Chapter Text
Avid should have figured it wasn't safe. High up in the mountains of Oakhurst, he'd thought that maybe danger wouldn't follow him.
It was easier to lose yourself in the smaller towns, or the winding roads between fields and valley farms. As he'd gotten further north the climbs grew steeper, and the trees became a deeper green. His walking became harder and harder, muscles he'd never used before burning every night when he went to sleep, and his breath coming in ragged gasps as the altitude changed. Snow capped the tops of the peaks around him, until one day he had woken up by his meager, dying campfire and realized there was snow falling.
It was only September.
The more isolated, the better he had thought. Get away from the big cities, and go some where no one knew him. Some where he could start over, and maybe lose the feeling of eyes always watching him, waiting for him to slip. To lose control.
(He should have known better.)
Avid was a stranger in Oakhurst, and although the town was small, it was productive. Lumber, livestock, wool, furs— everything you'd expect from a trade town. There was even a river nearby winding through the mountainous peaks, which was far too dangerous for boats, but good for sending lumber down stream.
He had followed that shining silver ribbon to navigate his way to Oakhurst, the road treacherous in the looming autumn weather. Whole swathes of it would be washed away in sudden downpours, forcing him to go deeper in the woods to circumvent the break in the road.
He was nervous every time. The trees pressed in close, vaulted farther over his head than any tree he had ever seen before. Their branches were so close together that only the barest fingers of sunlight found their way through the canopy to touch the pockets of moss and moldering leaves, and light his way back to the main road.
These woods were old. Untouched. Wild. He got out of them as soon as he could, heart hammering in his rib cage and throat tight.
Occasionally he would run into lumberjacks driving their trees down stream to the next trading outpost. Gruff men banded in muscle, a cigarette tucked into their hat or into the corner of their mouths. They eyed Avid with suspicion, but were friendly enough. Giving him a wave, or directions, or the conditions of the road ahead. They eyed his insufficient traveling bag, his worn boots, and the lank grimy hang of his hair, and often times even gave him a heel of bread or an apple for the road.
(They wouldn't have, if they'd known what he was.)
He should have kept traveling, but Oakhurst seemed… quiet. Not safe, because he didn't feel safe anywhere. But he thought he could rest. Maybe a week, maybe two. Do some work to earn coin, refill his wallet that was alarmingly flat in his pocket. He wasn't much of a heavy lifter, but he could read and write, and his alchemical knowledge came in handy. He'd found work every now and then with local blacksmiths or tinkerers, making solutions or oils. Sometimes he would pen letters, or help balance farm ledgers. A lot of the farmers in the more remote towns knew how to do the math, but rarely how to relay that information for the tax collector.
So Avid had helped. He'd spent three days penning letters, listing crop yields, and mixing linseed oil. He'd earned a small handful of coin, and bought a bowl of stew, and found a bench to lay on at the tavern, near the fire. People had been grateful, and he'd felt something like satisfaction, or hope, bloom in his chest.
He'd been found out in less than a week.
He had been walking by the butcher, on his was back to the tavern. He had been distracted, trying to guess if he could afford an actual room at the tavern tonight, rather than the bench by the fire. It was warm enough, but not very private, and he slept fitfully. The old farmers wife had given him a bowl of… brown food that had tasted better than anything he'd had in months, and that meant he didn't have to buy a meal that night. He could splurge, get an actual pillow, maybe a mattress to sleep on.
The butcher's axe had came down in the yard, over the stone trough and into the neck of a sheep. The short, aborted bleating startled him, and Avid felt lightheaded at the sound. He could smell the blood on the air, bright and mouth watering, and the further smell of lanolin, and keratin, and cartilage. The butchers yard smelled so good that it was like he hadn't eaten any bowl of anything at all, and his hands began to shake.
He staggered, hand coming up to grab at his throat, choking, and shaking. His vision swam—
Avid lost control. He hadn't lasted long after that.
The crate they put him in was one for transporting sheep, and the smell drove Avid mad with further fright, and hunger. He couldn't… couldn't change back, he was too frightened, heart hammering so hard in his chest that it was hurting him all the way in his throat. Long, plaintive whining, was coming out of him like some pathetic creature for slaughter. He couldn't focus his eyes on anything, dizzy and panicking, scrabbling at the corner of the crate as if his blunted claws might be able to find purchase, to get himself free.
'Please, please please,' he begged in his head, desperate. He knew from experience he couldn't cry like this although he wished so fervently he could. He'd be sobbing, wishing someone would just let him out, someone would help him. The sounds outside of the crate were wild and discordant, shouting and conversation and the occasional gleeful laughter. The sound of relief because they had caught a monster.
'I'm not a monster!' Avid wanted to howl, frantic. 'I'm good! I won't hurt anyone, just let me go!'
But he couldn't. He couldn't speak and he couldn't change back. Instead he lifted his nose to the corner of the crate, panting out a long unending whine between sharp white teeth, feeling damp on his muzzle from drool, and foam, and blood where he had torn his muzzle and claws in his frenzy to get out.
Exhaustion pulled at him, pausing his efforts, sides heaving as he panted in huge anxious gusts that filled the crate with the smell of his own nervous breath, with the smell of herbs he chewed with his human teeth, and the meal he'd had what seemed like so long ago.
"Get that fire built up," he heard someone say, and terror froze him so completely he thought he might faint. There was the clinking of chains, and then his crate was getting dragged, sending him skidding to the back of the box and smacking his head against the side. There wasn't any room— he couldn't even stretch out completely, his shoulders pressing against the roof, and his bloody sweaty paws skidding without purchase along the bottom.
He howled in terror and misery, desperate. He couldn't cry, couldn't sob, but he could howl, and he did. No one would come, but they would hear him.
Someone kicked the box hard sending it tipping up on one side and almost toppling it, before it slammed back down. Avid's teeth clicked painfully shut on his howling, legs folding and sending him tumbling to the bottom of the crate. It kept dragging, pulled by chains, and by someone pushing at the back who smelled like timber, and cigarettes, and hay. There were people all around, he could hear them, and he could hear the sound of fire and the smell of smoke— they were on the same street as the tavern.
He had walked here this morning, had crossed that wide open town square with the statue of the old mayor in the center, had seen the stalls and shops. He'd seen leather stacked chest high on a cart, muted clothing hanging from racks, and food sizzling on an open fire pit. He'd seen birds, and saw sunlight for what felt like the first time in forever.
And now they were going to burn him alive.
He resumed his maddened howling, yelping and snarling and barking, and no amount of shouting and fists slamming on the side of the box would stop him. He threw himself at the side of the crate, paws throbbing and something in his side almost giving with a crack. If he killed himself trying to get out, all the better— meant he wouldn't be burned to death.
"…What's going on here?"
The voices outside stopped completely.
The voice that had interrupted was low, with a faint lisp as if speaking through a mouthful of sharp teeth— that did not detract from the menace, of the quiet icy tone of it. The entire town square was struck silent in a slow wave, as people took notice.
Avid's eyes rolled in a panic, pressing himself panting and bleeding to the floor of the crate, trembling. He couldn't see out of it, the gaps between the planks were too tight and well fit. But with that many people in a crowd? The large mob he had heard only a moment before? The fact that they had fallen silent, combined with the sudden foul stench of fear that rolled into the box like a tangible fog? It had him falling silent too, nothing but the faintest uncontrollable whining escaping him.
He pressed down flat, ears pinned, shaking, tail flat to his belly. He wanted out. He would leave and never go into another town again, he would go live in the woods and starve to death because he was a terrible human, and an even worse wolf.
"M… m'lord, m'lady," said a man near Avid's crate, in a gruff, but careful voice. Avid could hear motion, as people shuffled back. As if away from something dangerous, more dangerous than Avid trapped between panels of wood. That voice grew brighter and louder, for being singled out and probably standing alone at the head of the crowd. "I beg a thousand pardons and hope we did not disturb you—"
"You did disturb me. Both of us. Now quit your groveling and tell me what is going on here, before I get someone else to do it for you," that same cold voice said, with a note of warning. It… it sounded off. Avid didn't know why. There was a strange scent as well, coming through the slats in the crate. The air inside was stuffy and hot and wretched with fear, but there were brief whiffs of cooler air coming in from the outside, when Avid pressed his nose there. The smell was coppery, and cold, and stone-like. It had the old, wild smell of the forest, the rich smell of soil under the earth after it had been processed and churned and tilled.
Avid whined miserably.
"Oh!" came a soft, feminine voice. Light, slippered footsteps drew near, and there was an immediate shuffling of feet making room that was so quick that it made Avid flinch and turn wildly in his small box. There was something dangerous— there was dangerous things all around and he was caught. "What's in the crate? There's blood! Owen, can you smell it?"
"Obviously," came that icy drawl, and a second set of footsteps drew near. Booted, heavier. By the sound of things the townspeople had pulled away from the two strangers, and there was no sound in the square but Avid's own uncontrollable, terrified whining, and the snapping of the fire as it ate hungrily at the tinder and grew. He could almost feel the warmth, through the crate, and hear the popping of oil heating inside the pine and cedar logs. "What do you have in the crate? If someone doesn't answer me, I am going to be displeased."
"Did— did Lord Goldsmith send you? I would ah. I would hope he'd be happy we caught a beast, something that might damage the livestock, or kill people in the fields. Rest assured, our number one goal is the harvest—"
"We were shopping," a creak of leather, as someone knelt down, and that cold voice was so close that Avid thought he might be… touching the box. He could smell that heavy, rich loam scent much more clearly now— it smelled like something killed and torn open, soaking into the soil. Fresh though, and Avid couldn't help the saliva that pooled in his sore and bloody mouth. He was so hungry. "What kind of beast?"
"A… a werewolf, m'lord."
"A werewolf!" said the female voice, gasping. "Where did you find it?"
"It was disguising itself as a traveler— wretched, evil thing," and the voice seemed emboldened by the two strangers conversation, and gave Avid's crate another kick. Chains rattled and it slid across the ground, and Avid couldn't help but yelp and snarl in fear, snapping at the air. He felt a wild urge to bite at his own legs for lack of anything else, and shook with the effort it took not to do so.
Is this what it was to go insane? Is this what vermin felt, caught in a trap and waiting to die?
There was a long silence as whoever it was immediately outside of his crate lapsed into thought. Avid heard a tapping on the wood— a sharp, click-click-click. Something being struck against the splintered wood as whoever it was thought in long silence. A finger, perhaps, although it sounded sharp. "You've found something strange, you do not understand then?"
The townspeople were silent, and Avid could taste the fear. Human, and stinking.
"Something different from you? Something that has not hurt anyone?" there was another long silence. Like sheep sensing danger, there was no sound but the crackle of wood, and shuffling as that towns person started to move fearfully back from the two strangers surrounding Avid's box. "And what were you going to do, with this thing you have caught?"
At the next long silence, the hand on the crate slammed down as a fist, almost splintering the wood with such a sudden titanic strength and noise that Avid didn't even make a sound— he was wide eyed in fear and pressing to the floor of the crate. He felt numb, dizzy. There wasn't enough air in the box, he was going to pass out.
"Answer me!" that cold voice bellowed, fury heating the words.
The voice that answered was shaking. Avid thought he might have smelled urine, or sweat so pungent and sour it didn't make a difference. "W-we were going to burn it m'lord!"
There was a sudden wet ripping noise and everyone was screaming.
Avid was silent, shaking, eyes wide and unseeing in the dark as people took off running, screaming. There was the dark smell of blood and offal and a sliding, wet crunch as something dropped to the pavement of the square. The sound and smell of the fire was lost in the sudden stampede of people fleeing.
"Owen!" said that female voice, reproachful. "You said you wouldn't do that any more!"
"Fine, tell Scott on me then," the cold voice spat, sounding too close still for Avid's comfort. The blood smell was so strong that saliva flooded Avid's hungry mouth, and he wanted to vomit because that was a person. They'd just killed a person.
"… I won't, as long as we take it home."
"Take what home? The body?" asked this Owen in faint disgust. "I'll get you something better to eat, this one is spoiled."
"No! The werewolf!"
"Why do you want that?" Owen asked, with no less disdain than before. "Just let it loose in the woods and it'll be on it's way."
"But it's hurt," the female voice said, and Avid couldn't help a terrified whimper. "And hungry probably! They said it was traveling, and it's probably not even safe for the poor thing."
'No!' he wanted to shout. 'No! I'm fine! Let me go! I'll never come back, you'll never see me again—' but instead all that came out was a low, warbling note of misery that made the female voice coo. He could hear skirts rustle as someone crouched down, and a smell more floral, more sweet than how the Owen had smelled filled his nose.
"It's okay little guy— we're gonna take you home and fix you up all better!"
"We are?" drawled Owen, and Avid couldn't read the tone. Furious probably, and he was going to tear Avid limb from limb just like that townsperson. He shook so hard his teeth were chattering, pressing himself as far against the wall as he could, tail stuck to his belly, and ears pinned so flat they were aching. He really was going to faint, he knew it.
"Yes! We will," said the girl. "Now help me get this open."
'No, no no no no…' Avid begged miserably, praying for something to happen. Anything.
But instead there was a moment of brief effort, and the front of the crate came away. A dozen nails three inches long fell to the ground, pinging onto the blood soaked pavement. He thought for a moment of running, of darting out into that light blinding him and trying to escape, or die trying.
"Don't even think about it," said that cold voice, and Avid fell so still he might as well be dead.
"Owen," protested the girl, and her face came into view. "You're scaring him!"
She looked young. Not much younger than Avid himself though— her hair was a deep russet red, her skin pale and dusted with freckles along the nose. She looked like any other girl in any other village, with an expensive looking skirt and a contrastingly simple woolen jumper. Her hair was plaited into ribbons, gathered in two elaborate bunches to either temple. It made her look younger than she was, combined with the careless way she knelt in the dirt, and the smoke, and the widening puddle of blood that Avid couldn't see the source of.
But when she saw Avid cowering in his stinking bloody box, she smiled, and Avid saw two very sharp teeth.
Owen fit a collar on him and Avid tried not to faint.
"Do you have to do that?" asked Shelby, hovering in concern with her hands clasped to her chest. "I'm sure if we just explained he'd follow! We're going to take care of him— and Scott has been lonely anyway, I bet he'd like to meet a werewolf!"
"Scott's probably killed more werewolves than you've had hot breakfasts," Owen said drily, kneeling down with an iron chain in one hand, and a portion of leather he had cut using nothing but a measuring glance, and a knife off of his belt. He looked down at it thoughtfully, and felt along his own throat as if measuring.
'To make sure it stays fitted if I change back,' Avid thought miserably, shoved in the farthest corner of the crate he could put himself in.
Owen was only slightly taller than Shelby, wearing a simple but fine made vest over a red silk shirt, riding trousers, and well worn boots that went up past his calf. His hair was a deep brown streaked with sun, and tied back in a fashionable queue. If he hadn't smelled like a predator Avid might have thought him just another lumberjack, fallen into recent money.
A vampire. Avid wished he'd looked up more about the town, but there hadn't been time. Not with what he was leaving behind him. Not with the speed which he had to move. Asking about vampires on the road was about as dangerous as… as… as turning into a wolf in town square.
"…I'll make something better at home," Owen finally settled on, and snapped his clawed fingers. Avid flinched. "Come here."
Avid stayed frozen, mind whirling. He wasn't safe in the box— Owen had ripped it open effortlessly with his hands. He had no idea if Shelby was that strong, but it seemed likely. He trembled, crippled by indecision, shoving his snout into the corner as if not seeing them meant they couldn't see him.
"Awww," Shelby leaned over Owen's shoulder, causing the older vampire to irritably bat at the hair in his face. "I told you, you're scaring him!"
"How do you know it's a 'him'?" Owen asked, one knee planted on the ground in front of the box, the chain and collar held in the hand furthest from Avid. As if perhaps Avid would forget it was there. If he wasn't out of his mind with terror, he'd scoff. "Could be a she wolf. Scrawny enough for it."
There was a pause, pregnant with many possibilities Avid didn't want to consider. He wondered if he could disassociate so hard he died.
"Well? Are you a she wolf, or no? Don't make me come over there and check," Owen cautioned, and Avid turned in a panic to shake his head furiously. Owen's eyes glinted in satisfaction, and he palmed the chain in his hand thoughtfully. "No? You aren't a she-wolf? Or no, you aren't a he-wolf?"
Avid looked to Shelby in his panic, and she smacked Owen. "Quit teasing him!
Avid's heart dropped, but the older vampire just rolled his eyes at the smack.
"Last time I'll say it," Owen said again, and pointed at the ground before his knees. The pavement there was free of blood, but only barely. The vampires hands were coated in it, and Avid could see damp thumbprints on the leather where it was held in that cold grip. He didn't want to see what the body looked like, he'd heard the crunch, and he could see those inhuman claws. "Come here."
Avid slunk forward, shaking. He thought for a moment he wouldn't be able to do it— his belly was so low to the ground that it dragged through his own bloody paw prints he'd left on the crate, ears laid flat.
He didn't like this body, it did things he. He didn't know what it was doing, or how to control it— he licked his lips nervously under Owen's less than patient gaze, and by the time he was close enough for Owen to reach out and touch, he was pressed against the ground and half turned to show his belly.
Shelby reached out to pet him— her hand was cold, the nails only slightly longer than a humans as she scratched carefully behind one of his pinned ears. "I'm so sorry this happened," she said quietly, gently, as Owen fixed that leather around his neck and looped the iron chain to the clasp he'd salvaged. "I bet you'll like the castle though! We have a ballroom, and a fountain—"
"Blood fountain," Owen said, nonsensically. Avid's heart plummeted, before Shelby giggled.
"Owen keeps saying that— it's just a normal fountain! Imagine if we put blood in it," and she laughed at the thought.
Avid noticed Owen did not laugh.
"Done," he said instead, standing. The chain didn't rattle or anything, but it was a weight on his neck that wasn't there before, and Avid whined miserably at the feeling, still pasted to the ground, tail stuck to his belly. "Goodness, would you stop being so dramatic? Up, come on."
Avid got up. Somehow. He missed two legs. He missed the bench at the tavern, he missed being on the road he missed being anywhere but here. He let the chain play out to it's full length, not daring to let it tug in case Owen decided to pull with that titanic strength he had heard, and simply snap his neck for him.
"I think Scott's going to like him!" Shelby said brightly to Owen, reaching over and hooking an arm through his. She leaned her head against Owen's shoulder, and Avid was shocked to see such a dour creature put up with the affection with nary a complaint. "He's been sulking you know— I thought he'd feel better with Pyro back from the academy, but it's only gotten worse."
"If you say so— I can't tell what goes on in that mind of his," Owen scoffed, not even looking back to check on Avid as he guided he and Shelby both out of the town square.
"I think you get him better than you think," Shelby teased, sounding as if she was in on a joke. Owen frowned, but she continued on. "Maybe a werewolf will take his mind off things, give him a project, a reason to go outside."
"What? Walk it, feed it, play fetch?"
Avid felt sick, walking as if in a trance. His feet hurt terribly, his ribs ached, and his nose was still bloody and sore. Not a single person was in sight as they made their long way out of the town, but Avid could smell them in the buildings, behind the closed shutters. Some part of him wished they'd help him, save him—
But as poorly off as he was being taken gods knew where by vampires, he knew it was better than whatever the humans would do to him if they caught him again.
The leash pulled taut for a moment, and he hastened to follow.