the lights outside flicker off. Immediately, he whips his head up, the sensation of wrongness creeping up his spine. Maybe it’s a power outage... but just the outdoor lights?

The sound of shattering glass is faint - so faint, that he barely hears it - but it drives Guillermo to his feet, hurriedly striding to the motel door and yanking it open. To the right, he should be able to see an ambient glow coming from the outdoor hallway, but there’s only a thick, obscuring rain, and darkness. An unnerving darkness that makes his skin prickle.

“Nandor?” Guillermo calls.

No answer.

Swallowing, Guillermo glances nervously back into the room, before his resolve sets and he turns back inside, rounding the bed to dig Nandor’s bat out from where it rests under the bed frame. He shoves his feet into his shoes and ducks back out the door, gripping the bat in both hands as he creeps towards the covered hallway.

“Nandor?” He’s louder this time, and the returning silence casts a pall of dread over his shoulders. Nandor should be answering him. Why isn’t Nandor answering him? The rain isn’t that loud... “Nandor!”

The lights flick back on when he’s halfway across the porch, making him jump slightly, raising the bat a little higher. 

There’s something pooling on the concrete as he approaches the hallway entrance, something wet and dark and red -

“NANDOR!” Heart in his throat, Guillermo plunges forward, practically levitating the last few steps off the porch and skidding to a halt in front of the hallway.

It takes him a second to understand. The liquid seeping towards the parking lot gravel is dark, but not quite as dark as he’d feared, and splatters out from a single target point on the concrete in front of the vending machine, shattered glass surrounding it. Guillermo recognizes the drink bottle - some sort of local raspberry tea. Nandor had been drinking it the last couple of days, said he’d liked the tartness, that they should take a few bottles back home.

Nandor isn’t here.

Oh God. He isn’t here.

“NANDOR!” Guillermo yells again, desperately praying the other man will answer him, but receiving no response.

A faint buzz makes him crouch down, dread curdling in his stomach when he sees a familiar object. He shoves his hand under the machine, clawing for it, and scrapes his knuckles but manages to wrench the phone out. Its screen is cracked - a thousand times, Guillermo has told Nandor to buy a phone case, because this is what happens when you don’t take care of things, don’t protect them like you should, oh God- and the flashlight is turned on. There’s a notification from Dream Diamond Stable on the screen, and two missed calls.

“Fuck. FUCK!” Guillermo stumbles back into the parking lot, uncaring that the blinding rain is soaking through every inch of his clothing. He searches for any sign of the other man, calling for him, over and over, voice rising octave after octave, louder and louder until he’s practically lost it with how hoarse it sounds. He needs Nandor to answer him, has never needed to hear the sound of his own name - murmured in a deep, rumbling baritone, warm and at ease, pouring through his eardrums like honey in a soft morning light - more in his whole life.

But Nandor isn’t here. He’s gone.

But he wouldn’t just, he wouldn’t...

No.

No no no no-

The sudden sound of a door wrenched open makes Guillermo jump again, whipping around.

“What the fuck is going on?” Laszlo has appeared in Colin Robinson’s doorway. Dressed in uneven shirtsleeves, slacks unbuttoned, hair all akimbo, he looks every bit as startled to see Guillermo as Guillermo is to see him standing there, looking like that.

The room Laszlo is supposed to be in opens its door next, Nadja stepping out, a sleep mask pushing back her hair. She blinks angrily at him. “Why are you yelling for our bloody sound tech, Guillermo!” She glances back briefly towards Laszlo, then double takes, staring at him.

“Shit,” Laszlo says, smiling uneasily. “Hello, darling.”

The look of fury on Nadja’s face could send battle-hardened warriors screaming into the night. “What the shit are you doing?!”

“Laz, why’d you- oh.” Colin Robinson has emerged from his room, clad only in boxers and a faded blue graphic t-shirt - Garfield is complaining about Mondays on the front - his glasses askew and a bruise peeking up under the collar. “Well. Awkward...”

“ What the hell is going on here?!” Nadja roars.

Whatever weird shit is happening with Laszlo and Colin can wait. “Nandor, Nandor is gone !” Guillermo cries, holding up Nandor’s phone, waving it anxiously. “He- he was getting us drinks and he insisted on going and then the lights went out and I heard a crash and HE IS GONE-”

“Woah! Take a breath there, lad.” Laszlo quickly buttons up his slacks, striding forward with unearned confidence as he speeds past his enraged spouse to step off the porch and join Guillermo in front of the hallway. “He can’t have gone far, can he? Maybe he just decided to go for a bit of a walk...”

Guillermo jabs his free hand towards the shattered tea bottle. “So he just smashed his drink on the ground and ditched his phone and decided to walk off, Laszlo? Do you fucking hear yourself?”

“What are you saying?” Nadja has come to the edge of the porch, barefoot, her anger fading quickly into a look of genuine concern.

“We need to find him, that’s what I’m saying!” Guillermo can barely catch his breath, the panic rolling under his skin, the terror of the worst possibility gripping his heart. “We can’t waste time, everybody get dressed and spread out-”

“Wait.” Laszlo steps a little into the hallway, frowning at the vending machine. “Look at that.” He points to the rounded compartment where the drinks are dispensed to. There’s a folded piece of paper tucked into the closed compartment, unnoticed in Guillermo’s frantic search.

Guillermo practically tears the plastic cover open, yanking out the paper. He tries to be gentle when he unfolds it, because it’s yellowed and thicker than the paper you’d find in a printer or a modern notebook. More like the journal they found in the caves. The handwriting is jagged, and the smeared ink is suspiciously red. A little whimper escapes Guillermo’s throat at the thought of where the writer procured the liquid - no, he’s not going to go there. Not yet.

The note reads thusly:

Slayer,

Enough of these games. Come to Albrecht’s tomb and descend before the midnight bell strikes twelve. Bring no authorities with you, though your wretched companions may join us. Fail in either of these requirements, and your lover dies.

Guillermo chokes down a horrified sob as the last line drives a dagger into his heart. So it’s true, then. Something... something took Nandor. Snuck up on him like a thief in the night, rendered him helpless. Anything that could steal away a man of his size with barely a sound must be... unimaginably powerful.

And the worst, the worst part is, it took Nandor because of him. Because of Guillermo. He doesn’t know why it’s calling him a slayer, but clearly it’s been watching him, watching them , and knows what Nandor means to him. Knows it could use Nandor to force his hand.

What the fuck does it even want from him?

Unable to look at the paper anymore, Guillermo shoves it towards Laszlo and collapses back against the vending machine. He’s shaking, his legs seem unable to keep him upright, and he ends up sliding down into a squat, digging his hands into his hair. He wrenches at the locks, tears sliding down his cheeks.

“No...” Guillermo moans, softy. “Please, no...”

Laszlo is deathly silent beside him, everyone is silent, like to speak would acknowledge the horrible reality they’re facing. Slowly, Guillermo hears Laszlo smooth a hand over the paper, clearing his throat, as if to read aloud, but then his voice catches.

Guillermo glances over, watching Laszlo’s face get progressively paler as he reads. “Bloody Christ in heaven... Nadja, he’s-” Laszlo swallows, looking up at his wife. “He’s in trouble again. But so much worse this time.”

“Where is he?” Nadja’s voice wavers, her hand trembling as she grips the wooden pole holding up the porch roof. “Laszlo? Where is Nandor?”

Guillermo is struck, then, by the odd sensation of stepping back into a memory he never existed in. Laszlo’s despairing expression, the fear in Nadja’s eyes... He imagines a stormy night, more than two years back. The slam of a door, the echo of angry words that would hang heavy over a friendship, and only recently resolve. All of it, crashing back into them like the aftershock of an earthquake that rent everything familiar into dust.

And it’s his fault. It’s all Guillermo’s fault.

(The cross burned so sweetly in his palm, as he swung it towards the creature.

I will protect you, he thought.

But in the end, he failed.

He failed.

He failed. )

Laszlo finally opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by a car horn, loudly honking in the distance.

A familiar Dodge Caravan trundles down the road towards the motel, its windshield wipers working overtime to clear enough glass for visible driving. In the darkness it’s impossible to tell who’s inside, but there are two good guesses to be made. They all watch as it turns into the parking lot, tires crunching over the wet gravel as it comes to a halt just in front of the porch.

All four doors and the trunk of the car open simultaneously. Abraham Sandiford steps out of the driver’s side, Derek Sandiford out of the passenger’s side. Behind them, the remainder of the hunters, along with Jenna Feldstein, emerge from the vehicle - Claude slides his way out of the trunk, the sixth passenger in a five seat hatchback. All are appropriately clothed in hoodies or windbreakers, clearly having thought ahead of time about the weather. Guillermo kind of had more important things to think about.

“What happened?” Abraham asks, the first words he’s directly ever spoken to them. The irony of it makes Guillermo choke out a pained, near hysterical laugh. His knees finally give out, and he drops unceremoniously to sit on the concrete, raspberry tea immediately soaking into his jeans, but he doesn’t care, because it doesn’t fucking matter in the grand scheme of all the awful things that have occurred. That are occurring, presently.

“It- It took Nandor,” Guillermo explains in a warbling rush of words. “It took him and it’s going to- it’s going to kill him if I don’t go to the crypt and it’s my fault, it’s my fault, I should’ve- he said he would be quick and I let him go and why did I let him go, why did I...” He hangs his head, too ashamed to go on.

“What is he talking about?” Derek asks. Guillermo hears a car door shutting, but doesn’t look up.

“Look at this,” Laszlo answers. Gravel crunches, paper rustles. Someone is approaching Guillermo.

“Shit. Dad, we’re on a time crunch,” Derek says. “Less than three hours or their crewmate is gonna... yeah.”

Guillermo sees a pair of heavy boots in his peripheral vision, finally looking up when Abraham Sandiford squats down in front of him, wincing slightly. “Damn knees. What’s your name, son?”

“Guillermo,” he replies, wiping his eyes. Fuck, he probably looks so pathetic right now.

“And this Nandor. He’s your friend?”

“He’s...”

So much more than that. He’s the wry smile Guillermo looks forward to seeing every day. He’s the hand on Guillermo’s shoulder, keeping him steady through every shot of the film. He’s the warm eyes that fix on Guillermo with fond affection, as if he can see the great things inside Guillermo that Guillermo has never been able to see in himself. He’s the north star Guillermo has turned his sails towards.

They’ve known each other for two months, just two months - the two best months of Guillermo’s life. Nobody’s ever opened themselves up to Guillermo like Nandor has. Nobody’s ever let Guillermo see all the darkest parts of their heart, trusted him with such a vulnerable thing. Nobody’s ever made him feel this way. He thought Nandor liked being protective of him, but maybe that’s because Nandor hasn’t ever allowed himself to be the one who needs protecting.

Well, now he needs protecting.

“I have to find him,” Guillermo insists. “He’s my responsibility. That thing took him because of me.”

“Why?” Abraham asks. “Why you?”

“I don’t know!” Guillermo throws his hands up. “I don’t know what it wants from me. All I know is that when it’s around, I feel like my body is on fire and time slows down and I just... do things. That I shouldn’t be able to.” Like running forty feet in mere seconds. Or snapping a perfectly sharpened stake off a thick tree branch. Or leaping halfway across a room, hand blazing with heat and fisted with purpose.

“I believe you,” Abraham says, as if Guillermo would ever think otherwise. “We came here tonight because I think you have information we need, and I know we have information you need. It’s time we combined forces and put a stop to all this.”

Guillermo swallows, nodding. “I can’t lose him.”

“None of us can, lad.” Laszlo looks hollowed out, but there’s a determination set in his eyes. “Not again. Never again.”

“Agreed.” Nadja leans over the porch railing, pointing at Guillermo. “Don’t think just because you two are bumping uglies that we care about him any less!”

“Yeah, what Nadja said!” Colin Robinson steps up beside her; blessedly, he’s found a pair of pants somewhere in the last few minutes. “I mean, I personally probably care the least about Nandor, but I’m neither his long time friend, nor am I interested in touching his pen-”

“I think that’s enough, Colin!” Laszlo motions towards the awkwardly shifting group of twenty-somethings standing around Abraham’s car. “Anyway, I agree with Mister Sandiford. We should put our heads together and come up with a plan. Darling, our room should be big enough to act as a base of operations, yes?”

Nadja fixes Laszlo with a pointed look. “Why not Colin Robinson’s room? All of the camera equipment is in there, and surely we need to show the slayers the footage we have seen. Unless there’s a reason everyone should stay out of there? Some sort of event that has taken place inside that would render it unfit for a group meeting?”

“Er, well, that is... ” Laszlo looks like he’s scrambling for an excuse, and doing a poor job of it. Guillermo has heard enough of Laszlo’s wild stories to know he’s not monogamous, but seriously? Him and Colin Robinson? Guillermo did not see that one coming. And considering Nadja’s barely concealed fury, neither did she.

“We could use my room?” Guillermo offers, trying to keep the peace. They don’t need to be fighting, not when Nandor’s life is on the line.

“I like the cut of Gizmo’s jib,” Colin Robinson says, smiling a little too broadly at Guillermo. “Or, wait, we’re not calling him that anymore-”

“Ugh, never mind!” Nadja throws her hands up, spinning around and walking back towards her room. “Everybody had better get in here in the next thirty seconds or you’re getting locked outside for the vampire to make a snack out of!”

Abraham rises to his feet, holding a hand out to Guillermo. “You know, your boyfriend’s lucky. He’s got a lot of people who are gonna fight for him.”

Guillermo takes his hand, lets himself be hoisted up. “He’s not my...” He trails off as Abraham raises an eyebrow. “Uh, we haven’t really put labels on it?”

Abraham shakes his head, sighing. “You and my son have a lot in common.”

“I don’t know what that means?”

“Don’t worry about it. Go put some clean pants on; your jeans look like a crime scene.”

“Yes sir.”

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

9:36PM

There is a suspicious stain on the edge of Laszlo’s collared shirt, and Nadja is trying not to reach across the circular table to grab the lapels of the garment and wrench the man across the space so she can scream every bloody obscenity running through her head at this moment. He is standing there in his ruffled clothes, looking incredibly well fucked despite the visceral tension in the room, and the only thing presently keeping him from an untimely disembowling is the multiple potential witnesses. He has smartly chosen to keep his distance, but the fact that it is Colin Robinson standing beside him, listening intently to Derek Sandiford’s explanation of their freshly discovered vampire lore, and not her - oh, bitterness is a delicate amuse bouche compared to the feast of fury at the back of her throat.

Nadja loves her husband. She adores him. He is brilliant, and charming, and whip smart and fucking incredible in bed. Marrying him was the best decision she’s ever made. But fucking hell, she could kill him right now.

It isn’t the fact itself of what he’s done. Nadja reconciled herself to occasionally sharing her husband with a happenstance lover long ago. He enjoys himself, and she likes seeing Laszlo enjoy himself. She isn’t particularly possessive when it comes to sex. Sometimes, she even joins in!

Nadja will not be joining in this time.

Fucking Colin Robinson of all fucking people. Is Laszlo actually serious? This diet Milton Waddams motherfucker who - yes, now that she can actually see his arm muscles, looks a little fit, but otherwise - has the appeal of store brand white block cheese? This is who Laszlo decided was a good lay? At least if Laszlo was going to ignore his feelings through meaningless sex, he could’ve tried to bonk Nandor again. She’d at least understand that. Guillermo would probably have clawed his eyes out, but it would’ve made some fucking sense!

But no. He chose this... studio man. The driest cracker in the Saltines sleeve. He doesn’t even have hair, for fuck’s sake! Laszlo loves gripping his hands into his lovers’ hair while making passionate love. It’s a whole bloody thing with him. What is he going to grab - Colin Robinson’s knobby ears?

Laszlo is keeping his eyes firmly focused on Derek’s face like the coward he is, so instead of trying to bore holes into the back of his head with the power of her laser-focused gaze, she looks to Guillermo, who stands a little off to the side of her husband. The man is seemingly also attentive to their speaker, but she can see the nothingness behind his eyes, gets the sense that he’s lost in his head, in a morass of worry and rumination. His perpetual skittishness sits visible on the slight tremor of his shoulders, as if he’s one second from either bolting out the door or collapsing into despair. He’s still clutching Nandor’s bat, absentmindedly rubbing circles into the worn leather strip around the handle. He’s managed to drag out the single thread of empathy in her cold, black heart. She feels a temporary kinship, brokered through his body language reminding her of her very own state earlier this morning, when Laszlo was the one in trouble.

“So if I’m to understand correctly,” Laszlo drawls, far too relaxed for the circumstances, “you’re telling us that everything we believe about warding off the vampire is wrong?”

“Not entirely. A stake through the heart will probably kill the creature, and I still think garlic wards them off, but if the vampire was just weak to holy objects, then my dad’s tags would’ve worked for me. They didn’t, but these did.” Derek rests the two little boxes in his hand on the table, then motions to her ruminating crewmate. “Guillermo, you said that when the vampire entered your room, your necklace got hot in its presence?”

Guillermo, drawn back out of disassociation by hearing his name, blinks and nods, tugging the cross out from under his t-shirt. “It was burning but... not painful? I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Like there was some power there,” Abraham states, twin dog-tags dangling from the chain between his fingers as he gently twirls them in a circle. “Some kind of energy emanating from within.”

“Yeah. That’s exactly it.”

“And this power protects us from the vampire,” Laszlo posits. “What causes it, exactly?”

“Dad and I are still going back and forth on this,” Derek replies, shrugging. “We agree that it’s got something to do with either love, or belief. Dad believed the dog tags would protect him, and they did. But he wouldn’t have believed it unless he was reminded of the love his dad had for him. It’s the same with my Morse Code machines, and Jenna’s necklace, and Guillermo’s cross. That’s why his tags didn’t work for me, they weren’t my belief object.”

“So it must be something that represents an emotional connection to another person.” Jenna has piped up, voice less mousy and more determined than Nadja has ever heard it. “A gift given out of love.”

“But that still doesn’t make sense!” Nadja points to Abraham’s dog tags. “Did you not give your son those because you love him and wanted to protect him?”

“Maybe it’s a one person per object kinda deal,” Tonya suggests. “Or one object per person, and once you have one, nothing else can replace it?”

“These are all good questions, but we have no way of answering them right now.” Colin Robinson pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose like the protagonist of a shounen anime, eyes fixated on Derek’s homemade devices. “We need to get close to the vampire to test these theories, and if we’re doing that, we’re not going to have time to stand around and gab about the results. This will have to be more of a field experiment than anything you can control in a lab. It would make a fascinating research paper, though I don’t know under which of the STEM fields this could qualify. Cryptozoology isn’t exactly a respected science-”

“I don’t think this is the time to worry about that, son,” Abraham cuts in, which is fantastic, because Nadja was about to and if she did, it wouldn’t have ended well. “Everybody here should bring any objects they think might qualify under the rules we’ve already established, and hopefully, we all have something that works. Whoever doesn’t is gonna be a sitting duck.”

“So we keep the stakes and weapons, leave the crosses and holy water out.” Shanice nods along, one hand shoved into her pocket, the fabric moving in a way that suggests she’s toying with something inside. “We’ve got all of our equipment in the back of the car. The camera crew should probably pack everything up and bring it with them, in case we need anything.”

“How are we even going to get into the graveyard?” Jenna asks. “The whole thing is surrounded by that iron fence and they lock the gates at night.”

Shanice smirks. “I know how to pick locks.”

“Since when?” Derek asks.

Shanice shrugs. “Since Ms. Evans took my very expensive, very favorite tarot cards in junior year and I had to break into the admin office to get them back.”

“That was you?” Jenna gapes at her. “The office was trashed, they threw a fit!”

“Well, I had to make it look like I was looking for something else, or it would’ve been too obvious!” Shanice folds her arms, tilting her nose up as if a self-important poodle in a Disney movie. “It was religious discrimination; they wouldn’t have taken anybody’s cross or Bible.”

“Oy, focus!” Nadja snaps her fingers. “We do not have time for reminiscing about school days, we have a graveyard to break into!”

“That might be a problem.” Claude, who had stepped out for a phone call, shuts the door behind him, a pensive look on his face. “Just talked to my mom. Apparently Delmonico is ramping up night patrols around town as a result of Doug and Barb getting offed. If they see us breaking into the property, it won’t go down well.”

“Hmmm...” Abraham strokes his beard, a glint in his eyes. “Guess we’ll just have to provide a distraction to keep them away from the graveyard.”

“What do you have in mind, good sir?” Laszlo asks.

“Well, it’d be quite the problem if strange things started happening at all those crime scenes the cops are investigating, all at once. Nothing permanently damaging, but... Anyway, I’d need some volunteers to help.”

“I’m up for it,” Claude says. “You know I love making Delmonico sweat.”

“I’ll go too,” Tonya agrees. “Jenna, you’re with us too, right?”

Surprisingly, Jenna shakes her head. “I’m not running away this time. That stupid vampire killed Coco and made the last six weeks the worst ever . I want a crack at it.”

“Hell yes!” Shanice wraps an arm over Jenna’s shoulder, pumping her fist. “We’re gonna kick that ugly bloodsucker’s ass!”

“Alright, then my dad, Tonya and Claude will provide us a distraction,” Derek confirms. “Shanice will break us into the graveyard, and then we’ll head to the crypt. Any questions?”

Colin Robinson’s hand immediately shoots up. “I have some concerns about the logistics of this plan-”

Oh screw this, Nadja’s had enough of him. “For fuck’s sake, shut your mouth for once in your bloody life, Colin Robinson! Nobody wants to hear you drone on about fucking logistics! We have a plan, we’re sticking to the plan. End of story.”

Colin Robinson’s hand slowly lowers, and he clasps them together, fidgeting and letting out a nervous chuckle as Laszlo steps forward, offering, “Darling, was that really necessary? He was only trying to help.”

“He’s helped enough tonight,” Nadja spits. “And you’ve certainly had your fun helping him right back, haven’t you? Darling. ”

Laszlo scowls. “Well at least he was bloody honest about wanting my help.”

“What does that mean?!”

“You know perfectly well what it means.”

“Oh ho ho, I’m sorry, are you angry that I tried to spare your feelings? Because you don’t seem to have given a shit about mine! Talk about honesty , how long were you planning on schtupping him before telling me?”

“Nadja! You’re being entirely unreasonable-”

“Unreasonable?! Do you know what’s unreasonable, Laszlo Cravensworth? Running away from your problems to go and stick your dick in-”

“STOP IT!”

The room falls silent, the only sounds left being the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the shallow breaths of the man who just yelled. Guillermo’s fists are clenched, his eyes wide, his face pale. He whips his head back and forth to look at them both. Nadja’s never seen such an intensely angry look on his face.

“I don’t care about your stupid fucking problems right now! Nandor is out there, in terrible danger, probably hurt and scared out of his mind, and you want to bitch at each other because neither of you bothered to be fully honest, as per usual? Get over yourselves, the both of you! At least your partner didn’t get taken by a fucking vampire! At least you still know your partner is still alive!”

Then, before either of them can reply, Guillermo shoves past Laszlo and Colin Robinson, storming out the door and slamming it shut behind him.

There’s another moment of silence.

“He seems stressed,” Colin Robinson finally says.

Nadja hears Abraham muttering to his son (“Are they… always like this? ” ) but seeming sane and well adjusted in front of the Sandifords is of least concern right now.

She didn’t know Guillermo was capable of showing such grit, able to command the room so decisively. It’s a surprising turn of events from this normally quivery little hedgehog of a man. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? She watched the footage of their night in the forest. Heard the way Guillermo took control of the situation, put himself in front of whatever was menacing them, in order to keep Nandor safe.

That’s… well, if it isn’t love, it’s sure fucking something.

A bitter thought cuts through her core: Would Laszlo do that for me? Or would he go running the opposite way?

No time to ponder this. “Everyone knows the plan then, yes? Good. Laszlo, go help Colin Robinson load the car,” Nadja orders, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Laszlo asks.

She throws her hands up. “To make sure that stupid vlaskas doesn’t go running off without us!”

The rain hasn’t let up, and the door to Guillermo and Nandor’s room is half ajar. Nadja supposes that, with Nandor taken by the vampire, there’s little worry that anything is coming to get them. When she swings the door open, Guillermo is standing in front of his bed, back to her, shoving things into his suitcase and muttering to himself. His side of the room appears quite neat, despite it being their fourth night in Coventry, but evidence of Nandor’s slovenly ways resides all over the room; piles of flannels tumbling out of his suitcase atop the table against the wall, bed sheets rucked up like he was fighting a sleep demon - and is that fucking takeout sitting on the floor? What the hell?

“You aren’t planning on leaving us behind, are you?” she asks, stepping into the room and shutting the door. “With this whole man on a mission attitude you have got going on.”

“If you all bother to hurry up, I won’t have to,” Guillermo replies, zipping the large pocket of his bag before walking towards the bathroom. “If you want to be useful, help me pack up Nandor’s stuff.”

“Who said I was coming in here to be useful?” She makes a sour face at Nandor’s suitcase, but starts to shove all his clothes down into the bag. Clattering sounds come from the bathroom as she keeps talking, continues packing. “I told Laszlo about the job offer!”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that!” Guillermo’s voice echoes off the bathroom tiles. “Did he really sleep with Colin Robinson?”

“It seems like it, yes. Honestly, I do not understand the appeal, but then again, my husband’s tastes are… of a wider range than mine.”

A familiar object catches her eye, and she carefully lifts the string of amber beads off the table as Guillermo steps back out of the bathroom, flicking off the light behind him. She cradles the beads in her open palms, and when Guillermo sees them, he freezes, eyes widening.

“Are those…?”

“It would seem so.” She swallows down a bitter taste, one of lingering regret and an odd, foreign flavor - oh, that’s shame, isn’t it? So long since she’s tasted that particular kind of emotion. Quietly, she continues, “If the Sandifords are correct…”

Guillermo nods. “Yeah. That’s probably his object thingy. And it was protecting him until he… yeah.”

She thrusts her palms out towards him. “Here. Take them. When you see him again, you can give them back to him.”

Guillermo reaches out, hand hesitating over her palm. He’s lost that confident look from before, back to uncertainty, doubt. “Nadja, what- what if he’s already-”

“Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare give up on him, not now.” She grabs his wrist suddenly, flipping it over and pressing the beads into his hand. With a furious look, she tells him, “He is so used to people giving up on him, Guillermo. Even we gave up on him, for a while. You don’t get to make our mistake. Understand?”

Maybe Nadja has not always been a good friend. Maybe she could’ve done more, should’ve seen how the Nandor she loved was disappearing much faster than she did. Maybe she is angry with herself, for refusing to see what was right in front of her face. Maybe too, she is a bad partner, a hypocrite, saying she was trying to protect Laszlo’s feelings, when all she was trying to do was spare her own.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Everything is couched in a maybe.

Nadja has never been able to afford true vulnerability, to admit when she is wrong, when she is hurt, or when she is scared. But she is scared for Nandor, for what has happened to him, and what might happen to him. She is scared for her relationship with Lazlo, and whether there will even be a relationship after all is said and done. She is scared of the future, of the answer she will have to give, and how much it will determine what she does next.

Guillermo’s fingers tighten around the beads, and he stares down at them as Nadja draws her hands away, folding her arms and repeating what she just said. “Do you understand, Guillermo?”

“…Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He looks up at her. “Thank you.”

She frowns. “For what?”

“For loving him as much as you do.” Carefully, Guillermo winds the beads around his own wrist. Once it’s clear they’re secure and won’t be going anywhere, he smiles. “And for trusting me to do the same.”

“Yes, well… don’t fuck it up.” Eugh, enough of all these messy emotions. Nadja twists around, striding towards the door. “Finish packing everything. I expect you to be at the van in the next ten minutes, ready to go kick some vampire ass!”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Guillermo replies, like the smartass he’s turning out to be.

Nadja realizes she’s starting to like him, after all.

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

10:33PM

The good thing about being the kid of a guy who works with electronics for a living is that you end up with a lot of weird hobbies and knowledge. For instance, despite the growing popularity of encryption for police scanners, Coventry’s police department doesn’t use any, either because of a lack of budgeting or - the more likely answer - Delmonico isn’t worried that anyone is going to try and listen in.

That’s his problem, really. Delmonico always underestimates the human spirit’s tenacity to overcome, to problem-solve, even in the face of threat, intimidation, and violence.

Plus, he forgot one important thing: you should never underestimate a Sandiford when the chips are down.

“What are you hearing?” Guillermo whispers to Derek, shrouded in the darkness of the documentary crew’s van. They’re bunched up next to each other in the middle row, Shanice to his left, Guillermo to his right. Up front, Laszlo is at the wheel, with Colin Robinson in the passenger seat; neither are talking, but they keep shooting each other weird looks - Derek isn’t going to question it, he doesn’t have time for weird drama he isn’t a part of. Nadja and Jenna are in the back row, which nobody particularly engineered but Jenna is looking both excited and nauseous about, doing her best to provoke conversation from the other woman with simple questions; questions Nadja doesn’t seem too keen on answering. Derek feels for Jenna, he really does, but Nadja’s friend is missing and she seems to be on the outs with her husband, so any hint of a diplomatic demeanor is gone and she’s taken to mostly staring out the window and giving one sentence answers.

“Nothing out of the ordinary yet,” Derek mutters back. He’s wearing one earbud that connects to the small police scanner radio in his lap, and he recognizes the voices of some of the lower ranked sheriffs, but Delmonico’s own barking tone cuts through the silence every few minutes, demanding updates. He sounds spooked. Three deaths in six weeks will do that. Maybe if he wasn’t such an arrogant prick and had listened to Derek’s dad… but Derek can be angry later, can grieve when another life isn’t on the line.

They’re parked in an abandoned lot, tucked behind a patch of trees less than five hundred feet from the graveyard. The gates looked locked from this distance, but they haven’t gotten a signal from his dad, so it’s still a risk to leave their position and check. They saw one patrol car pass by a few minutes ago, everyone in the van holding their breaths, hoping it wouldn’t stop, that it didn’t see them in the trees. When it continued on, Derek was certain their current hiding spot was secure, but once they’re out of the van they’ll be completely exposed.

A firm buzzing in his pocket draws the attention of everyone in the car. Derek pulls out his phone and reads the message from his dad: a single bat emoji. It’s the signal that they’re going to start up the distraction plan. Best not to create a trail of clear evidence in case anybody gets caught.

“We’re starting,” Derek says, holding a finger to his lips. “Everybody stay quiet.”

They sit in silence for maybe a minute before, faintly in the distance, Derek hears a single boom.

Immediately, the scanner goes wild. “Something just exploded up near the trailhead!” one of the officers shouts.

Delmonico’s voice cuts in. “Well, don’t just gab about it, go see what it is! Smith, go with Paulson for backup.”

There’s more chatter that matters less than what Derek is listening for, and another minute goes by before the second, much closer boom goes off.

The radio explodes again. “That was on Main Street! ”

“Another one? Captain, orders?”

Delmonico lets out a fuzzy groan. “Oh fucking Christ- I’m coming, I’ll meet you there.”

Thirty seconds later, the sound of a siren approaching makes Derek tense up, hold his breath again. He watches as the leaves around them light up with the familiar red and blue flashing lights of a cop car, and a cruiser zooms down the street past them, not paying them any mind as it hauls ass towards the explosion. Derek thinks he can see the shape of Delmonico’s big head through the half-lowered window of the cruiser, but he can’t be sure, and it’s gone a second later.

“We should be in the clear,” Guillermo says, reaching for the door handle.

Derek grabs his shoulder. “We gotta wait, man. We haven’t gotten the signal.”

Guillermo gives him an exasperated look. “Fuck the signal, you just saw them clear out! We don’t have time to wait.”

“Yes we do.” Derek glares at him when he tries to tug away. “Man, you gotta calm down and think. You’re not gonna do Nandor any good if you get busted. Just wait.”

“He’s right,” Laszlo pipes up, twisting his head to give Guillermo a pointed look. “You’re a bad judge of time, lad; it’s those frazzled nerves of yours. It hasn’t been as long as you think it has. Have some patience.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Guillermo grumbles, but he settles back into the seat. “I’m counting to sixty, and then I’m going.”

Luckily, it isn’t nearly that long before they hear the rumble of an engine kicking up gears, and seconds later, a motorbike speeds by, the helmeted driver raising her fist to give them a thumbs up. Tonya is barely out of view before Guillermo yanks his door open, and everybody tumbles out.

They loaded all of the hunters’ equipment into the back of the van, piled high atop the camera equipment, an odd meeting of worlds. It’s impossible to know what they’ll need, but it seems a safe bet to take their weapons, scout out what they’re up against, and come back for anything else before venturing further. Derek brought an old wood chopping axe his dad had sitting out in the shed, while Jenna boasts an actual replica of a short sword wielded by her favorite fantasy novel lady knight, and Shanice is double fisting a stake and a silver dagger. He isn’t sure either of their weapons are actually sharpened, but with enough force behind the blow, they could still do some pretty significant damage. Guillermo and Colin Robinson are the only ones who came equipped with a weapon on the documentary crew’s team - Colin Robinson has some unnervingly large folding knives in his spelunking gear - so the rest of them pull random items from the slayer stockpile. It’s agreed that Shanice, Derek and Guillermo will scout ahead, entering the graveyard before the rest of the group and ensuring that they have a clear, secure path to the crypt.

“This place is so much creepier at night,” Guillermo comments as they cross the street, the pale moonlight the only thing lighting up the ground beyond the iron gate. “There’s barely any streetlights in this whole town. How did you both get used to living in a place with so much darkness?”

“It’s all we’ve ever known,” Derek says. He takes a firm grip on the gate as Shanice squats down and pulls out her set of lockpicks, preparing them. “I don’t know how you get used to all that light and noise at night in the city. Don’t you ever want to turn it off? Experience the world as it’s supposed to be?”

“I hate the dark,” Guillermo explains, staring off through the bars of the gate, his eyes pointedly fixed on a looming structure three rows back. “When I was a kid, I used to spend an hour or two after my parents had put me to bed with my head under the covers, just staring out into my bedroom and trying to see any sign of things moving in the shadows. I knew every piece of furniture in that room, every pile of clothing, every toy tucked into a corner, but when the lights went off, the world became something foreign… unknowable.” He shakes his head, swallowing. “When I got too scared, I’d flee my room and crawl into my parents’ bed, and it was always less scary, sharing the dark with somebody else.”

“That’s a rule, in caving,” Shanice comments, diligently wriggling her metal tools into the rusty gate lock. “You never go by yourself. It’s a good policy in caving, and life, I think.” She glances up at Derek, winking slyly.

Guillermo nods distantly. “I don’t think Nandor likes being alone, dark or no dark. He’s been alone a lot, recently. Nobody there to help him get out of bad situations… I can’t imagine how it felt. I hope he’s okay.”

There are unknowable things happening behind Guillermo’s eyes, a story that Derek doesn’t know the half of, but suspects runs far deeper than shows on the surface. He recalls what he himself said to Laszlo, just a few short days ago:If somebody you loved was missing, would you worry about the danger?

“Hey.” Guillermo glances over at him, and Derek shoots him a comforting smile. “Even if he’s scared, I’ll bet he knows you’re coming for him, right? So if he knows that, he won’t really feel alone. Not like he was before.”

“Yeah…” Guillermo’s lips curl tight, and he tugs his phone out, checking the lock screen. “It’s quarter to eleven. We need to hurry up.”

“Almost there… got it!” Shanice pumps a fist as an audible click echoes from the lock, and she pushes the gate, letting it swing wide open. “Alright boys. Get your weapons up and let’s find a vampire.”

The graveyard is still and silent but for the incessant chirping of crickets, and the sound is both soothing and an ill omen. Noises seem to disperse whenever the vampire appears, so their continued presence indicates the creature isn’t nearby, but that’s bad news for Nandor, if the vampire is leading them on a wild goose chase. Derek hefts the axe high as Shanice casts a light across the rocky, overgrown path with her flashlight. Their crunching footsteps march in lockstep as they approach the tomb that’s familiar to every townsperson in Coventry, a standing structure older than the most distantly remembered living soul.

The iron door of the Albrecht crypt is no longer attached to the hinges, lying prone against the stone archway around the entrance, its metal body bent and twisted into an odd shape, as if it was wrenched out of place. The sight is highly unnerving, setting Derek on high alert as they shine a flashlight down the stairs, the beam only making it halfway before it fades out into the darkness.

“Should we go get the others?” Shanice whispers in Derek’s ear. “The vampire could be inside.”

It could be, but Derek gets the sense it’s not. “Guillermo, you said that when that thing comes around, you get… tingly?”

Guillermo nods. “Goosebumps, and it feels like my chest is on fire.”

“How close do you have to be?”

“Pretty close… less than a hundred feet.”

“You sensing anything right now?”

Guillermo closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “…No. Nothing.”

Just to check, Derek slips a hand into his pocket, but the Morse code machines remain cool, inert.

“I think we’re safe for now,” Derek says, motioning to the both of them. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

Even with Guillermo acting as their human vampire detector, Derek takes the descent slowly, raising the axe above his head and not stepping anywhere the beam of Shanice’s flashlight doesn’t hit. The precaution isn’t necessary, but he doesn’t know that until they hit the bottom of the steps and emerge into the main chamber of the crypt. He hears Shanice gasp, and he can’t blame her, considering the sight before them.

Albrecht’s tomb is an utter wreck. Derek hasn’t been here since a school trip to learn about the towns’ history back in fifth grade, but based on what Guillermo described from his tour on Tuesday, the place was mostly as intact as he remembers. Not anymore. Every stone coffin has been upended, smashed to bits against the tiled floor, the hanging light bulbs shattered into tiny shards. The block of great round stone atop the dais in the center has been shoved aside, and Albrecht’s coffin, the centerpiece of the crypt, has vanished.

But the coffin isn’t the only thing that’s missing. The ground beneath it is gone as well. Or, rather, maybe it was never there to begin with, because at the place where the great stone once sat is a wide hole, circular and jagged, leading down into an endless blackness. Derek approaches the hole, pulling out his own flashlight and shining it through, and his heart sinks when he sees what’s inside. “Shanice, c’mere. Is this what I think it is?”

Shanice steps up next to him. “Oh. Fuck. That’s a cave system down there.”

“What?” Guillermo comes around to Derek’s other side, staring down into the hole. “Oh God… no. You don’t think…?”

“I do think,” Derek confirms, sighing. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Albrecht’s coffin is missing and now there’s a great big hole in the middle of the crypt. If I had to make a bet, I’d bet we're going to have to go down there.”

Guillermo looks pale, and Derek can’t blame him. He’s all ready to suggest that maybe the documentary crew should stay up top as lookouts, or at least Nadja and Guillermo, who have exactly zero caving experience, but without missing a beat, Guillermo says, “Then we’d better hurry up and get the climbing equipment from the van. I wanna be at the bottom of that hole by eleven-thirty, at the latest, and you’ll need to teach me how to work one of those descenders.”

“Are you sure?” Shanice asks.

Guillermo nods, firmly. His hands tremble, but his eyes are set with a stern determination. “I’m going to find Nandor. And I’m going to make sure he never feels alone, ever again.”

Well. That settles that.

~

11:32PM

Derek’s feet touch the bottom of the pit beneath Albrecht’s tomb, a distance which, thankfully, isn’t more than twenty feet from the top of the pitch. He’s bringing up the rear of the group, the last down the rope. By some miracle, getting everyone suited up in safety gear and hooked into harnesses, teaching the newbies how to use the descender, setting up the rope for the pitch, and sending seven people down it only took about forty-five minutes. If the pitch was longer, if they hadn’t had the bonus help of Colin Robinson and Laszlo’s previous experience, if any of them had frozen on the descent, if any little thing had gone wrong, they could’ve lost so much time. As it is, they have less than half an hour until the stroke of midnight, so they’d better get moving.

Beneath the crypt is a small cavern, no more than thirty feet across, but a tunnel leads further on into the darkness. They’ve had to spread out the equipment, which means fewer lights and fewer weapons for each person. If they’d had more time to plan… but no worrying about it now.

The floor beneath his feet is dusty and dry, which isn’t like most of the other caverns in the area, but since the graveyard is towards the top of the elevation Coventry sits on, it’s likely that as they descend, things will get muddy and wet. That will make the climbing harder, more dangerous. More chances to slip off the ropes, if they need to make another descent. Fuck, Derek hopes it’s a straight shot to wherever they need to go from here.

“You think this cave system connects to any others?” he asks Shanice as she pulls out a roll of metallic tape and rips a piece off, wrapping it around the bottom of the rope - something to catch the glint of their lights so they can easily find it again when they come back. If they- no. He’s not going to think like that.

Still, he pulls out his phone and begins to type out a message as Shanice answers, “Probably. Maybe after we kill the bloodsucker we can plan a return trip, check it out. I’m not really mapping any passages tonight though, just marking where we’ve come from.” She waggles the roll of tape pointedly.

Derek snorts, shaking his head as he looks down at his phone, fingers rapidly moving over the screen. “Shanice, I love you, but if you think I’m going back down into a hole in the ground for any reason other than killing a vampire, you’ve been smoking too much of the good shit Claude gets from Ticonderoga.”

When she doesn’t answer, he glances up, and she’s got this funny look on her face, like she’s just experienced something earth shattering.

“What?” he asks.

“You just- you…”

“I what? What’d I do?” Did he say something wrong? Was he too mean?

She mutters something under her breath that is definitely not in English, and then shakes her head, turning. “Nothing. Never mind. Let’s go.”

Derek finishes typing out the message and gives it a quick read over before he sends it:

Cave system at the meeting spot. We’re going in. Phones won’t work underground, but I’ll call as soon as it’s all over. I love you, Dad. I’ll try to make you proud.

He hits send, and tucks the phone back into his bag, but not thirty seconds later it vibrates again. Suspecting it’s a reply, he pulls it back out to read the answer:

You always do.

Okay, he’s not gonna cry in the middle of a cave in front of his friends and a bunch of basically strangers from the city. Suck it up, man, there’s a vampire to stake.

“Come on, we’re wasting time,” Guillermo calls. He’s standing in front of the mouth of the tunnel, twirling the bat in the air between his hands with a surprisingly acrobatic grace. Preternatural, one might call it. He doesn’t even seem to be conscious of his motions, eyes fixed down the tunnel, focused, like a predator looking for its prey in the depths of a moonless night.

So, it seems like it’s gonna be the preternatural versus the supernatural. The vampire called him a slayer in the hostage note, and referred to the rest of them as his minions, which, rude. Derek didn’t spend hours studying vampire lore, improving his aim by throwing stakes at targets, or practicing hand to hand combat with Claude in the basement of Claude’s mom’s house to have his skills disparaged. But something about that title, slayer, seems to hold meaning to the creature. Enough to stalk Guillermo, watch who he interacts with, develop an understanding of his relationship with Nandor, and kidnap the other man to lure Guillermo in. So what the hell does it want with him?

“Er, Madame Feldstein, have you ever wielded one of those?” Laszlo is edging away from Jenna, who is trying to copy the same twirling motions Guillermo is performing, and doing a poor job of it. Her sword is thin and lightweight, but Jenna has never been the most adept with spatial awareness - a lifetime of getting picked last in gym class had been her fate in school - and so it’s kind of wobbling and dangerously close to slipping through her fingers and flying akimbo to stab one of them in an eye or a liver.

Derek is going to call out to her, tell her to cool it, but before he can, a thin figure emerges from the darkness behind her, gripping her wrist tightly. Jenna shrieks and whirls around.

Nadja frowns back at her. “You are going to hurt somebody with that. Even prop swords can do damage. Hold the hilt firmly, and do not try doing all of this fancy donkey shit.”

Jenna blinks back at her, wide eyed. “O-okay…” Derek swears he can see steam coming off the top of her head.

Man, she’s got a bad crush.

And Derek isn’t usually one to meddle, but considering Jenna’s track record with wins as of late…

“Nadja, turn on your headlamp,” Derek calls. “Jenna, show her how to do it.”

Having satisfactorily given his friend the opening she’ll never take, Derek turns from watching a car crash in progress to walk over to stand beside Guillermo, who stops twirling the bat and rests it against his shoulder.

“I don’t care if we kill the vampire or not, as long as Nandor is safe,” Guillermo says, glancing at him. “But I’m guessing you do.”

Derek nods his head affirmatively. “I’m not leaving until it’s done. Spent my whole life living under the shadow of a monster. I’ve had enough.”

“Okay.” Guillermo holds out a fist, giving Derek a knowing smile. “Then let’s go kill a monster.”

“Fuck yeah, man.” Derek completes the fist bump, grinning back. “And let’s go save your boyfriend.”

“He’s not… you know what? Yeah. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

July 15th, 2022

11:44PM

In the pitch black of the underground, trodding his way down tunnels that must be millions of years old, Guillermo recalls a memory.

See, vampires have existed in the myths of dozens of cultures throughout the world over the centuries. If it’s safe to assume they really exist - and Guillermo is now firmly in the believer camp - then they’ve spanned the globe as readily as humans have. And unlike many of his European-heritaged peers, Guillermo’s first encounter with a vampire legend came in the form of a dire warning from his abuelita, a woman who’d grown up in a small town in the Mexican state of Tlaxcala - a place where a local vampire legend ran rampant.

 El tlahuelpuchi es un agente del diablo, she’d told him. The tlahuelpuchi is an agent of the devil. He couldn't have been more than three or four years old, curled up in her lap one cold winter’s eve, enraptured as she explained the myth of the vampiric woman who craved the blood of infants, but would attack older children out of desperation. He recognizes now that her story was a firm warning to a child prone to leaving bed at all hours of the evening and wandering the house, the fear of the dark not yet instilled into his anxious little mind. A way to keep him tucked up safe in bed, giving his poor mama and papa a break from his twilight hour energy.

The story worked a little too well, and the nightmares came - of a red-fanged woman looming over his bed, waking him with screaming sobs. A poor outcome for his sleep-deprived parents, and a cruel fate to bestow upon a child. So, not more than a week later, his abuelita once again drew him into her lap and told him the story of the tlaheupuchi, with a new detail included.

Los goosebumps. A special power the de la Cruz family held to let them know when la tlahuelpuchi was near. The creature’s presence would cause one’s skin to prickle with an icy chill, and your chest to explode with a raging fire. His abuelita promised it would warn Guillermo of the danger, and he would be safe from la tlahuelpuchi’s blood-sucking terror.

Guillermo has carried that story in the recesses of his mind, like a book on a rickety attic shelf, tucked between memories of summer trips to Puerto Ángel and the middle school assembly where he’d won an award for a creative writing competition. It’s only in the last couple of days that he’s taken that book down, wiped the dust off the cover and flipped through the pages, trying to understand how a legend from his childhood has proved to be more fact than fiction.

He’d felt that coal-fire burning in his lungs last night, in the frozen moment where Something That Should Not Be cast its formless shadow over Nandor’s slumbering form. Every inch of skin alight, every molecule in his body attuned to the presence. He’d reacted in a way he was certain couldn’t be explained by science, faster than the neurons in his brain could fire off. Was it possible that his abuelita’s warning was more than a frightening bedtime story? It didn’t make sense, but so little of what they’ve seen in Coventry has.

Guillermo has never seen himself as a particularly physically skilled individual. A lifetime of body shaming and getting picked last in gym class eventually forced him to accept that he’s more brain than brawn. He can’t help his genetics, his ancestry - except now that ancestry apparently includes superhuman reaction times to menacing creatures of the night.

He’d felt that coal-fire burning this morning, too. Hand clasped with another’s against the scratchy motel sheets, heart aching like a cardiac event, watching Nandor excise poison from the pit of his chest. He’d thought those would be the scariest depths to descend today, but each step through these lightless tunnels makes him further and further convinced that he’ll never see the sun again.

There’s no helping it. He has to press on, has to push through that fear, because if he doesn’t, then Nandor will die down here. That’s a certainty. And enough to keep him moving.

Guillermo can feel Nandor’s tesbih beads shifting around his wrist, recalling the way the man always fidgets with them - a clear self-soothing motion. Does Nandor have something else to occupy his hands? Does he even have use of them? He could be tied up, or passed out from blood loss, or so bruised and beaten that he can’t move, or… or so many other horrible things. Maybe he’s lost, wandering in the pitch black, crying out for help, unable to see the edge of any sheer cliff face that he happens to step over. Anything could’ve happened to him.

Guillermo remembers the terror he felt when he was trapped in the basement of the Lacroix house, staring at a dead body, an ocean of darkness around him. Screaming and screaming as time seemed to stretch like an endless wire, as the world around him condensed, until he was so alone, and nothing existed except him and the darkness and the whites of Doug Peterson’s eyes. Nothing until a familiar voice cut through the screaming, and instead of lifeless eyes, Guillermo was staring into warm brown ones, collapsing into Nandor with a relief he’s never felt before.

Is that how Nandor feels, right now? Alone except for the darkness and the terror? It’s a horrible thing, to feel that trapped, and he only felt it for a minute, maybe two at the most. Nandor has been here for hours…

“Uh oh,” Colin Robinson says, cutting through Guillermo’s inner thoughts. “Problem ahead.”

“What?” Guillermo steps around him to look, and immediately sees the issue. Turning the next corner, the path splits into two directions, two tunnels. The beams of their headlamps show both tunnels continue onwards, turning in opposite directions.

Colin Robinson steps a few feet into one, peering around the bend, then retreats and checks the other, coming out and shaking his head. “They both keep going. No way to determine where they end.”

“Shit.” Nadja comes to a halt beside Guillermo, frowning. “Maybe we should split up?”

“Bad idea,” Shanice replies. “Guillermo is our vampire detector; whichever team doesn’t have him is taking a high risk.”

“Even if you’re on Guillermo’s team, I don’t trust so few numbers,” Derek agrees. “We need to stick together.”

“We’re running out of time, though,” Laszlo insists, waving his wristwatch in the air. “It’s just over ten minutes until midnight. If we search one and it goes too far before it ends, we might not have time to search the other.”

While the rest of the team descends into arguing, Guillermo steps a few feet into one tunnel, squinting and trying to see into the darkness. He reaches up to adjust his headlamp and feels the tesbih beads around his wrist again. Lowers his arm and stares at them, gently twists one between his fingers.

These beads connect Nandor to his maman. Could she help connect Guillermo to him too?

Quietly, Guillermo slips the beads off his wrist and cups them between his hands. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

I don’t know what I’m doing, Guillermo thinks. I don’t know if you’re listening, Mrs. Jahan, or if I’m just speaking to myself. But if you could tell me where your son is… please. I want to bring him home safely. I know you’d want that for him. Please. Help me find him.

It’s silly, and he’s not expecting it to work.

But for a moment - and Guillermo will swear this happened until the day he dies - for just the tiniest moment, the beads flicker with warmth.

Guillermo opens his eyes.

“This tunnel,” he says, cutting off the conversation behind him. “He’s down this tunnel.”

“What? How could you possibly know?” Laszlo asks.

“I… I just do.” Guillermo wraps the beads back around his wrist. “Come on.”

Thankfully, nobody argues.

The ground was already damp when they first touched down into the caves, but the sandy sediment gets wetter and his boots sink deeper the further they go, the air ambient with a stifling humidity that makes Guillermo wipe sweat off his brow every few minutes. He has to kick his boots against the cave walls sometimes to dislodge the mud, which slows their progress. Nobody is talking. This is preferable, but the silence makes time drag. Guillermo swears his phone alarm set for 12am is going to ring any second, and they’re going too slow -

When he rounds another corner, the faint blue glow from the tunnel ahead makes him pause, and he has to step to the side so Derek doesn’t slam straight into him.

“What is that?” Guillermo asks.

“The fuck if I know, man,” Derek says, hiking up his axe. “Maybe you’d better get that bat out, though.”

“Good idea.” Guillermo tugs the metal weapon out and grips it firmly, nerves on high alert. This far down, any light is almost certainly man-made, right? Maybe the vampire is close by, which means maybe Nandor is close by. He could call out for the other man… but if he gives away their position, that could be even worse.

As they move down the tunnel, pinpricks of blue light on the ceilings make them stare upwards in fascination, the luminosity unexpected. The pinpricks turn into larger clusters of light the farther they go, until their headlamps become rather pointless, the whole tunnel bathed in a solid blue glow.

“I’ve never seen anything like this!” Shanice comments, switching off her headlamp, her eyes zigzagging across the ceiling. “None of the other caves in the area glow like this!”

“Any explanation you can give us, old chap?” Laszlo asks, nudging Colin Robinson gently.

Guillermo can practically see the Wikipedia article processing in Colin Robinson’s head. “I’ve only seen this in one other place, these caves out in Alabama. I think we’re looking at Orfelia fultoni, a carnivorous species of fly larvae. Also known as glow worms! Fascinating. You know, these little guys are related to similar species in New Zealand and Australia, but it’s rare to find them in such large numbers anywhere in North America except Dismals Canyon. If any of us manage to survive tonight, it’ll be important for us to report this find to local ecologists. Actually, if I could get a verbal promise from each of you-”

“Colin Robinson, if Nandor dies because you couldn’t stop talking about bloody glow worms, I’m going to personally make sure you don’t make it out of this cave,” Nadja snaps, glaring daggers at the man.

Nadja’s threat works to shut him up, and they continue onwards, the glow worms lighting their path, the tunnel widening until they can walk side by side down the corridor, as the ceiling begins to curve upwards. The humidity has only continued to increase, and when they emerge into a large antechamber, Guillermo feels drops of condensation landing on his helmet and shirtsleeves.

The chamber is massive, over a hundred feet at its highest point, and every millimeter of the ceiling is covered in glow worms, hanging off the dozens of thick stalactites that hang down above them. Rocky outcroppings and boulders litter the chamber floor, wet and shining in the cerulean glow. It’s pretty beautiful. If this were just a nature hike, Guillermo might take the time to admire the scenery, but his eyes are immediately drawn to a rectangular shape resting in the middle of the chamber, about fifty feet away, out of place from the rest of the rocks and disturbingly familiar.

Albrecht’s tomb sits in plain sight, like the world’s most obvious bait. Guillermo is ninety nine percent certain Nandor is inside that coffin, and though the urge to sprint across the chamber tears at his chest, he waits. Stays put, plays it smart, glancing around the space, searching. Sensing.

“Everybody get out your objects,” Derek mutters. Clothing and packs are shuffled about; Guillermo leaves his crucifix under his shirt, where it will stay in contact with his skin and keep him protected. Hopefully everybody else figured out what’s going to work for them.

“Stay together,” Jenna pipes up, her sword clutched amateurishly as she shies close to Nadja. “Nobody wanders off, nobody gets picked off.”

“We learned that a few too many times in Ravenscroft,” Shanice mutters, tugging out a knife. “Wish we had Artemis’s Detect Good and Evil spell for realsies.”

“We’ve got the closest thing we’re gonna get in Guillermo,” Derek replies, glancing at him. “You feel anything?”

“Not yet,” Guillermo murmurs, taking a couple of steps forward. “Let’s keep mo-”

It hits him like a live wire, time slowing to a crawl as the back of Guillermo’s neck burns, every pore on his body shivering to life. He doesn’t even have to see the creature to know where it’s going, his body responding automatically, jumping and twisting unnaturally backwards in an acrobatic arc. He raises his arms as his boots hit the ground, landing behind Colin Robinson’s exposed back. A set of ten razor sharp claws connect and shriek against the metal bat.

Slitted yellow eyes shrouded in a black miasma fix on Guillermo. He digs his feet into the ground, and shoves.

Then the weight of the creature against the bat is gone, and Guillermo spins, heart pounding as the miasma swirls towards the center of the chamber, kicking up dust in its wake.

“Holy shit,” Colin Robinson says, staring at him. “Since when could you do that?”

“Not important right now! Come on!” Guillermo yells, running forwards, praying his crewmates follow. They do, though their steps seem painfully slow, like they’re all running through molasses and he’s zipping along on ice skates. No time to consider why, just to keep running.

Guillermo only makes it halfway to the coffin before the black miasma begins to solidify into a discernible shape above the carved stone tomb, a set of clawed feet landing with an ominous thud atop the box as finally, finally, the thing that has been tormenting Coventry fully solidifies and reveals its true form.

The creature is massive, at least seven feet tall. It is humanoid, but its limbs are unnaturally elongated, thin and jutting out from its torso like dead tree limbs. Its naked skin is nothing but leathery wrinkles, any hint of hair long gone from its bald, veiny head, those yellow eyes sunken into its skull. Two ears cut like sharp knives up the sides of its cheekbones, though not as sharp as the fangs lining its jaws. Guillermo counts at least a dozen, some needle thin, some as thick as a wolf’s front teeth. Its hands and feet lack fingers and toes, the metacarpals ending in long, intimidating claws. Clearly designed for predation. It would call Nosferatu a distant cousin, and probably snap Edward Cullen’s neck.

It is terrifying. A damned abomination from the deepest pits of hell. He should be turning tail and fleeing with all his superhuman strength.

But it’s standing between him and Nandor, so it’s going to have to move, or die.

Guillermo comes to a halt ten feet from the box, gripping the bat like a lifeline and trying to seem the least bit intimidating.

“I’m here to get my friend back!” he yelps, voice cracking like he’s on the cusp of puberty all over again. “You’re going to let him go. Now!”

The creature blinks slowly before its mouth splits in a terrifying grin. It tilts its head back and barks out a disturbingly human laugh, its howling cackles echoing through the chamber. A sharp pain starts to build in the middle of Guillermo’s forehead, an ice pick migraine out of nowhere.

“I mean it!” Guillermo raises the bat, glaring at the thing. “We don’t have to fight! You can leave and it’ll be over between us.” He knows what Derek wants, but Nandor’s life takes priority.

The cackling subsides as the vampire crouches down atop the box, and finally, for the first time, Guillermo hears it speak.

“Do not play dumb, slayer. Until I have the means to leave, it cannot be over between us. ” The creature’s voice shreds through his eardrums like a fan blade through an unfortunate gnat, and he winces, blinking back tears as the hissing, discordant sound continues. Its rasping words have the cadence of a European language he can't quite put his finger on, ancestral to a modern accent. “ You know why we must fight.”

“The hell I do! What do you want from me?” Guillermo asks. “I’m just a camera man!”

“Kammerman, is that what slayers are called now? ” He swears the thing is taunting him, its words dripping with condescension. “No matter. You will still bleed all the same.”

“Guillermo, stop with the bloody small talk and hit it with the bat!” Nadja crows from behind him.

“Hey asshole! I’m here for some revenge.” Derek steps up beside Guillermo, resting his axe against his shoulder. “So why don’t you let the dude in the box go and you and I can have it out with each other.”

“You are not taking that thing on by yourself, you idiot!” Shanice yells.

“Yeah, not happening,” Guillermo agrees. “We stick together.”

The vampire bares its teeth at this, hissing. “More cowardice from you, slayer. Pathetic. Your allies will die screaming, just as the conspirators you aligned yourself with did.”

“Conspirators? What are you talking about?”

“You thought yourself clever, but I saw you that night, planning your moves with the townsfolk! The woodsman and the elder woman.”

“Who? Wait…” Guillermo frowns. “Doug and Barbara? When did you…”

Oh. Oh God . The night of the council meeting, when they were all chatting on the side of the building. This thing was watching them. It couldn’t have been too close by; Guillermo didn’t feel goosebumps until much later in the evening. It was close enough to see them all talking together, but not to hear what they were saying. So it made assumptions.

“That’s why you killed them,” Guillermo realizes, a cold rush of washing over him. “You thought they were helping me.”

“The slayers of my time would not bother using foolish humans to carry out their treachery. Do you understand why, now? They are helpless. There is no fight except between you and I.”

“Why do you keep calling me a slayer?” Guillermo takes a slight step forward, assessing the battlefield, all of his senses heightened to a frankly concerning degree. He can tell the exact location of every living and undead thing in the chamber, eight heartbeats thudding simultaneously - one rabbiting rapid-fire inside of a stone box. He can feel every muscle in his body twitching to move, to launch forward and attack, something primal curdling up through his chest. He could let that primal urge take over, but part of him worries that it wouldn’t care about the potential collateral damage that would come from his pursuit of the vampire.

For the first time, Guillermo sees a hint of doubt flicker across the vampire’s features. “What kind of question is that? Do not try to play coy with me! I can smell the sweet silver of slayer blood running through your veins. Do you know how long I have waited in this sad hovel for a slayer to finally arrive? Three centuries! Three centuries I have slumbered, waking only to sustain myself with the lifeblood of the townsfolk, biding my time. I might have fallen to madness, but I knew one of your kind would eventually seek me out. Someone too full of bravado to resist the fight that sings through your blood. And now that you are here, I will claim that blood for myself and escape this wretched place.”

“Is any of this making sense to you?” Derek mutters to Guillermo. “You’ve got some special kind of blood?”

“I’d say it sounds crazy, but once we’re done here, remind me to tell you all about los goosebumps,” Guillermo mutters back, before he raises his voice to continue conversing with the vampire. “Look, you’re saying that if you get some of my blood, you’ll leave Coventry?”

“Yessss.” Guillermo watches a forked tongue flicker out between those sharp fangs, and he only shudders a little bit. “ It is the key to my departure.”

“Fine. If that’s all it takes, how much do you need? A couple drops? A pint?”

“Every drop of blood in your body!”

Well. That’s not going to work. Guillermo needs most of that blood to stay inside of him. “Can’t do that. Try again.”

The vampire snorts, its claws curling around the lip of the coffin. “You believe this is a negotiation? I have what is most precious to you. If you wish him to survive, you will trade your life for his.”

Yeah, fuck that. Guillermo just got to kiss Nandor, like, tonight, and he’s planning on many more kisses in the future. He whips the bat out like a sword, pointing it at the vampire. “If I’m a slayer, then that means I was born to kick your ass. In fact, I bet the reason we’re still talking is that you know you can’t beat me, so you’re going to try to convince me to just give up. Well, I think that plan sucks, so how about this - you walk away now, and I won’t splatter your brains all over this fucking cave floor!”

It’s a risky bluff. Guillermo knows how he looks, standing here, wielding a little league bat against a creature with three times his strength who could claw his throat out in a millisecond, if not for los goosebumps. But he doesn’t have many options. Every move is dangerous, and suddenly, the idea of having all his crewmates down here seems less like an advantage, and more like a problem of having too many people to keep safe.

The vampire seems to consider his words, eyes roaming across the assembled crew. After a moment, it opens its mouth to reply, before a loud click echoes through the chamber.

A voice cries out behind Guillermo. “Well, I’ve heard quite enough now! ”

Guillermo turns and bites back a groan when he sees the figure standing at the chamber entrance. A man, holding a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other, cocked and aimed in his general direction.

Delmonico. His eyes are manically wide, and he’s covered in grime and sweat, jagged tears in his shirtsleeves and pants, clearly unprepared to follow them into a subterranean caving system, but stubbornly choosing to do so anyway.

“What the hell are you doing down here?” Laszlo asks. “Are you mad?”

“Oh, I’m far past mad, Mister Cravensworth,” Delmonico responds. “I’m about ready to blow my lid! What did I fucking tell you all about meddling in things in this town you have no business being near?” He motions his weapon towards the vampire. “So this lanky psycho in the costume makeup is the one who killed Doug and Barb, is he now? Looks like you’re off the hook for those crimes, Miss Feldstein, though it doesn’t absolve you for Coco’s murder.”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Shanice shouts, jabbing her finger at the vampire. “Did you not hear it talking about killing everybody over the last three centuries, or were your ears too clogged with your own bullshit to listen?!”

“Be quiet, Miss Slowikowska,” Delmonico reprimands. “As far as I’m concerned, everyone in here is going to be spending the night at the station, getting booked for trespassing, property damage, ignoring police orders, breaking curfew, and impeding a criminal investigation, plus possible conspiracy to murder charges on top of it!”

“I don’t think the studio lawyers are going to like this one bit,” Colin Robinson states. He grins suddenly, the blue light of the glow worms reflecting off his glasses. “I’m going to end up in so many meetings.”

“ENOUGH! ” The vampire’s roaring voice makes them all flinch, even Delmonico. It fixes Guillermo with an angry gaze. “I warned you what would occur if you summoned the authorities to our meeting!”

Guillermo blanches. “I didn’t bring him here! He was just stupid enough to have followed us!”

“Hey! That’s enough out of you, hombre,” Delmonico calls out.

“Stupid and racist, as usual,” Derek comments. “No surprise there.”

Delmonico gets a dark look in his eyes, something hard and cold and cruel.

“You watch your mouth, son,” he intones. “Your daddy already lost one family member. Don’t think he’d like to lose another.”

Derek goes stock still. Guillermo’s heart jumps into his throat. 

Suddenly the vampire isn’t the scariest thing in here.

This is bad. This is really bad. He has to do something, has to subdue one threat so he can deal with the other.

Fuck. There’s only one way.

Slowly, Guillermo turns his head to look at the vampire, speaking in a low voice. “I swear, he isn’t with us. You want me? Then deal with him first.”

The vampire regards him for a terrifyingly long moment.

“Very well,” it finally answers. “When I am finished, follow the path to the deepest chamber, and face me like a true slayer.”

Delmonico barks over at them. “What are y’all saying-”

One moment, the vampire looms over the coffin. The next, it has dissolved back into the black mist it came from, rushing towards them. Guillermo resists every nerve in his body screaming at him to fight, instead slamming into Derek and dragging him to the ground as three loud bangs echo across the chamber. Someone screams. Guillermo feels a blast of air as the miasma rolls over his head, and a second later, there’s an angry roar and the sound of flesh slamming into a hard surface. He jerks his head up to see a whirling cloud of carnage above the entrance to the chamber. It’s impossible to tell what it’s made up of, red splattering outwards and raining down.

A moment later, there are several loud, unnerving cracking sounds.

“MOVE IT! ” Shanice yells, shoving everyone towards the center of the chamber, just in time to escape the first massive stalactite that crashes to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces behind them. Guillermo covers his face, feeling shards of stone whizzing past and cutting the back of his hand. He hears more screams and more crashing, a never ending cacophony of death and destruction as the roof collapses. Nothing he can do but curl up and pray. 

Mary, mother of God, please don’t let me die. Please don’t let anyone die!

The destruction seems to go on for an eternity, leaving him sitting in the liminal unknown between survival and anticipation of death. Guillermo’s ears are still ringing by the time he realizes the crashing has stopped. He sits up, coughing and pressing his sleeve to his mouth so he doesn’t breathe in the foul dust that has been kicked up. “Shit- is, is everyone okay?!”

As the dust settles, the damage reveals itself. Where the door to the chamber sat, there is now a massive pile of stone and dirt, no sign of an exit left. No way out the way they came. They’re trapped.

“F-fucking shit!” He hears Nadja coughing to his left, waving away dust as she stalks towards him. “Laszlo? Where are you?”

“Here, darling.” Laszlo emerges from the dust to his right, Colin Robinson on his heels. “We’re alright.”

“Shanice?” Derek nudges Guillermo’s arm away, sitting up. “Jenna?”

“Over here, still alive,” Shanice answers, limping towards them, one arm over Jenna’s shoulder. “That’s everyone accounted for, right?”

Everyone except…

“Nandor!” Guillermo twists around and lets out a sigh of relief when he sees the coffin behind him, seemingly untouched. He shoots to his feet and runs over, pressing his hands against the lid and starting to shove. “Somebody get over here and help me with this thing! Nandor, hold on, we’re going to get you out of there, okay? Can you say something? Please? Just let me hear your voice.”

There’s only silence from within, and that lack of response might be the most terrifying thing he’s experienced all night.

Chapter Text

There is only the dark, anymore. The dark, and the cold. Nandor remembers the light, the warmth. Remembers what he’s lost, hears the cruel reminders at the periphery of the nothingness he now exists in for all eternity. Recognizes shades of familiar voices, but when he reaches for them, his hands meet stone and he is reminded of the dark pressing in on him, reminded that this is his existence, now. 

How did he end up here? He can’t quite remember. Can’t recall if there was ever a time where his chest wasn’t on fire, where he didn’t struggle to take a single breath, where the ever present sense of doom wasn’t constricting him.

There is only the dark.

Until suddenly, there is more. 

It is the first new thing, after what feels like centuries of waiting for something to change. A blue glow blooms behind his eyelids, and when he opens them, all he can see is shining light, a brilliant sea of sapphire, like starlight in a lonely wilderness. The light is cut through by a dark figure, a silhouette of a human, and his heart jumps in renewed fear in the moment it takes for his eyes to adjust, for the figure to solidify into someone recognizable.

“Nandor,” says the thing that looks like Guillermo, the thing that Nandor is so terrified is just a mirage, a trick of the light, warped behind the tears that keep welling up in his eyes. Because if it isn’t Guillermo, if it’s just another hallucination that his traumatized brain has dreamed up, Nandor will surely break apart.

He wants to ask if this is real, but all he can manage is a soft, wet whine curling out of the back of his throat, like the question is too afraid to leap off his tongue.

“Nandor?” The thing that looks like Guillermo - that is Guillermo, Allahu Ackbar - reaches down, offering him a hand. “Hey, it’s okay, you can come out now. Will you come out of there?”

There must be some delayed flight response in him that activates when he hears that he is allowed to escape the confines of this box, because in the next second he is shoving past Guillermo’s hand and tumbling head over heels out of the coffin, landing hard on the ground below. He presses back against the carved stone and gasps for air, faintly aware of the chamber, the others huddled around him. There is wet sand under his hands, wet streaks trailing down his face, and he is shaking, he is breaking apart, still barely able to catch his breath, like the stone is pressing down against his chest. 

Is this what relief feels like? Why does it feel so bad?

“H-help me,” Nandor wheezes, barely above a whisper, trembling as Guillermo sinks to his knees in front of him. “C-can’t breathe, I can’t-”

“What the bloody fuck is happening to him?” He hears Nadja distantly, as if from the bottom of a pool, surrounded by pressure on all sides, not enough air, not enough energy to swim to the surface, and he is drowning, he is going to drown down here, die as the water fills his lungs and it’s already starting, he feels so dizzy, if the stone wasn’t holding him up he would fall and the world is spinning and he can’t keep holding his breath but if he doesn’t he’ll drown he’ll drown he’ll-

The shock of one hand grasping his own - warm, full of life, so different to the cold and the nothing he felt before - pulls him back into his body for a brief moment, another hand caressing Nandor’s cheek as a snot-bubble sob wrenches its way up his throat.

“Nandor, look at me.”

His eyes snap up and lock to Guillermo’s, a lifeline in the dark, and they stay there, refusing to look away because if he does he’ll be lost, he’ll be lost, and he’ll never come back, of that, he is certain.

When Guillermo presses Nandor’s hand against his chest, there’s a funny sense of deja vu he can’t place, but it’s so familiar, another life raft keeping him from being swallowed by the great, overwhelming depths that threaten to pull him under.

“You have to breathe, Nandor,” Guillermo says, and Nandor feels the great expansion of Guillermo’s chest beneath his hand. “Like that, follow my breathing. Can you do that?”

No no no, he’s going to drown, doesn’t Guillermo understand he’s underwater, at the bottom of a deep pit he’s been clawing himself out of for two years and he thought he’d finally gotten so close to the surface, only for the cold and the dark and the nothing to drag him back under and if he takes a breath now it’ll all fill his lungs, all the inky blackness of despair and hopelessness he’s been drowning in, why hasn’t anybody been able to see he’s been drowning when he’s been screaming for help why why why why -

“Nandor! Please, you’re going to pass out if you don’t.” Guillermo’s eyes plead with him, like a hand thrust down through the surface, reaching, grasping, maybe the last hope Nandor has to survive. “Please trust me. Please. Breathe with me, mi corazon. ”

Trust him, as if that’s so easy. As if Nandor’s trust hasn’t been ripped and shredded into a million pieces before. He is a hatchling at the edge of a nest, staring down into a thousand foot drop, being asked to spread his wings and take a plunge, with only some inborn, barely understood skill whispering at the edge of his thought. No, not even that - there is nothing inborn to the thing Guillermo asks him to do. He is Icarus, with his dripping wax wings, a facsimile of a creature who can fly. 

It seems impossible.

But he has done so many impossible things lately.

So, as Guillermo’s chest rises under Nandor’s palm, he opens his mouth and lets his lungs fill, and finds that it’s not with the drowning despair he felt, but air, lifegiving air. He sucks in as much as his aching lungs will allow, and then lets it all rush out. Then another breath, then another, and suddenly his head isn’t spinning, suddenly he can feel the stone against his back again, suddenly he can hear the steady drip of water down the walls of the chamber, suddenly the world comes back into focus.

“That’s it,” Guillermo coaxes, brushing his other hand gently down Nandor’s cheek, the touch almost too soft to bear. Nobody’s touched him this delicately in years, not like Guillermo did this morning, and does now. Like he’s something fragile to be treasured, like he doesn’t have to be the strong one, like somebody recognizes how breakable he actually is. Nobody since…

“You came,” Nandor chokes out, trying his hardest to keep following Guillermo’s breaths, deep and steady, so steady. Something to hold onto, a beacon of hope to cling to in the shadows. 

Despite the steadiness of Guillermo’s breathing, Nandor can feel the man’s heart thrumming under his fingers, racing. Is he scared too? But he looks so calm. How can that be?

“Of course I came,” Guillermo affirms. The placidity of his features briefly flickers, hairline fissures in his demeanor- Now Nandor can see it, he is scared. Petrified, even. That is okay. It is all very frightening, what is happening between them. “Was I just supposed to leave you down here?”

“I don’t know… I just, I thought I was… I thought I was done for.” The words crack a little at the end, and he presses his lips together, swallowing another sob as he forces himself to keep breathing, to not stop, because Guillermo asked him to, and he’s found it so hard to refuse this man anything lately.

Guillermo’s hand slips down to curl around the back of his neck, and he leans in, resting his forehead against Nandor’s. Close enough to share the same air, close enough that nothing exists outside of them and this singular moment: two hearts beating, two sets of lungs rising and falling in tandem.

“I will always come, if you need me. Okay?” Guillermo smiles, warm like the sun, like something new taking root in Nandor’s heart, not as cold and dead as he once thought it to be. “I promise.”

“How can you?” Nandor asks. “What if all goes wrong? What if we can’t make it work?” 

There’s no guarantee. There’s never a guarantee.

“Well… then you’ll still be my friend. Whatever happens, I know that won’t change. So if you want that, you won’t be alone ever again.”

“I want that,” Nandor whispers, and closes the distance to kiss him, and kiss him, and if he ever wants to stop kissing this man, he’ll know he’s lost his mind.

Two months. It’s only been two months.

He wants so many more.

~

July 16th, 2022

12:14 AM

They find Delmonico’s body underneath a pile of cracked stalactites - or rather, what’s left of it. An arm, a leg, the upper half of the torso wearing a shredded green button-up, droplets staining the badge of Coventry’s finest still pinned against the chest. Rest in pieces, Delmonico. Literally.

Nandor doesn’t see the body, doesn’t need to. He’s perfectly comfortable where he is: resting beside Guillermo against the stone that had kept him imprisoned, their hands intertwined in Nandor’s lap, his eyes shut.

Tired, he’s so tired. He remembers passing out at least once inside the tomb, the terror exhausting him. That, in combination with what he now knows was the first panic attack he’s ever had, means every muscle in his body aches and yells at him to lay down, to rest, to sleep.

But they can’t sleep. It’s dangerous to remain here for very long, what with the unknown stability of the remainder of the ceiling, and the impossibility of escape from this location. Even if someone from the outside were to find the caverns beneath Albrecht’s tomb, there is no guarantee of rescue, and any attempts to move the massive pile of rubble covering the tunnel entrance could trigger another collapse, according to Colin Robinson. No, their best bet is to continue moving through the cave system, of which there are two possible tunnels that are currently being scouted by Shanice and their aforementioned crewmate.

“Hey.” Nandor blinks his eyes open as Guillermo gently deposits a familiar string of beads into his hand. “You left these in the motel room.”

“Foolish of me. I won’t be making that mistake again.” He slips them back on, and their weight around his wrist brings a deep, soul-satisfying level of comfort. So many things he thought he lost tonight.

“Maybe not so foolish.” Guillermo looks a bit shifty, as if hesitant to say what he wants. “Well, when we were looking for you, I kind of… asked your maman for help.” He relays the story of the tunnel split, using the beads to decide which path to go down. “If I hadn’t had them, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

Nandor has cried too many fucking times today, but he feels his throat start to close up as he explains, “When- when I was in that box, I asked her to send help. I guess she heard me.”

“I don’t think anyone else here will believe us,” Guillermo admits. “But I know what I felt.”

“I would not put it past her to give you a little nudge in the right direction.” Nandor lets his eyes trail upwards, mouth curling into a smile. Maybe it was truly a coincidence. They will never know.

“Anyway, it can’t be any less believable than an ancient vampire and slayer blood.” Guillermo sighs, resting his head back against the coffin. “That thing… it’s so big, and powerful, and fast, and I don’t know if I can beat it.”

“You don’t have to do it alone, you know.” Nandor takes his hand again, squeezing. “In fact, you should not even try it.”

Guillermo shrugs. “I don’t know if it’s fair to ask anybody else to help, now that I’ve seen it in its full form.”

Nandor scoffs. “That is stupid.”

“Hey!”

“You just told me you would not leave me alone, and now you are saying we should leave you alone?” Please. As if Nandor is going to let him go up against a monster like that without support.

“It challenged me, not you! Maybe if I go mano a mano with it, nobody else has to get hurt.”

“I do not want you to get hurt.” Nandor isn’t trying to sound like he’s pouting, but he definitely has a tone. He can deploy emotional manipulation when he needs to! Only a little bit though. He knows what it feels like when it’s too much.

Guillermo winces. “I’ll be… fine. I think.”

“Guillermooooo. While I find your newfound confidence very sexy, I also find the prospect of us both leaving this place with our body parts fully intact to be appealing.” He waggles his eyebrows, trying to convey exactly the kind of vibe he wants to put out. “I plan on using them after this.”

“Yeah?” Guillermo bites his lower lip, unable to hide his smile. “What for?”

Nandor leans in a little. “Well, I was thinking of picking back up where we left off. Have you ever heard of this thing called a blow-”

“Oi ! Lovebirds!” Nadja so rudely interrupts them, waving at them from across the room. “Stop fucking each other with your eyes and get over here, we need to confer!”

“Guess it’s time to go,” Guillermo says, sighing as they get up. “To be continued?”

“A promise I am holding you to,” Nandor agrees. “No doing any stupid, self-sacrificing bullshit.”

Guillermo smirks at him. “Don’t die, or I won’t get laid. Highly persuasive.” He picks up Nandor’s bat from where it’s been resting against the coffin, and offers it to him. “Here. You should have this back.”

“What about you?” Nandor asks, gripping the handle. The familiar weight and connection to his maman are comforts in this trying time.

“I’ll be okay.” Guillermo pulls out a wooden stake, twirling it between his fingers in an impressive display of precision. “Pretty sure this is my weapon of choice.”

Nadja called them over because Colin Robinson and Shanice have returned from their expeditions into the possible escape routes. The news isn’t entirely dire, but it’s not amazing, and the two spelunkers lay out the issues inherent to each path.

“The good news is that my route seems to lead up towards the surface,” Shanice explains. “About two hundred meters from here, the tunnel opens up into a large cavern. I couldn’t see the bottom, but I could see a possible exit tunnel about fifty feet up. If I had the right tools and time to rock climb up to the ledge, I could probably scale and rig the whole thing for an ascent. Problem is, the storms outside have turned that tunnel into a waterfall. There’s tons of water flooding in from the surface. We could wait for the rain to pass, but we have no idea how deep this cave system goes. If the caverns fill up, that’d be bad news for us.”

“Drowning is not preferable,” Colin Robinson agrees. “My route isn’t quite as simple. The tunnel isn’t difficult to navigate, but it definitely slopes downwards. It opens up into a cavern about four hundred meters from here, and there’s a cliff edge with a deep drop off the left side. Now, the tunnel continues on past this cavern, but in order to reach the next part of the tunnel, we’d have to cross this river of water that runs across the path and over the cliffside. It isn’t deep, but it’s swift. One wrong step and you’re getting swept into the drop off.”

“I wish I’d brought my bolting tools,” Shanice sighs. “We could rig up a makeshift safety rope system.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I’ve got mine, then,” Colin Robinson interjects, pulling a cordless drill out of his backpack like a spelunking Mary Poppins. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll have something set up.”

“The man’s got ingenuity,” Laszlo mutters, stroking his beard, clearly impressed. Ugh. Nandor doesn’t want to think about the words stroking and Laszlo in the same sentence for the rest of his life. Guillermo filled him in on the events that took place above ground while he was hyperventilating in a coffin, and, seriously? Colin Robinson? Nandor has never understood Laszlo’s particularly varied set of tastes, and still manages to surprise him, all these years later. No wonder Nadja has looked particularly murderous tonight.

Speaking of Nadja. “Hold on, let’s say we cross this river,” she posits. “We are still heading deeper into these tunnels, away from the surface. That is not the way we should be going!”

“Yeah!” Jenna pipes up, shuffling side to side, eyes averting when Nadja glances at her. “I mean, we want to go up. How does going down make sense?”

“That’s the way the vampire wants us to go,” Guillermo points out. “He said I needed to meet him in the deepest part of the caves.”

“So we’d be walking into a trap?” Derek asks. “Doesn’t seem smart.”

Guillermo sighs. “We already walked into a trap. Kidnapping Nandor? Drawing us into the caves? Cutting off our exit? All part of the plan. If it’s been living in these caves, it knows we only have one path forward.”

“It is not giving us a choice,” Nandor agrees, though he is reluctant to do so. He does not wish to have another encounter with the vampire, and he especially does not want Guillermo to be forced to fight it. As previously stated, he wants all of their body parts intact if - no, not if, when - when they make it up to the surface. The idea of Guillermo being hurt in any way, it’s almost as terrifying as being trapped in a tiny stone box for hours. And the thought of losing him… Nandor won’t even consider it.

Yes, it is terrifying, how attached he’s become to the other man in such a short time.

But Guillermo is right. The only way out, as the song goes, is through - through the lair of a vampire, that is.

“I want it known, I do not like this,” Nadja declares, folding her arms. “This is a terrible idea, and if we all die horribly, then I refuse to be responsible.”

“Pretty sure it won’t matter at that point, since we’d be, y’know, dead,” Colin Robinson points out.

Nadja scowls. “I was not asking you, Colin Robinson!”

Colin Robinson frowns. “Nadja, I’m starting to get this feeling that I’ve upset you somehow-”

“No time to dawdle, old chap!” Laszlo grabs Colin Robinson’s arm, tugging him towards the tunnel and away from Nadja’s near-homicidal expression. “You’ve got safety ropes to secure, yes? Best get on it. I’ll supervise!”

“Nandor,” Nadja growls, glaring after Colin Robinson and Laszlo as they exit tunnel right. “I might need your help burying a body later.”

That’s unfortunate, considering Nandor and Laszlo only just made up. “Wait until we get out of here before you murder him, if you could,” he requests. “We still need Colin Robinson’s expertise, and I am thinking he will not be happy if you off your husband.”

Nandor feels a hand slip into his own, and glances down to see Guillermo taking it, giving him a soft smile. “Time to go. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” he replies, smiling back. And as they follow the rest of the group, he finishes the rest of that thought in his head: I always feel better when you are around.

Chapter Text

July 16th, 2022

12:41AM

If she thinks of tonight as an exhilarating adventure in the Forgotten Realms, Rya and Artemis by her side - with some weirdo companions for this particular adventure - for a moment, Jenna can forget how nauseatingly terrified she is. The mental exercise can drive away the intrusive thoughts of yellow-slitted eyes, but only for a few moments. She always eventually returns back to that adrenaline-coursing, cold-sweat-on-the-back-of-your-neck kind of fear, remembering feeling rooted to the grit-stone cave floor, hand clenched around her pendant, the truth of what stands before her tearing away the confidence that had struck her the first time she saw the creature.

It’s the waiting, she thinks, that’s making this so difficult. The lack of forward momentum, as she watches Colin Robinson tap tap tap a stainless steel anchor into the rockface next to the raging underground river blocking their path, the flowing water echoing loudly off the walls. They are all gathered in this small cavern, but have sequestered themselves in their own little groups. Laszlo shies close to Colin Robinson, asking questions about the anchoring process. His jovial chuckles are strained with an undercurrent of uncertainty, as though there is some great, fearsome topic he tiptoes around. Guillermo and Nandor are perched on a rock nearby, Guillermo restlessly glancing about the space, one hand clenched around a stake. The other is tightly clasped in Nandor’s, who seems to hold on just as tightly to the newly christened slayer. Then, about twenty feet or so off, Shanice and Derek stand next to one another, peering over the side of the great black pit where the water falls off into a seemingly endless void. They are mumbling things too quiet to hear. Jenna has considered going to join them, but there’s a crackling tension in the air between them, thick and suffocating as a gas leak, and just as liable to explode at any moment.

Besides, if Jenna did risk intruding on whatever climactic romantic moment those two are having, that would leave Nadja by herself, and Jenna doesn’t like the idea of that. Not just because Jenna has been majorly crushing on this woman for the last four days, but because Nadja keeps staring at Colin Robinson and Laszlo, her expression rapidly switching between anger, confusion, resentment, and then - every so often, just for a moment, as if any longer would give the game away - sadness.

Jenna doesn’t entirely know what went on between the three of them, but she can make some guesses. Two men emerging from a hotel room, clothes rumpled, looking well fucked - well, they probably did… that. And from Nadja’s reaction, she hadn’t known about it.

A Hollywood director two-timing his spouse isn’t exactly newsworthy, but Jenna isn’t sure that fits the vibe she’s getting. For one, she suspects that if this was just a simple case of infidelity, Laszlo would’ve put on a show of lying through his teeth, coming up with every excuse in the book as to why what everybody here saw with their own eyeballs isn’t actually what they saw at all. Instead, he seemed less concerned with denying it happened, and more with keeping the peace between Nadja and Colin Robinson. There was also his little outburst back at the hotel, some snarky comment about honesty, which gives more evidence to the idea that some other hurt was in the mix before Laszlo and Colin Robinson… did stuff.

Point being, Jenna might be a small town lesbian, but it’s 2022 and she can use Google. She has heard of polyamory. The gremlin side of her personality keeps whispering that if Nadja and Laszlo have that kind of arrangement, then doesn’t that mean Nadja might be open to other partners… at which point the other, not self-absorbed side of her personality beats that one into submission with a hammer because, like, this is clearly not the time for that. Also, Jenna isn’t really the sharing type - or at least, she doesn’t think she is.

So. Jenna has spent the last ten minutes leaning against a rock wall next to Nadja, trying to figure out a way to jumpstart a conversation, if only because she’s so fucking tired of the silence. The silence is making the waiting unbearable.

Finally, she goes with the only thing that’s happened in the last half hour that hasn’t been completely horrible. “So… those glow worms were cool, huh?”

Nadja, who seems to have been in a dissociative state until jogged out of it by Jenna’s voice, swivels her head like a creepy children’s toy doll, blinking slowly.

“Glow worms,” she states, voice flat, blank.

“Yeah, the ones in the first tunnel? That was really… neat! Can’t believe something so rare is just hanging out underneath Coventry. This town is full of surprises.” Jenna titters nervously when Nadja continues to stare. “Have you, ah, ever seen anything like that before?”

“…Jenna, dear, you seem to be a bit smarter than most of the buffoons living in this backwater hovel.” Nadja motions over to her avoidant spouse and the guy he’s definitely schtupping. “Do you really think I give two shits about some little glowy worms right now?”

“I mean, no? But you also seem like you could use a distraction, so, um… yeah.” Jenna shoves her hands in her pockets, shrugging and glancing down. “Just trying to help.”

She hears Nadja sigh. “This is not something you can distract from. I know you are very young and inexperienced in the ways of love, but surely you can understand that.”

“Hey! You don’t- you’re presuming a lot.”

“I do not mean this as an insult, but you are a shy little lesbian just out of high school in a rural town. I know the type.”

“Okay… but that doesn’t mean I’m completely clueless!” Nadja squints as Jenna presses on, determined to make her point. “Maybe I haven’t had the same life as you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t relate at all.”

“Explain.”

“Well, I've felt heartbreak over people before.” Like women with black nails who look like they stepped out of a goth girl magazine. “And I’ve been too scared to be honest about the truth with the people I care about.” Like when you witness a terrifying monstrosity and don’t tell anyone, not even your best friend. “And… I’ve been afraid that I’m going to be left behind if things change too much.” Like watching the people you love most in the world inch towards romance, and worrying you’ll be forgotten.

Jenna juts her chin out, meeting Nadja’s eyes with a level focus. “So, yeah. It’s not the same reasons, but the feelings are the same.”

Nadja tilts her head sideways, a look of consideration passing across her face. Jenna holds her breath. If she’s going to die down here, she’d prefer to go out swinging at a vampire, not being strangled for getting sassy towards a hot lady.

Then, blessedly, Nadja smiles. “You have wisdom beyond your youth, sweet girl.”

Shit, now she’s blushing. C’mon, Jenna, keep it cool. Don’t look like a complete goober! “Umm, thanks. Also, if Laszlo dumps you for that egghead, he’s an idiot. You’re like, a thousand times hotter.” Oh god. That’s even worse. She should probably just stay in the caves forever.

Nadja raises an eyebrow, before some kind of mortifying understanding passes over her face. “I am extremely attractive, yes. And you are going to make some girl your own age very happy, someday. I am sure of it.” 

“Th-thanks.”

“Are you alright? You look as though you are going to be ill.”

“No, I’m uh, I’m fine!” Jenna swallows, plastering on her best impression of a smile and trying to radiate I’m calm, I’m so calm, I’m the most calm anyone has ever been as she continues. “I’d just really like to get out of these caves. Ha. Hahaha.”

Maybe getting eaten by the vampire wouldn’t be so bad.

Before she can completely dissolve into a humiliated puddle, a voice draws both of their attentions. 

“Okay, folks, let’s get moving and grooving!” Colin Robinson waves at her from the opposite side of the river - when the heck did he cross it? He’s unhooking himself from a rope that’s been anchored into the cavern wall on both sides of the river; his pants are soaked from bottom to his waist, but he’s been seemingly successful in getting across.

“Eugh, I am going to be scrubbing mud out of my Doc Martens for weeks after this,” Nadja grumbles, pushing off the wall, clearly over the moment they just had in a way Jenna isn’t. “Come on, then. No more time to waste in these bloody caverns.”

The system their spelunking team has constructed is simple. They’ll each be strapped into a harness, hooked to the rope and then slowly, with great caution, walk through the water to the other side. If they slip and fall, they’ll get a good dunking, but the rope will keep them from being dragged into oblivion. At least, that’s the hope.

“Be very careful, or something could go horribly wrong!” Colin Robinson calls across the gap as Shanice helps Nandor tighten up the harness - he demanded to be the next person to cross, eager to get the fuck out as fast as possible. Considering he’s been down here several hours longer than the rest of them, nobody put up an argument. Not even Guillermo, though he doesn’t look pleased by the idea of letting Nandor be the first one to cross this way, watching Shanice with an intense focus and asking her to triple check the straps.

“The anchors will hold, won’t they?” Laszlo calls back to Colin Robinson.

The other man shrugs. “They should, for what we need them to do, but the walls are sandstone, and they don’t tend to do well with the kind of anchors I had on hand! We need to hurry!”

“I’ll keep my hands on the rope on this side, just in case!” Shanice yells over to him. “You do the same over there!”

Nandor grips the rope in one hand, staring across the river, and Jenna watches Guillermo step up beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder and leaning up to mutter something inaudible in his ear. Nandor immediately breaks out into a smile, affection visibly welling up in his eyes as he turns his head to look back at the other man, cupping the back of Guillermo’s neck and leaning down to kiss him; quietly, but with intention. Guillermo’s mouth quirks up, and he mumbles something against Nandor’s mouth; Nandor lets out a chuckle before pulling away.

The whole moment is brief, but Jenna’s heart aches a little, watching such an open display of romance between two men. Coventry isn’t the kind of place where that tends to happen; there are a few openly queer couples in town, and plenty of people claim to be accepting, but in that don’t shove it in my face kind of way. Jenna hasn’t survived this long without learning how to shut away everything that makes her unacceptable to the Mrs. Hendersons of the world - as much as she can, at least.

Now, watching the two of them, she wonders what it might feel like, to let herself spill open like that, uncaring of whatever the world might think.

“Those two are going to be impossible to be around for a while,” Nadja bemoans beside Jenna, sighing. “If Nandor keeps living with us, I’m hiring a contractor to soundproof the walls. College was bad enough.”

“Soundproofing? Why would you- oh. Um. Oh.” Wow, that’s, uh… Nadja is really blunt, isn’t she?

Nadja raises an eyebrow, folding her arms. “You cannot be that naïve. I know sexual education classes in America are bad, but…”

“No, I got it!”

Nandor makes it across the river with little trouble, and Guillermo swiftly follows. Laszlo goes next, but about halfway across, he loses his footing and goes under the roaring water. Nadja immediately tenses beside Jenna, breath catching in her throat. She only exhales when her husband breaks the surface of the waves, coughing and sputtering as Colin Robinson hooks back onto the line and strides out to grab him, hauling him the rest of the way.

“Stupid malakia,” Nadja mutters, watching them go. Her long nails dig into the bare skin of her upper arm, drawing a few red lines across the pale flesh, though she doesn’t seem aware she’s doing it. “He has the coordination of a baby deer, sometimes.”

“You should go next,” Jenna offers, smiling awkwardly when Nadja gives her a confused look. “Really, uh, tell him off for being so careless?”

Whether or not Nadja agrees with her shaky excuse, she takes the out Jenna is giving her and strides over to Shanice, demanding to be next in line. Jenna watches her walk off with a bittersweet taste in her mouth.

“Hey.” Derek takes Nadja’s place beside her, resting heavily against the rock wall. “How are you holding up?”

“Me? Oh, I’m good!” Jenna pastes on a wide smile, letting it fall slightly when Derek quirks an eyebrow. “I mean, as good as anyone could be trapped in an underground tunnel system while a vampire stalks us and the caves flood all around us. Hah. Ha…”

“So about a five, huh.”

“Mmhmmm. You?”

“Maybe a five point five.” He thrusts a hand into his pocket, coming out with one of the Morse code machines, and presses the button on the side a few times. “I keep signaling Dad but I get no response. I don’t think the radio waves can penetrate this far down. I hope he and Claude and Tonya are okay.”

“I’m sure they’re fine. Much better off than we are. Hey, uh, what were you and Shanice talking about?”

She knows him well enough to see the way his shoulders tense up, even as he tries to play it off casually. “Just checking in with each other, like I’m doing with you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, what were you and Nadja talking about?”

“Nothing important,” Jenna says, because that’s the truth, isn’t it? Nadja is just another dark-haired goth girl passing through Coventry. Good for a crush, a passing acquaintance, not someone she ever had a real chance with. Nadja may have said she’s clever, but she’s also so dumb, sometimes. “The vampire should be our main focus.”

“You’re probably right…” He shifts uneasily, and she can see his gaze drifting across the room. “I guess, I’ve been just thinking, we’ve all been through a lot together. And we don’t know whether we’re gonna make it out alive.”

“We have to, though. Don’t we?” 

He shrugs. ”We saw what the vampire did to the chief. Who’s to say any of us won’t meet the same fate?”

“Okay… what’s your point?”

“I’m just wondering if… if I don’t say something… and something happens…”

“Derek.” Jenna takes his shoulder, gives him a wide-eyed look. “Never say anything. It ends in disaster.”

Derek blinks at her. 

“Okay. Well, thanks for your advice,” he finally says, shrugging. “C’mon. You go next.”

Nadja makes it across easily; despite her spry frame, her stance is firm and unrelenting. Shanice helps Jenna into the harness next, though Jenna is mostly focused on the rushing rapids ahead of her, taking deep breaths and trying to stay calm. She’s a good swimmer, but the idea of slipping and going under, flung this way and that, towards a steep drop off and certain death is enough to put anybody on edge. It’d be so stupid to survive a vampire attack only to die in a caving accident. If she’s gonna die, at least let it be doing something cool like staking the creature through the chest, or saving someone. 

The first step into the river sends a chill up her spine. The summer rains are cool this far into the cave system. Or maybe this river is an underground offshoot of one of the area’s many lakes? Hard to tell, but not as important as taking step by step, planting her feet into the uneven rock under her sneakers. The water soaking into her jeans makes each step uncomfortably heavy, the force of the rapids enough to make her go slow, making sure her foot is firm against the ground before taking another. Towards the end, she’s doing this little shuffling motion, going achingly slow, but wanting to make sure she gets to the end with the upper half of her body as dry as possible. Chub rub is a bitch and she’s not spending the rest of this adventure with a rash on her thighs.

“Good job,” Guillermo says, gripping her hand and pulling her out of the water when she reaches the other side. She grins at him, the tension in her spine flooding out now that she’s made it to dry land. 

That was hard but not as hard as she worried it would be? Look at her go! A regular spelunker. Maybe she’ll let Shanice take her caving again sometime… or maybe not. It probably feels different when you’re not in danger of being eaten by a demonic creature.

She sits down against a large rock as Colin Robinson winds the harness back across the river, and watches Shanice help Derek put it on. They’re talking, mumbling to one another, but Jenna can’t make out any of the words, and to ask seems impolite. Shanice’s hands spend a little too long resting against the straps when she’s done hooking him in, and Derek is giving her this look… but it only lasts a moment. He steps away as she grips the end of the rope and signals to Colin Robinson to hold on to the other side.

Derek’s first few steps into the water are shaky, uncertain. There’s a nervousness that seems unusual for him, usually far more confident in his physical capabilities? Is it the water? No, they’ve gone swimming in Coventry’s local ponds and lakes dozens of times. He glances back briefly at Shanice, and while he’s doing so, Jenna hears something. The smallest crackling sound. She turns her head, trying to identify it, and realizes it’s coming from the wall bolt to her left. The hair on the back of Jenna’s neck stands up, and she frowns, squinting at the crossing rig. Something feels… off.

“Ummm, Mr. Robinson?” Jenna calls. “What’s that-”

A loud snap echoes through the cavern as the bolt suddenly wrenches itself from the wall. In horror, Jenna watches as the rope snaps away like a snake uncoiling. Derek, who was resting counterbalanced against the rope tension, goes sideways, stumbling. Colin Robinson staggers forward, and he almost goes into the water before Laszlo grabs him around the waist and hauls him back. Derek isn’t so lucky; his foot snags on something beneath the rapids, and down he goes, disappearing under the rushing water.

“Derek!” Jenna and Shanice yell in tandem, Jenna launching to her feet as Shanice pulls back hard on the rope she’s gripping, the end of it tied to the center ring of her own harness. They meet eyes, and Jenna hears another awful cracking. Realizes what’s about to happen. She scrambles over to grab onto the rope in front of Colin Robinson as the second wall mount rips from the sandstone, and Shanice’s end of the rope whips out, the force of it pulling her down towards the water.

Everyone seems to react, Nandor reaching them as Shanice goes headfirst into the river, wrapping his own arms around Laszlo’s waist and yanking back. Nadja and Guillermo scramble to grab farther down the rope, the length going suddenly taut and nearly wrenching everyone forward.

“Fucking pull!” Jenna yells, digging her heels into the ground, staring in horror at the end of the rope that disappears into the river, her friends drowning somewhere at the end of it. The weight bearing on the rope is incredible, but if there’s weight, there are still things connected to the end, which means if they just keep pulling…

A hand bursts from above the water, grasping the rope, and a moment later, two heads gasping for breath. Jenna keeps yelling for them to pull, to drag the two others out of the water. Derek and Shanice roll onto dry land, wrapped around each other, coughing up dirty cave water, as Jenna runs towards them.

She hears Shanice speak. “F-fuck… you good?”

“A-alive,” Derek coughs, spitting. “You?”

“Yeah. Hey, hey D-Derek?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m b-bisexual,” Shanice admits.

“C-cool,” Derek says, teeth chattering. “F-fucking awesome. So does that mean anything or-”

Jenna freezes as Shanice leans in and kisses him.

Derek is bug-eyed when she pulls back. 

“Also, I like y-you,” she continues.

“Fuck,” Derek says, and leans back in.

From across the room, Jenna hears Nadja yelling. “I guess we are just all making out tonight. Fine! Anyone want to? ”

Jenna hears Guillermo take a short breath, and meets his eyes; he’s looking at her with surprise. It doesn’t make sense, until it dawns on her that her hand is fully in the air.

Slowly, Jenna lowers her hand.

Chapter Text

July 16th, 2022

1:02AM

The miracle of Derek and Shanice’s rescue turns into an ill omen when they are pulled out of the river. After the two of them have taken a few moments to get that long-simmering tension between them out of their systems (which Guillermo totally understands, being part of a long-simmering-tension-situationship that has just recently boiled over), they move to stand, only for Derek’s ankle to buckle under him.

“Shit,” he curses, wincing as Shanice catches him under the shoulders. “Fuck. I don’t think I can stand on my own.”

“Here.” Nandor sinks to his knees in front of Derek, palms out. “Let me feel.”

“What, are you a doctor?” Derek asks as Nandor gently grasps his ankle, lifting it slightly.

“No, I am a runner. I have some basic first aid training. Hmmm… it doesn’t look bad from the outside. Where is the pain? Here?” He taps on the top of the bone. “Or here-”

“Ahh… there,” Derek confirms as Nandor’s fingers press against the muscle.

“And you cannot bear the weight?”

Derek lowers his leg, attempts another step before hissing and digging his arm into Shanice’s shoulder even harder. “Nope!”

“Probably a sprain,” Nandor concludes. “Not a break. We can fashion some sort of brace with the first aid kit in Colin Robinson’s bag, but you will need support to walk.”

“I’ve got you,” Shanice says, nodding. “We’ll take it slow. One step at a time.”

“Fuck. This is bullshit!” Derek grimaces, glancing over at Guillermo. “How am I supposed to kill an ancient, deadly vampire with a sprained ankle?”

Guillermo sends him a sympathetic look. “We’ll figure it out, okay? Like Shanice said. One step at a time.”

“This could be a problem,” Colin Robinson says, as Nandor goes to pull the first-aid kit from his pack. “He’s going to slow us down.”

“A few extra minutes can’t matter that much now, can it?” Laszlo posits. “The vampire is waiting for us to come to it. It can wait a bit longer.”

“Hey, umm, is everybody okay?” Jenna points at a spot between where Derek and Nadja are standing. “That’s a lot of blood.”

She’s right. There’s a thick, viscous liquid splattered across the ground, but it’s dark, darker than a fresh cut. Guillermo squints and trails his light down the length of it, moving past it on a hunch, and spotting another splash about twenty feet down the path, leading towards the tunnel.

“It’s hurt,” he marvels, pointing. “Look. It’s trailing blood.” A hope blooms inside of him; before this, the thing had seemed so mind-bogglingly powerful, so unable to be touched, but it’s bleeding , which means something - maybe one of Delmonico’s pistol shots, maybe a stalactite - took a chunk out of it. And if it can be hurt, then surely, it can be killed.

“Vampires are supposed to have regenerative powers, yes?” Nadja steps up beside him, following the trail with her own light. “I would bet it needs to feed for that.”

“You think it nibbled on Delmonico while it was ripping him apart?” Guillermo asks.

“Mmmmm, hopefully. We found a lot of blood and body in that room, so if it fed, it couldn’t have been much.” Nadja’s eyes light up like a housecat who has found an unfortunate mouse in its territory. “We should strike while the iron is hot, as they say.” She glances back at Derek, then lowers her voice. “Perhaps we should let him rest here while those without injury continue on?”

Apparently she didn’t speak quietly enough, because Shanice’s head immediately whips up. “Are you out of your mind, lady? We’re not leaving him behind. That’s dangerous!”

“We could come back for him after staking the vamp,” Colin Robinson shrugs. “Fewer loose ends to worry about.”

Shanice scowls. “We don’t know where the vampire even is, what if it’s just waiting for us to do something like that so it can off the stragglers?”

“And what if we wait too long and it gets all of its strength back?” Nadja argues. “If it’s got some bloody sippy cup stashed deeper in the cave, that will make it even harder to kill.”

“Nadja’s right,” Colin Robinson says, giving them both pause. “Yes. Weighing the risks vee the bennies, we should take the advantage the injury is giving us. It’s nothing personal, it’s just strategic.”

“Nadja, darling, while I’m usually a fan of your mercenary perspective, I must agree with the young lady here,” Laszlo says. “Leaving anybody behind, no matter how capable, could spell disaster.”

“Enough of this foolishness,” Nandor says, binding off the end of the bandage he’s been winding around Derek’s ankle. He rises, wiping his hands together, then motions to Nadja and Colin Robinson. “If you truly thought leaving someone behind was a good idea, why did either of you come down here in the first place?”

Nadja scowls. “That is different-”

“It is not,” Nandor affirms. “You all could have left, saved yourselves. But you did not.”

“Our camera man wouldn’t have gone without you,” Colin Robinson points out.

“You seem to think the equipment is more valuable than he is, or so you’ve said.” Nandor fixes him with a pointed look, and Colin Robinson amazingly has the good sense to look a little ashamed. “No, all of you risked your lives to come down here and find me.” He motions to Derek. “This young man did too, even though he barely knows me. And now you are asking us to betray such kindness? I do not think so.” He holds a hand out to Derek, winking. “So. We go together. All of us.”

Derek grasps his hand, Shanice swooping in to support him as Nandor hoists him up. “Thanks, man,” Derek says. “That was, uh, cool of you.”

Nandor nods, glancing briefly over at Guillermo before looking away. “I am simply repaying a favor. Think nothing of it.”

God, the things Guillermo would do for this man (would do to this man.)

Anyway.

With Derek’s ankle successfully bound up, they head down the tunnel, following the long, haphazard trails of black blood down the winding path that takes them disconcertingly deeper into the caves. It’s still wet, still shining unnervingly when their headlamps trail over it, cleaving an obvious trail for them. Guillermo is reminded of sludge, the color of leaky engine oil, or the runoff of an animal carcass rotting in the woods.

It’s foul, and yet not the only rotted thing at the heart of Coventry, a place with a gruesome history that stretches back centuries. Blood and tears soak the soil, trauma in the bones buried here, passed from body to body, destroying families, reputations, futures. Every small town has its secrets, and they’d come here hoping to uncover some, tell a story, maybe put the ghost of a poor unfortunate girl to rest.

Instead, they’d become a part of it. All of them a little lost when they arrived, and now, in varying states of found. Found forgiveness. Found opportunity. Found compassion. Found trust.

Found the truth.

And the truth is, Guillermo is the last person anyone should ask to kill a vampire, but if he doesn’t find a way, none of them will make it out of here alive.

Guillermo isn’t a fighter. The only weapons he’s ever wielded have been the odd foam short sword or axe when Jeremy drags him to LARP sessions on summer break. He wouldn’t know a riposte from a parry, doesn’t know what to do after Step 1: Hold Your Blade High and Keep Your Everything Protected. Guns seem more practical, though he still has no experience there. His abuelo has a collection of antique pistols he claimed were owned by some sort of mercenary ancestor, but Guillermo never took him up on the offer to hold one whenever he went over to the man’s house. Nobody did; they were a curious obsession the family politely tolerated, and now Guillermo is getting a little sweaty at the implications.

Why does this simple shaft of wood feel so natural in his hand? Why did the bat feel the same way before he handed it over to Nandor? Why does he know, with absolute certainty, that the vampire isn’t anywhere within a hundred feet of them?

One thing’s for sure. He is calling his abuelo as soon as he gets home and demanding some answers.

“Guillermo?” Nandor winces when he twists his head, the headlamp beaming directly into the taller man’s eyes. Guillermo apologetically lifts his chin a little higher. “You seem lost in your thoughts.”

“A little,” Guillermo admits. “Sorry. I should be on the lookout.”

“That would be preferable, yes,” Laszlo pipes up from behind him. “You’ve got that… whatever you’ve got going on. Stay focused.”

“Guillermo should not have to do all the work, stop putting everything on him!” Nadja glares at him when Guillermo turns to stare open-mouthed at her. “What? Mind your own beeswax!”

“This literally is my… never mind.” He sighs and turns back, squinting down the tunnel ahead. Everything’s been suspiciously quiet since they left the room with the underground river. No scary monsters jumping out at them. The environment has been more dangerous to their lives than the creature stalking them. And maybe that’s the point? Right now it’s outnumbered one versus eight, so if it wants to even the odds, it’ll use the various dangers within the cave to its own benefit to try and pick them off. They’ll need to use every tool at their disposal - speaking of… “How is everyone doing on figuring out their belief objects?”

“I know mine,” Shanice says, scowling when everyone turns and seems ready for an explanation. “What? I said I know it, I didn’t say I was sharing it?” Her eyes flick to Derek very briefly, and he gives her a short nod.

“The lovebirds are going to keep secrets and get us all killed, of course,” Nadja grumbles, waving about the stake in her hand. Her grip is clumsy, and Guillermo longs to correct it, then stops himself because a) surely Nadja will kill him if he tries (he’s not completely swayed by her changed behavior), and b) he is once again bowled over by the idea that he knows what a proper grip should be to plunge a stake into the heart of a creature from beyond the mortal realm.

“At least I know mine, what’s yours?” Shanice shoots back with an equally venomous tone. Yikes.

Nadja scoffs, gaze shifty. “I am figuring that out!”

“As am I,” Laszlo admits. “Nothing I was wearing or holding when last we encountered the creature gave me an indication it was my object.”

“Colin Robinson?” Guillermo asks.

Colin Robinson shrugs. “Beats me, compadre.”

“Well, until we figure it out, you three are the most vulnerable of the group, so stay towards the middle- Laszlo, what is that?”

“Oh, this?” Laszlo lifts up a small portable hand camera that looks like it was made sometime during the Clinton administration. “Yes, well, this is still a film shoot, and someone ” - he gives a pointed look at Colin Robinson - “refused to allow me to bring the rest of our studio equipment. So. I was using the GoPro, but it got smashed during the cave-in. Who knows if the blasted SD card saved the footage. Thankfully, this survived the dip I took in the river. First camera I ever owned, actually.” He taps on the oversized strap, which reminds Guillermo of a 90s mini-van seat belt. “This isn’t falling out of my hand quite so easily.”

Nandor frowns, directing his words at Colin Robinson. “You let him into the Snare Hole with our studio camera, but not down here?”

Colin Robinson shrugs again. “Didn’t think we were dealing with a real vampire this morning. Things have changed.” He taps on his forehead. “Risk assessment.”

“Our studio-financed film is going to suddenly look like the fucking Blair Witch Project in the third act,” Nadja complains. “Bloody fantastic.”

“Hey, they all died in that one too, didn’t they?” Colin Robinson asks.

“Too?! ”

Laszlo rests a hand on his shoulder. “Colin, my good chap, perhaps you… shouldn’t.”

“What? I’m not saying that’s what will happen, just that it’d be… what do you art snobs call it… thematically appropriate. Or something.”

They continue, down and down, deeper into the cave system, drops of water ticking off stalactites, an echoing countdown clock to the inevitable confrontation. The blood trail continues, though the splotches of color become concerningly smaller, less frequent. The tunnel grows tighter as they go, their path more jagged with stalactites and stalagmites, many of them broken off and scattered about, as if something quickly moved through the space. Nandor’s helmet knocks against the ceiling several times. Guillermo can hear the tick up of his heartbeat, the more frequent bob of his Adams’ apple.

Endlessly, the tunnels go, and they follow, all sense of time lost in the darkness. Guillermo’s feet are growing sore, boots long ruined by the mud caking them, sweat dripping down his forehead. 

A thought begins to form: maybe sending it deeper was a bad idea, if I’m worn out before we get there.

It can’t be helped, though. Damn Delmonico.

At one point, the tunnel becomes so small, they have to go one by one, crouching, then kneeling, the walls scraping at his shoulders. Nandor takes great, heaving breaths behind him, and Guillermo’s pretty sure it’s not just from exertion. He glances back, but Nandor shakes his head, eyes wide as he grits out, “Just. Fucking go. ” and so Guillermo does, scrambling to his feet as the tunnel finally opens back up a few minutes later. He holds a hand out, helping Nandor to his feet, before leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his mouth.

“No more caves, ever again,” Guillermo insists. “We just have to get out of this one.”

“I am holding you to that promise,” Nandor agrees, his breathing starting to settle. “How the fuck Colin Robinson enjoys this shit, I do not know.”

“Usually we’re not being chased by a horrifying supernatural creature who’s killed dozens of people while we do it,” Colin Robinson replies, popping up behind him. “Though there was that one time down in West Virginia-”

“Maybe you tell us that story later.” Laszlo rises to his feet beside Colin Robinson. “Not while we’re traipsing through the bowels of the underworld.”

After the tight squeeze, the path seems to flatten out, perhaps even slanting upwards. Fewer broken stalactites, smaller puddles of blood. He hesitates a step when Derek’s headlamp flashes over a grayish length on the path ahead. “What’s that?”

Derek steps beside him, squinting. “Looks kind of like a dead snake?”

“All the way down here?” Shanice shakes her head. “No way. Unless we’re closer to the surface than we thought?”

“That’s not it.” Colin Robinson strides past him, Guillermo whipping his hand out to catch the man’s arm. “Why- oh, right. Forgot I’m in group timeout. Anyway, it’s nothing to be scared of.”

He’s right, it’s just a scrap of heavy chain, mottled green with wear, but shockingly solid, not a speck of rust. No way of telling why it’s down here, or how long, but it does tell them that somebody was down here at some point.

“The stones were moved, but not this,” Nadja observes. “Even though it is right in the middle of the path.”

“Maybe it is pointing us in the right direction?” Nandor offers. “Like, a signpost.”

“There’s only one direction to go, though,” Jenna says. “What if it’s still here because it couldn’t be moved?”

“Someone’s belief object, perhaps?” Laszlo points the camera at the chain as Derek cradles it in his palm. “But whose?”

“I was thinking more about the material. You know. Silver? That’s the only thing that wouldn’t rust.”

“Silver chains are usually used for jewelry,” Shanice points out. “This looks industrial-sized. Something you’d find on a construction site.”

“Or what you might use to bind something,” Nandor says. “If you were trying to keep it trapped.”

They all go quiet at that, staring at the chain.

Guillermo speaks first. “Well, it’s not trapped anymore. But if humans found their way down here, then that means there’s a way out.”

“It could’ve been back the way we came though,” Colin Robinson begins. “The ascents that were flooding-”

“We either find a way out or we die, there is no point to this!” Nadja thrusts her palm out at Derek. “Give me that.”

“Why?” Derek asks, handing it over.

“Because if it is silver, it will be a good ward against the vampire, and the rest of you have options I do not.” She tucks the teardrop emerald necklace she is already wearing beneath her t-shirt, and then drapes the chain around her neck, wincing as the slimy, wet metal meets her skin. “Eugh. Disgusting.” Carefully, she loops one end over the other, tugging them tighter, before letting the ends fall against her chest. “There. If he tries to take a chomp out of my neck, he will get a nasty surprise.”

They continue moving, the darkness never abating, crawling at the edges of their headlamps and threatening to swallow them into a pitch black nothingness if their lights were to fail, widening like a maw whenever they enter a larger portion of the tunnel. It feels like the walls are pulsating around them, the air hot and thick as blood. They are stumbling through the arteries of a billion year old living thing, splashing through pools of waste fluid, desperately searching for the heart of the beast, and what lurks within.

As Guillermo lifts his foot to drop further down into the tunnel it comes on suddenly again, that adrenaline-rush of skin-prickling aliveness , that unbelievable Spidey-sense, but it’s coming from behind him , as he twirls to see the cluster of Laszlo, Colin Robinson and Nadja move painfully slow, unaware of a billowing cloud, thick like tar, spurting out from a crack above their heads.

Too slow, Guillermo thinks, jerking his arm up as a gray, gnarled hand gathers shape, its claws glinting in Guillermo’s headlamp, surging down and aiming for the visible skin of Colin Robinson’s exposed neck. The stake he holds flies true, plunging through the hand, jerking it sideways.

It’s not far enough. The tips of the claws slice into Colin Robinson’s arm.

Colin Robinson goes down as chaos breaks out, Guillermo whipping out another stake and aiming it at the smoke as it flies over their heads. “Fuck off, pendejo!” he yells, launching the second stake, this one passing through the cloud and clattering uselessly to the floor.

Yellow eyes and a fang-crowded mouth coalesce in the darkness, and the thing lets out a wicked laugh. “You cannot keep them safe, Kammerman. Not all of them.”

“Watch me,” Guillermo spits, yanking out another stake. “Stop being a coward and hiding. I know you’re hurt.”

“YOU KNOW NOTHING!” It roars, sound cut off as its mouth dissolves away and its cloud disappears further down the tunnel.

It’s only as the adrenaline drops away that he starts to hear Laszlo’s frantic yelling “-let me look at it, you daft fool!”

“Laz, it’s fine,” Colin Robinson insists. Guillermo turns to see them leaning against the tunnel wall, Colin Robinson shying his shoulder away from Laszlo’s gaze. “It’s just a flesh wound- Hey!” He sways a little as Nadja grabs his wrist from the other side and tugs his arm up, squinting at the injury. Now Guillermo can see that his shirt has been shredded open on his upper arm, and three jagged claw-marks bleed freely.

“Ilíthios, this needs to be bandaged,” Nadja snaps, glaring at him. “Did we bring the first aid kit?”

“We don’t have time to stop,” Colin Robinson argues, looking at Guillermo. “We’re right on its tail. This is not going to kill me.”

“Fine, if you’re so stubborn, at least let me…” Laszlo tugs his backpack off, unzipping the front pocket and whipping out one of his neckerchiefs; this one is a rusty red color. “It’s dry and it’ll hopefully keep the wound clean until we can patch you up later.”

“Wrap it as we go, Laszlo,” Guillermo orders, shocked at his own bluntness as he strides forward, even more shocked when Laszlo doesn’t argue. He can feel the vampire’s presence at the very edge of his senses, and he doesn’t want to lose it, picking up his footsteps as he starts to feel it fade. “Hey! Where are you going? I thought you were having fun fucking with us!” he yells, a seed of anger sprouting in his chest. “What’s wrong, scared you can’t handle one measly slayer and a few weakling humans? Some vampire you are!”

The creature doesn’t even slip free of the cracks in the wall this time to attack; Guillermo has to grab Nandor around the waist and haul him sideways as an oily, lashing vine of blackness whips out of a hole in the rock face, missing his face by an inch. Nandor loses his balance, but Guillermo manages to keep him mostly upright, bent backwards like they’re in an impromptu tango act.

“You okay?” Guillermo asks.

Nandor blinks up at him, a little glassy-eyed. “No, but not for the reason you think.”

Before Guillermo has a chance to ponder that, there’s a howling shriek that cuts through his head like a knife. He almost drops Nandor as it reverberates down the corridor, and he hears three sharp, concerning snaps from the rocks around them. In the beam of his headlamp, spidery cracks shoot through the rockface, like ominous spiderwebs.

“ Shit ,” Nandor says, his gaze following the cracks.

“RUN!” Shanice yells, and they all haul ass, Guillermo shoving Nandor back to his feet and dragging him forwards as the tunnel behind them heaves, the walls collapsing inwards. Another shriek blasts like dynamite from their left, pelting them with rock and dust, the sound morphing into a braying cackle as they charge ahead, the walls around them shaking and barely holding together.

“NOW I AM HAVING FUN!” the vampire howls, its voice everywhere. There’s another explosion of rock from the right; Guillermo feels a shard slice into his cheek, wincing as he runs and desperately tries to sense where exactly the creature is manifesting itself.

“Look!” Nadja yells. “Up ahead!”

In a scant fifty feet, the tunnel ends; Guillermo can see some kind of chamber beyond, but it’s impossible to see the size of it, just the wide, unnaturally smooth stone of the floor. Something tells him that this is the place they’ve been running to all along, so, despite the burn of his lungs, and the ache of his legs, and another unknown horror likely to come, he picks up his stride and tightens his grip in Nandor’s.

Whatever happens, they’ll face it together.

Chapter Text

July 16th, 2022

1:34AM

Jenna

Jenna flings herself from the collapsing tunnel, a deafening screech accompanying her flight. She lands on one knee, coughing out dust, and blinks up at the jagged stalactites that hang heavy over their heads, cracked and threatening to fall if jostled the wrong way. A reverse spike pit. It’s like something out of their last D&D campaign, but they’re all far too squishy for a direct hit. They’ve been getting lucky on dodge rolls, but-

“We need light!” Nadja yells, coughing beside her.

Right. This is real. Fuck, this is actually happening to them!

A thick, choking plume of disintegrated rock surrounds them. It’s hard to see more than a few feet in front of her, but she can at least make out other figures getting to their feet: Shanice and Derek to her right, Colin Robinson and Laszlo to her left. Nandor and Guillermo aren’t with them, but Jenna can hear thumps and yelling in the distance. Two headlamps twist and turn in a devilish dance at least a dozen feet ahead.

With an effortful thrust, Jenna’s thin sword penetrates the dirt below, and she swings off her backpack, yanking it open. She pulls fistfulls of short, reddish plastic tubes from inside, and cracks one in half.

Bright red light bursts from inside. It grows brighter as she shakes the tube a few times, then tosses it high, towards the distant commotion. The arc of the light reveals the deadly stalactites are attached to a ceiling at least thirty feet high. As the glowstick lands at Guillermo’s feet, bathing him in a crimson hue, she sees a long, clawed arm lash out of the darkness at him.

Looks like they’ve found their prey.

Jenna catches Nadja’s eye and thrusts a few of the sticks at her. “Help me,” she insists.

Nadja takes the bundle of tubes she’s been handed and follows Jenna’s lead, cracking and tossing them in a wide arc to light up as much of the space as possible. Each one reveals more and more of the chamber: a roundish cavern, cut through with large stalagmites, smooth rockface walls in every direction, and no exit in sight.

Fuck, they are so, sooooo boned. Even if they kill the vampire, how are they gonna get out of here?

“Laszlo!” Nadja barks. “Get the camera working. I need a finale for the editing bay, and if you do not capture this incredible battle I will kill you myself!”

“I love your mercenary thought process, my darling.” Laszlo motions between the remaining members of the group. “Colin, maybe it’s best you support the lad and stick close to us, so the good lady Shanice can assist Guillermo.”

“But I want to help,” Derek grouses, giving Shanice a pained look as Colin Robinson slides into her space.

“You can probably help her the best by not dying,” Colin Robinson says, far too cheerily.

“He’s right and you know it,” Shanice says, giving him a peck on the cheek before rustling in her bag. She glances over at Jenna. “Keep an eye on him.”

“I don’t need babysitting!” Derek says.

“Yes you do,” both she and Jenna say in tandem. Looking out for each other is just what they do.

There’s a loud yelp from across the room that cuts through their bickering.

“Hurry!” Jenna tells Shanice. “They’re going to need all the help they can get.”

Nandor

“Fuck, shit, fuck, fuckity fuck!”

Nandor slams his bat down three times, four times, five. And three, four, five times the vampire’s claws shriek against the metal, the sound nails-on-a-chalkboard up his spine, vibrating through his teeth. Each breath between swings feels like a century. Each lash of the creature’s claws seems to draw closer and closer to his throat.

Physical prowess is one of Nandor’s strengths, but in this moment he feels clumsy. Dangerously slow in comparison to the thing threatening to destroy him. Like he’s learning the ropes of a stupidly difficult Japanese video game, expected to die and respawn over and over.

Except unlike a video game, he doesn’t have a save file to reload.

Even with a weapon, Nandor knows he doesn’t have the upper hand in this fight. You’d think a guy who spends hours lifting weights could match up to the living dead, but there’s power rippling through the muscles of the vampire’s arms as it deftly catches each of his blows.

Nandor should ask for a refund on his gym membership, because what the fuck was even the point.

Frankly, he’d be dead already if not for Guillermo, who keeps catching the offhand swipes from the creature against the wood of his stake, limbs scuttling at a dizzying speed.

We didn’t even get to have sex , Nandor thinks, a hysterical laugh threatening to bubble out of his chest as the next hit throws him off balance.

Of all the things to think about when his life is on the line.

The next blow comes high, too high and too fast, barely catching it against the metal as the claws raze across his cheek.

He recognizes too late that he’s left his belly wide open. Braces for the inevitable blow that will tear his guts out of his body.

Something whizzes by his ear. Cool liquid splatters his cheek.

The sudden, pained howl of the creature jolts him back. He loses his footing and hits the ground as the vampire zips away.

Buried in its shoulder, there’s a metal rod sticking out, sizzling at the point of entry.

Nandor pushes off his scraped elbow and glances behind him.

Down on one knee, Shanice loads another shot into a small, sleek metal crossbow, dipping the tip in a small plastic container of fine powder first.

She meets his eyes briefly before locking the crossbow string back and starting to take aim again.

“Nandor.” Guillermo holds a hand out to him, but his eyes are ping-ponging around the room, watching the creature shift and flit from corner to corner. It briefly dissolves into mist, but the crossbow bolt remains caught within the darkness, a circle of its shoulder still solid within the massive shape.

“That arrow, what is she tipping it with?” Nandor asks, letting Guillermo help him back up.

“No idea. Are you okay?”

“When you are around, I am always okay.”

“We’re in the middle of a life or death battle and you’re flirting with me?”

“I can stop if it is bothering you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

They watch as the creature resolidifies, gripping the bolt and yanking it out of its arm with another pained howl. Black blood splatters on the ground below.

Guillermo frowns. “Whatever’s in that powder, it’s disrupting its powers.”

Nandor looks again at the little plastic container beside Shanice’s knee. It’s the size of a pill bottle; probably not enough to share. Besides, the creature is already stalking again, eyes shifting, searching for it’s next target.

But it’s not looking at Nandor, or at Guillermo.

Twenty feet away, Laszlo has drifted away from the group, completely focused on fiddling with that stupid fucking camera, muttering to himself as he whacks the side. He paces when he solves problems; usually it’s a harmless quirk of his personality. Not today.

Dread gathers in the pit of Nandor’s stomach. “Laszlo! Get back-”

He’s too late. The vampire dematerializes, rushing towards Laszlo, a great foaming flood of black ichor.

Laszlo jerks his head up, stumbling back.

His foot catches a loose rock, and he goes down, arms akimbo, hands clutching the camera.

Laszlo

Bloody hell, Laszlo thinks as he falls. I said I would die for my art, but I didn’t mean like this.

He expects the usual: life flashing before his eyes as the vampire chows down on his neck. All his happy memories, regrets, things left unresolved. Etc, etc. He should’ve left clearer funerary instructions for Nadja: nobody is allowed to wear a single fucking suit, and there had better be a post-repast orgy.

However, instead of immediate, painful death, his elbow hits the ground, hard, and his fingers dig into the buttons on the camera’s control panel.

A bright streak of light bursts from the flash bulb, cleaving through the vampiric mist as it bears upon him. Two thirds of it solidifies into the creature’s body, silently flying over his head and continuing on, slamming into a stalactite on the opposing side of the room. Shanice has to duck sideways to avoid being hit by shards of rock.

The rest of it lands as a splatter of viscera in front of him, speckling his face and hair with black blood and vampire guts.

Laszlo is going to be sick. “Bloody Christ.”

“Laszlo!” Nadja stalks towards him as he stumbles to his feet, seething with the anger of a woman on her ten-thousandth round of I told you so . “I said to fix the camera, not get yourself killed!”

“Apologies, darling.” He picks up the camera, sighing at the cracked flash bulb. It hit the ground when he fell. Fantastic. “You know how I get when I’m problem-solving.”

“You saw that, right?” Colin asks as they return to the group, eyebrows raising, twitching slightly. If Laszlo thought the man capable of excitement, that would surely be what he’d call it. Colin continues: “Pretty sure we found your BO.”

“My wha- ah. Belief object. Is that the acronym we’re going with?”

“No fucking way!” Derek pipes up. “I discovered them, and there is no way in hell I’m letting you-”

“We’ll workshop it later, when we’re not all about to die,” Colin interrupts, glancing back at Laszlo. “Can you get it working again?”

Laszlo shrugs. “Potentially. I have to swap out the bulb, and the wires inside like to detach themselves. It’ll take at least a few minutes.” He eyes the rock pile nervously, watching as Guillermo and Nandor approach it. Nothing has moved from that spot in the last thirty seconds, but he’d bet his entire pre-disownment inheritance that they haven’t managed to kill the vampire yet.

“We don’t have a few minutes,” Nadja says, tossing a glowstick towards the pile, revealing nothing. “Laszlo, I’ve experienced how quick those darling hands of yours can work-”

“Ew,” Derek says.

“Double ew,” Shanice says.

“Oh, grow up,” Nadja snaps back, glaring at Shanice. “Why are you even back over here?”

Shanice shrugs. “Because your idiot husband almost got himself killed, and if he tries that again, at least I’ll get a clear shot at the thing.”

“It’s alright, Nadja,” Laszlo says, swinging his bag off and opening the clasp. “I’ll get it done. Could use a little help though.”

“Let me,” Derek says, “I feel useless right now. Plus I’ve fixed a ton of old tech with my Dad.” He motions to Laszlo’s camera. “Handycam, right? Pretty easy to repair.”

Laszlo raises an eyebrow; the last time he tried to fix this thing, he had to go to urgent care after electrocuting himself. He pulls a small toolkit out of his bag and holds it out to Derek. “Come on then.”

Colin lowers Derek to knee beside Laszlo, and calls out to Nandor and Guillermo. “How’s it looking over there?”

Nandor points the tip of his bat at the pile and jabs, knocking aside some of the larger rocks. They glisten in the dull red light, dripping with something wet and dark. He looks at them and shakes his head. “It’s not here anymore.”

“Then where the fuck is it?” Laszlo grumbles, pulling the spare bulb out of the carrying case as Derek pops open the side panel of the camera. “Can you see it anywhere, Colin?”

Colin frowns. “I wonder… Jenna, can I have two of those glowsticks?”

“Sure,” she says, handing them over. “What are you thinking?”

“If it hasn’t slithered back into the rockface, which it probably hasn’t, since it has that, y’know, complex about G-man, then it’s hiding in the dark in here.”

One of the glowsticks goes flying into the far corner and shows… nothing, again.

Colin’s frown deepens, and he takes two steps forward. “C’mon, I know you’re here.”

“Colin, don’t stray,” Laszlo chides.

“I’m not, relax.” He cracks the second glowstick. “Shanice, you have that next bolt ready?”

“Almost,” she affirms. “Give me twenty seconds.”

“Oh…. there,” Colin motions to a small puddle of darkness near the rockpile. “Has to be.”

He lifts his arm high, preparing to throw.

An icy crack shoots down Laszlo’s spine.

Five feet above Colin’s head, the light casts a sickly glow over a shredded, dripping stump of flesh, a stump that was once attached to a clawed right arm. That arm’s twin shoots down from the darkness above their heads as the vampire’s face is revealed by the light - full of fury and fire and death.

Laszlo realizes with a clawing horror that they’ve been so focused on lighting up the rest of the room that they’ve neglected the space around their little huddled group.

“COLIN!” Laszlo screams.

Colin barely has time to catch his eye, face riddled with confusion, before the vampire’s remaining claw buries itself in Colin’s shoulder, yanking up and pulling him into the darkness.

Chapter Text

July 16th, 2022

1:40am

Nadja

Nadja is the closest to Colin Robinson. A few feet away at most. Just close enough that, as his body shoots up like a rocket, she manages to grab onto his ankle with both hands, digging her nails into the fabric and skin.

Another foot of distance, another second… when this memory arises in the distant future, she won’t let herself think of other outcomes.

She tries her best to keep him grounded, pulling back hard, heels sinking into the dusty dirt beneath her feet. It’s enough to momentarily stop Colin Robinson’s ascent.

“GET THE FUCK OFF OF HIM!” she screams up at the vampire. 

A pointless, angry outburst. A fist beating against the wall of inevitability.

She yelps as her own feet leave the ground, legs dangling in the air, swinging wildly. 

She doesn’t let go.

Her knees knock together as two arms wrap around them, yanking down hard. Laszlo, it’s Laszlo, holding on, pulling with all his might. The terror on his face speaks bluntly of the situation at hand.

“Hold on!” he yells. “I- I’ve got you-”

Colin Robinson screams. 

Nadja jerks her head up, watching him dodge the vampire’s snapping fangs as he desperately pulls at the claws in his shoulder. They don’t budge. The delicate musculature and joints of his shoulder twist and strain, caught in a dangerous tug of war between the vampire and the weight of two humans. 

She can see it now: he’s either going to get ripped from her grasp or something will get ripped off of him. She doubts he’d survive the latter. There’s only one choice here.

“LASZLO, LET GO!” she yells.

Laszlo’s grip loosens very slightly. “B-but-”

Colin Robinson screams again. Nadja swears she can hear muscles tearing.

“I’M GOING TO LOSE HIM!” she yells. “PLEASE!”

Laszlo lets out a sob that stabs her to the core. Then he lets her go.

“GET THE FUCKING CAMERA WORKING!” Nadja howls as they go airborne. In the fraction of a moment where the vampire falters, readjusting in the air, her hand shoots up to grab Colin Robinson’s upper calf.

Then they’re gone. Twenty feet up, a chain of three bodies swinging erratically around the chamber, too high for anyone else to reach.

Nadja’s never been one for scaling heights, especially ones made of smooth fabric and human skin. Maybe if all of her limbs were in play, she’d have a chance, but with her legs dangling freely, she can’t pull herself up any further. She barely ducks a kick from the vampire’s feet, gasping as she feels her grip on Colin Robinson’s leg slip. 

This is really bad, and she’s not the only one struggling. Colin Robinson’s remaining good hand is wrapped around the vampire’s throat from behind, pulling back against the creature’s snapping attempts to get its fangs into his own throat. He’s got a firm grip, and his arm is twisted around the creature’s shoulder. This is letting him take some of the weight off his other arm, lying limp at his side.

They’re locked in an uneasy stalemate. Without its second arm, the vampire seems to be struggling with their combined weight, dipping and jerking as Nadja’s body swinging pulls them to and fro.

Nadja yelps again as she loses her grip on the leg, clutching the fabric of Colin Robinson’s pants. The only thing between her and a twenty foot drop is whatever leather belt is keeping those pants up. 

She needs help.

“Colin, give me your fucking hand!” she yells.

“It’s a little full right now!!” he yells back, twisting his head to the side to avoid a snarling bite.

“The other one, Colin!”

“I can’t-!”

“YOU HAVE TO!” she screeches. “OR WE’LL BOTH DIE!”

Colin Robinson lets out a low, frustrated sound, flexing the fingers on his injured arm. She can see the pain on his face in every movement.

But bless the resilient little fucker, he listens. 

He strains, reaching down a few scant inches. Nadja thrusts her arm up and grabs for it, knowing that if she misses, she’s done for.

Their hands meet, clasping, and she holds on.

“PULL!” she screams.

He does, face contorting awfully as he lets out a half-sob. One inch, two, three… 

Nadja feels her hand brush his belt, grabbing onto it a moment before Colin Robinson loses his grip. His arm goes slack, dripping with blood, now useless. With a furious roar, she shoots her other hand up and grabs his other hip, straining and pulling with all her might until she can wrap her legs around his ankles.

Halfway there, she thinks.

“Hurry!” Colin Robinson yells.

“Hold on!” Nadja wraps one arm tight around his waist, shimmying up to get her legs locked around his knees. Digging under her shirt, she pulls out the silver chain, cursing as it catches on her emerald necklace but managing to twist it free, the emerald falling against her shirt. 

She stares at the silver chain, covered in slime and moss, wincing for a brief moment before clenching it between her teeth.

Nadja whips her head up as Colin Robinson screams, watching in horror as the vampire’s fangs barely miss his throat, sinking into his collarbone instead. The cry is bloody, full-throated, like a prey animal succumbing to the death it can see coming. 

Colin Robinson’s other arm drops limp to his side.

All thoughts but one leave Nadja’s head: Climb.

She grabs Colin Robinson’s wrist and digs her nails into his skin. It will hurt, but she needs the grip. She goes, hauling herself up like she’s ascending one of the trees she used to climb as a girl, though this one squirms and bleeds a lot more. 

Colin Robinson lets out a weak moan, eyes closed and body slumped, completely depleted of energy and likely overwhelmed by pain.

Nadja can hear commotion and screaming far below, but she can’t focus on anything except the perfectly exposed neck of the vampire as it begins to drink.

Pushing off of Colin’s good shoulder, she locks her legs around his chest, grabs the chain, and in one swift motion, wraps it around the vampire’s throat, pulling both ends tight and leaning back with her body weight.

The creature screeches and rips its head up, taking little chunks of Colin Robinson’s skin and muscle with it.

“FUCKING DIE, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!” Nadja seethes, staring down the vampire’s yellow-slitted eyes, smelling burning flesh. Wherever the silver touches the vampire’s skin, white hot heat hisses off the metal. 

The vampire screeches and snaps at her, and she yanks the chain back hard. The motion sends them careening sideways. It snaps again, clearly intent on tearing her throat out, straining against the silver. To her horror, its head starts to inch forward. Closer.

A hand splays over the vampire’s eyes.

“Hold on,” Colin Robinson gasps, digging his fingers into its eye sockets and yanking with the last of his strength.

The creature hollers, and they drop. 

Nadja watches the ground rapidly coming up to meet them. This is going to fucking hurt, she thinks, closing her eyes.

They shoot open a second later when the vampire pitches horizontally. Nadja yelps at the sharp, sudden pain in her side as they slam into a wall, losing her grip on the silver chain and Colin Robinson’s body. She drops again, free falling the last few feet to the ground.

She lands on her shoulder, gasping and dazed, vision swimming. The ground vibrates as a heavy weight drops beside her.

Colin Robinson? she thinks, only to feel a large body crawl atop her. sitting on her chest, pinning her arms to the ground. 

The vampire looms over her, its mangled eyeballs dripping their jellied vitreous humor onto her shirt, its mouth held wide as it leans down to tear out her throat.

“NADJA! ” Laszlo screams from far away. Too far away.

Staring death in the face, the distant voice of her beloved husband ringing in her ears, Nadja sees the glint of her emerald teardrop necklace resting against her hyperventilating chest.

There’s a funny feeling in the back of her head, something urging her on.

Well, maybe… She grips the gem as a last desperate hope.

She feels it then, the burning fire coursing through her body. It lights her up, gasping as the sensation races through her. Memories flash through her mind: a jewelry shop decades ago, a ham-fisted stack of currency, a black eye and a promise she made to herself to never let anyone tell her who she was and what she was destined for, ever again.

The vampire’s fangs barely brush her throat before it screams and launches itself off of her, the skin of its legs and mouth bubbling and sloughing off.

“Holy shit,” Nadja gasps, sitting up, holding the emerald so tight she can feel the tip of it dig into her palm. Mind reeling as she tries to make sense of what’s going on. But I bought this for myself. Nobody gave it to me. How?

“Get the fuck away from her!” Guillermo skids to a halt between her and the creature, double fisting stakes, covered in mud and shaking with a fury too big for his small stature.

“Nadja!” Nandor isn’t more than a step behind, keeping his eye on the vampire as he holds out a hand to her, worry writ across his features. “Fuck, are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” she grunts, wincing as he helps her up, leaning against him for a moment. “Colin?”

Nandor motions behind her. Nadja glances back to see the other man pushing himself up off the ground with one arm, struggling to rise.

“Keep it distracted so I can get him out of here.” Nadja stumbles away, keeping her hand locked around her necklace. Even without its eyesight, Nadja would bet the creature has some kind of sensory perception, echo location, something that still makes it a threat.

It seems uninterested in her though, and she makes it to Colin, wrapping an arm around him as he sways on his feet. His shoulder and neck are a mess. Deep punctures and torn skin and muscle. Thank fuck nothing is spraying, but he’s still bleeding far too much.

“Fuck…” Colin Robinson gasps, leaning into her. “This- this is probably really bad, huh.”

“C’mon,” she insists. “Let’s not think about it now. Just walk.” Her right side is on fire, but there’s enough adrenaline running in her veins to dull the pain and keep her going.

Laszlo runs the last few feet to them, shaking like an anxious retriever as he pulls them both into his arms. “Oh God, I- I thought you were both-”

“Less… less with the feelings and more with the healing, please,” Colin Robinson groans. “I only have so much blood left in my body, Laz.”

“Right, yes-” Laszlo draws them back to the group, settling on the ground with them as he rips the first aid kit out of his bag.

“The camera, Laszlo,” Nadja pleads, catching Colin Robinson’s shoulder as he slumps sideways into her. She guides his head into Laszlo’s lap, reaching for her own bag and the second kit inside. “Tell me it’s ready.”

“I’m working on it,” Derek says, his tiny little screwdriver spinning and spinning as he starts screwing the side panel back on. “Shouldn’t take more than a minute.” He glances back towards Nandor and Guillermo. “What the fuck are they doing over there?”

Guillermo

“Give up already!” Guillermo snaps, on his last ten percent of energy and one hundred percent done with this shit.

He should be back in his hotel room, snoring through a lovely dream after spending the evening pulling indecent noises out of Nandor’s body. Instead he’s stuck at the bottom of this grimy cave, covered in dirt and rock dust and rainwater, and he just watched his coworkers almost get mauled to death by some kind of ancient terror that speaks like a Pilgrim and wants to turn him into a juice box.

This is the worst first date he’s ever been on. Nandor is lucky he’s so fucking hot.

Guillermo motions to the vampire’s bleeding stump, the nasty looking burns littering its body. “Look at yourself, you’re a fucking mess.”

“This is nothing,” the creature snarls, shifting its weight between either foot. Still limber. Still dangerous. “My body was nearly destroyed when I razed that church to embers, but I was returned to my full power as soon as I finished consuming the last of those pathetic villagers. I need only do the same to all of you once you are dead.”

“That was you? What was the fucking point?” Nandor also sounds completely done with tonight’s events. “Why hide out in some tiny little mountain town for three hundred years?”

“I cannot leave! ” The vampire sways a little to the left; Guillermo shifts with it, unsure whether this is a feint or the creature really is losing strength. “I was trapped here by design, by my own brethren. When I return home, they will never know peace again.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Guillermo says, “but if the only way you can leave here is by killing us, then you’re not making it back home.”

“Foolish.” The vampire spits black blood to the ground, taking a step back. “You are running out of time, Kammerman . Do you see?”

It lifts its shoulder slightly, and Guillermo watches the ragged flesh knitting back together, squirming muscle growing outwards as the creature’s body starts to heal. The jelly of its eyeballs is also starting to solidify as its pupils reform.

The vampire smiles with all the rows of its deadly teeth. “A mouthful of blood from your companion and I renew myself. He looks in poor shape. How long do you think he will last down here?”

And Guillermo doesn’t want to believe it, but he couldn’t tell how bad Colin Robinson was injured as Nadja carried him away. What if he’s really hurt? There was a lot of blood, a lot of screaming. So much screaming. Nadja also looked completely spent, and Derek is barely walking without support. They’re in poor shape.

“Give me your blood, Kammerman,” the vampire croons. “I will leave the rest of your companions in peace. Don’t you want them to live? Anxious little man, don’t be selfish.”

A wriggle of a horrible thought worms its way into his brain: Maybe I should. Maybe if everyone else got out-

“Shut the fuck up!” Guillermo feels Nandor’s hand tighten on his shoulder, warm and grounding and pushing away the thought in an instant. Nandor scowls, pointing the bat at the creature. “The only reason Guillermo is here is because of me, and I am not leaving without him!”

It hisses, rising back up to its full, terrifying height. “THEN YOU CAN DIE WITH HIM!”

Guillermo flinches as it explodes, body there one minute and gone the next, dissolved into a choking black cloud that pours in an arc over their heads, encircling them in a dome of darkness. The cloud rotates, whipping up winds, spinning and spinning as the headlights on their lamps disappear into the void. 

A vampiric tornado, and they’re in the eye of the storm. 

Guillermo feels his senses go haywire, every inch of his body lighting up with awareness but unable to pinpoint a direction of response.

“Get behind- wait no, how about- fuck!” Guillermo twists wildly, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck. “I can’t tell where it’s located. It could reform anywhere!”

“We still have our little charms!” Nandor yells over the sound of the raging winds. “It won’t touch us!”

“I wouldn’t count on that!” Guillermo shouts back, coughing, starting to feel dizzy. “It might be desperate enough at this point!”

The whole cloud vibrates, howling so sharply that Guillermo swears his ears are going to start bleeding. “YOU HAVE SEEN YOUR LAST SUNSET, KAMMERMAN! I WILL MAKE YOUR LOVER WATCH THE LIFE LEAVE YOUR EYES AS I DRAIN YOU DRY!”

“Nobody ever told me vampires were so dramatic!” Nandor yells back, leaning hard into Guillermo’s shoulder, legs wobbling as he gasps. “How- how about you die and we- we go have sex instead!”

Guillermo’s head is spinning, and he drops to one knee. Too late, he realizes what’s happening. “Air- Nandor the air-”

“Fuck-” Nandor slumps down beside him, gasping and gasping, gripping his shoulders, stare wild. “G-Guillermo…”

Guillermo’s vision swims, one desperate thought cresting above the wave. “Nandor, I-I love…”

Nandor’s eyes widen.

And at that moment, a blinding beam cuts through the darkness. The dome splinters into thousands of shards, scattering outwards.

“Taste my spotlight, you utter knob!” Laszlo shouts, holding his camera aloft and grinning like a madman. “Get out of there, lads!”

Guillermo gasps hard as air fills his lungs once more, his senses sharpening in an instant at the pained yowl of a creature barreling towards him. It slams into him, pinning him to the ground, his stakes flying out of his hands and across the room. It screams into his face as it pins one of his hands down, half of it’s jaw blasted off it’s face, one eye a smoking crater. He can feel the skin of its hand bubbling and melting as it contacts his skin, still shielded by his belief object.

A loud crack sends it flying across the room to slam into the far wall, slumping to the ground, lying still.

“Leave my boyfriend alone, you fucking prick!” Nandor yells, body twisted like he just swung the winning home run, the bend in his bat now L-shaped.

“Th-thanks, babe,” Guillermo says, letting Nandor help him to his feet. “You okay?”

Nandor gives him a swift nod. “You?”

“I think so. Lost my stakes though.” He glances back at the huddle of his friends, sees Nadja and Laszlo still trying to bandage up Colin’s wounds, Shanice circling the far side with her crossbow in hand, and Derek and Jenna tossing more glowsticks wherever they’ve gotten covered by broken rock. “I need replacements, now!”

Derek

“We’ve got it!” Derek calls, grabbing two stakes from his bag and holding them against his chest when Jenna tries to take them. “I can walk them over, my ankle’s feeling better.”

Jenna frowns. “You’re gonna hurt yourself-”

“Too late!” Derek starts limping towards them, ignoring the pain in his ankle. Jenna follows, sliding her arm around his waist but not impeding his momentum.

“She’s right, you know,” Guillermo says as they approach, taking the stakes. “I get that you want to help, but you’re just giving me more to worry about.”

Derek scowls. “I didn’t spend half my lifetime training for this just to get sidelined. You can’t understand what this means, finally putting to rest the thing that ripped my family apart decades ago. I have to strike that killing blow or I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting it.”

Nandor rests a hand on his shoulder. “Better you have a life to regret it in than not have one at all.”

Derek’s eyes snap to the right as he hears another angry screech. He watches as the vampire stumbles to its feet, body shaking. Maybe with exhaustion, maybe with rage. It unhinges the remaining half of its jaw, and Derek sees its throat swell up, as it jerks its head skyward. 

Oh. Oh fuck, he thinks. Just like in the forest.

“Watch out-!” Derek starts, his sentence cut off by the high-pitched blast that erupts from the creature’s throat. The concussive wave blows shards of rock aside as it slams into the ceiling.

Derek hears the terrifying sound of splintering rock. 

All of them look up.

“GET TO COVER!” Nandor roars, shoving both Derek and Guillermo backwards as a massive stalactite smashes into the ground between them. 

A loud rumbling vibrates the walls of the chamber as the ceiling starts to cave in. Derek grabs onto Jenna’s waist as she hauls him aside. They tumble and roll backwards, hugging each other tight, the sounds of screaming and crashing echoing around them. 

Derek’s back slams into a wall, pain lancing up his spine. He twists, shoving Jenna underneath him, burying his face in her shoulder and praying they’re not about to get flattened by a spear of rock.

The crashing and smashing of stone around them feels like it goes on for ages, but is probably only a few moments, settling into an eerie silence.

“You alive?” Derek asks.

“Yeah,” Jenna answers. “You?”

“Yeah.”

When Derek looks up again, the ceiling is gone. Nandor is nowhere to be seen, and there’s a massive pile of rock blocking his view of where he last saw the rest of the team. 

A terror grips Derek, thinking of Shanice. Please, please be okay.

The ringing in his ears is starting to subside, and he finally notices the sound of someone choking.

Ten feet away, Guillermo is pinned to the wall, eyes rolled back, blood dripping down his head as the malformed figure of the vampire bears down on him. The creature’s remaining hand is wrapped around Guillerom’s neck, its skin hissing and bubbling. The vampire seems past the point of caring, too focused on finally getting the opportunity to gorge itself on the slayer blood. 

Guillermo cries out as its fangs plunge into his neck. One empty hand scrabbles at its back, defenseless. Blood wells and pools at his collarbone as the vampire begins to drink, the sizzling skin of its mouth healing just as quickly as it burns away. Derek can see Guillermo’s other hand, pinned between his own body and the vampire, gripping a stake but unable to get enough room to plunge it upwards. 

He’s so close to victory, but he’ll never do it by himself.

“We’ve gotta help him.” Derek stumbles to his feet, Jenna only a moment behind him. He steps forward, ankle screaming, snatching up the errant stake that lies on the ground in his path. Metal screeches as Jenna unsheathes her sword. 

“For Coco,” she says.

“For Solomon,” he agrees.

They glance at one another, nod, and charge.

Jenna reaches it first, and her sword stabs cleanly through the back of the vampire’s leg, pinning it to the ground. It groans, but gives little acknowledgement, too focused on its blood feast to respond. 

Derek meets Guillermo’s eyes as he runs, raising his stake.

Guillermo gives him a little nod, then screams with a final fury as he twists his arm, lining up the stake directly underneath the creature’s heart.

Derek slams his whole body into the creature, swinging his arm down.

And finally, together, the two slayers - one by birthright, one by circumstance - stab the monster through the heart.