BH Fanfic: And Then What? Ch 1-5 (rated 15+)

[Melissa Kane]

“And Then What?” Chapter One

Mitchell rinsed the mop in the bucket of filthy grey water and he twisted the fibres in the wringer tray. He stood the bright yellow “Caution, wet floor” sign over the part he just mopped then took the bucket by the handle and began to wheel it back toward the utility room. However he paused at the raft of pictures on the wall. This was the impromptu memorial some of the staff had organised after the massacre. It was on the wall beside the still taped off accident and emergency department. The smell of blood and death was fading but still plain to Mitchell. There were pictures of those killed and of those who were missing, each with the name written below in slightly canted block capitals. George was classed among the missing. Mitchell regarded his friend's serious and slightly sad visage staring back from the wall.

George Sands hadn't come home that day. In fact, it was now five days after the full moon and still George was missing. Though she was holding herself together admirably well, Nina was struggling with what had happened and what she was. She had tried, of course, asking questions of both himself and Annie but her queries only served to show how little Mitchell and Annie really knew of werewolves. Perhaps also of how little George had even been able to acknowledge his condition before. Neither of them had objected when she had asked to stay in his room, for just one night. Annie had said quietly to Mitchell the following morning, out of range of sensitive hearing, that she'd heard Nina crying herself to sleep. Not too much later, she had padded downstairs barefoot in the morning wearing one of George's shirts. That she had taken with her when she went home.

And Annie. Mitchell was surprised at how much Annie was missing George though he had been aware of the two becoming closer over the past few months. The poltergeist never said as much but Mitchell had noticed her lost little looks at the bookshelves which used to be arranged and rearranged almost daily. He'd later checked. Annie had been alphabetising the books and CD's while he was out, almost as if she was subconsciously hoping that setting them back in order, as George would like, would bring their lost lyco home. A couple of nights ago, however, she had confided an idea that didn't sit at all well with him. She wondered whether George had awakened, seen the carnage and this had driven him past the point of no return. She couldn't bring herself to say the word but her implication was obvious. Had the damage escalated his natural guilt reflex, tipped the balance of his mind and made him end it all?

At the time, Mitchell had denied it, emphatically saying that George wasn't the suicidal type no matter what came his way. However, the longer it went, the more possible the idea was becoming. Mitchell had even confronted Pratchett about it, demanding to know what he'd done and needing to know if it was in retribution for failing to deliver the parcel. When he threw them, the two tranquilliser darts, one empty and one full, bounced on the table and Pratchett, calm as ever, had picked one up, examining the silver liquid inside curiously. Internally Mitchell maintained that the empty dart proved George hadn't seen the massacre upon waking but without knowing what the stuff was or what might have occurred, even he was beginning to doubt his own conviction. Pratchett, meanwhile, admitted that he'd learned of the deaths at the hospital and was aware at 10pm that the parcel was not delivered but was very surprised to discover that George was missing. In fact, he seemed slightly put out that one of his means of leverage was gone. Pratchett had Mitchell forcibly removed from the garage/office of the undertakers with strict instructions that the parcel be delivered tonight at 9pm with an unveiled threat to Annie's safety if he failed again.

“Mr Mitchell?” A voice cut into his reverie. Mitchell turned to find one of the hospital priests Instinctively, he withdrew a little. There were no religious symbols on display, though. It was simply a reflex. The priest held out a hand. “Mark, hospital chaplain.”

Mitchell shook the offered hand, but really couldn't figure out why the priest was talking to him or how he knew his name. He guessed he'd come to talk because he, Mitchell, was looking at the wall of remembrance. Probably spotted his name on the ID card hanging at his hip. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, we met once before. But you probably don't remember.” He looked off to one side and frowned, more or less talking to himself. “Sometimes wish I didn't either.” He recovered himself and tried to look Mitchell in the eye but with limited success. This time he seemed concerned. “Other things, not you of course. Are you alright now? That was quite a nasty injury you had.”

“I'm not too bad, thankyou father.” It wouldn't do to have him knowing about how fast he actually had healed. Mitchell didn't dare make eye contact, instead glancing at George's picture. The look did not go unnoticed.

“Has there been any word on your friend yet?” The priest enquired in a quite a different tone. There was a note of sympathy and even fondness there. “About George?”

Mitchell shook his head, lips pressed firmly together. “No, not yet. But its, its early days.”

“Of course, yes. It was a shock when I found out what happened. I was at St Michael's when I heard the news.”

“So you saw them bringing the injured in?” This got Mitchell's attention.

At this, Mark looked perplexed. “The injured? No, no, they only brought the evacuated patients to St Michael's. I didn't know there'd been any injuries or deaths until I came here yesterday and saw this.”

Mitchell was staring at the wall, at George's picture mainly, perplexed and suspicious as if he could glean some answers from it. Mark patted Mitchell's arm. “He was a good man.”

“He still is.” Mitchell replied, perhaps not quite believing his own words. “He'll be okay. He will.”

“Of course he will.” The tone almost dripped with doubt. “There but for the grace...” Mark faltered as Mitchell flinched. “Ah, yes. he mentioned you're not a religious man.” He changed track and indicated for Mitchell to sit down. “Have you got time to talk?”

“I really should be working but...” Looking around, Mitchell shrugged and leaned the mop against the wall and sat down. Maybe Mark could help shine a new light on things – already he'd cast doubt on something Mitchell had taken for granted, that the survivors were in another hospital. If St Michael's didn't have them, where were those casualties? Maybe, when talking to others, Mark will have gathered more information. Right now, he and Annie needed all the help they could get. “... I suppose they won't mind for a couple of minutes.”

Mark joined him, seeming to switch to chaplain mode as he did so. His poise changed. “Its a trauma to have someone go missing, especially in such trying circumstances. Sometimes it helps to talk to a stranger.” Mark smiled a little, sympathetically. “How long have you known him?”

“A couple of years. He was, um, being mugged and I saved his life.” Mitchell was getting the unshakable feeling this man of the cloth was working around to something. “We helped each other out, actually, and just sort of became best friends because of it.”

“He seemed... he seems to make rather a habit of being mugged.” Mark commented drily. “But he's quite an easy man to become friends with.” He added quickly. “He's easy to talk to and keen to learn. Bit panicky sometimes but keeps his head in a crisis. Sort of.” There was genuine respect in those words. Clearly George had made a positive impression. Though at one point, Mitchell wasn't sure they were talking about the same person – George rarely kept his head in a crisis. Quite the opposite, in fact. There was a fair bit of unravelling done in the face of stress, especially over the small details. With this thought, however, he realised he was being overly harsh. When it came to the big, important matters, George stood and was counted every time. He proved to be the most loyal friend anyone could hope for. “He helped me see things differently.” Mark continued, “Made me stop and think instead of going through the motions, you know?”

Mitchell laughed shortly but not derisively. “He does manage to do that quite a lot.” The notion saddened him and desperate not to have to think on what might have happened, he made an attempt to change the subject. “So, um, when did we meet? I don't recall.”

“When you had been stabbed, I was called in because it didn't look like you'd... you were gravely ill.” Mitchell allowed a wry smile at the phraseology but Mark seemed not to notice as he continued. “But he and I were just talking and you woke up in a panic.” He stopped talking as Mitchell began to nod. Yes, he did vaguely recall someone else being in the room when George had leapt to his defence.

“Wait. You were with him when he drove them away?” Mitchell pondered slowly. “I think I remember now.”

Mark fixed Mitchell with an oddly unsure look. “Who were they? Those men? George... he refused to tell me. He was quite insistent that I shouldn't know. Said that they were just bad men and I shouldn't doubt what I have.”

“He's right. They are bad men but nothing for you to worry about.”

“Funny how you knew they were there. Almost like you were psychic, if I were a man who believed in such nonsense.” This was said in plainly much too light a tone.

Mitchell had his defence prepared. “No, not psychic. I saw them on the CCTV in the nurses station. I recognised them.” He replied smoothly.

“Ahh, I was wondering about that.” The hospital chaplain accepted that explanation readily. It was safe and normal. But nothing could explain to him how they changed to those vicious looking things as he had recited his sermon and George had held out the Star Of David on his necklace. In point of fact, Mark was afraid to ask his next question in case, this time, he actually got an answer. “So could all of this,” Mark waved a hand vaguely at the memorial, “I mean, was it to do with those men?”

“Not them no. It was a, well I heard it was a wild animal.” Mitchell was trying to get away from the subject but this vicar was tenacious.

“Yes, that got in through the side door downstairs that had been forced open.” Clearly the man didn't want to continue but he forged on regardless. “I thought maybe they'd done that and let it in.”

Avoiding the cleverly posed question completely, despite it being one delivered in rhetoric yet clearly demanding an answer, Mitchell set forward a second theory to draw suspicion from the first. “I heard it got in through an open fire door behind A&E. You hear all kinds of things, rumours, when something like this happens.”

“Yes. Its very much a case of Chinese Whispers.” Mark mused. “It happens a lot here. Then again, its not surprising when there are such strange happenings and we apparently have more staff die than patients.” This last was said jokingly but Mitchell found he couldn't laugh. It was almost true, he realised as he thought back to the many victims of their various afflictions. Lauren, Becca, all those sick people Recruited in Herrick's take-over bid, most of the poor captives of the feeding room at the Undertakers had also probably been acquired from the hospital, Dr Daniel Newman who was one of the A&E doctors killed when the werewolf attacked, Allison Ladbroke, a dour triage nurse with a scathing sideline in sarcasm. That was not to mention Nina and the people who had been bitten or scratched the other night – they too were as much taken from the world they had known as those who had died. And in less than three weeks time, they would learn how different they really were.

“Well, I'd best get back to work.” Mitchell said shortly, not enjoying such sobering thoughts, as he stood up and straightened his mint green tunic.

“Yes, yes. I was actually on my way to the children's ward so I mustn't be late. But if you ever need to talk, just come and find me, alright?”

Mitchell would never reckon on that as an option but he nodded gratefully. “And when we find him, I'll let you know.”

Mark looked touched by his offer. “Yes, that would be very kind. Thankyou Mr Mitchell.”

“Just Mitchell.” The vampire corrected, holding out a hand. Mark shook it firmly, smiled and went on his way.

As he stooped to pick up the handle of the bucket, Mitchell realised that had been an absurd thing for him to do, to be so friendly with a priest, even one as acerbic as this one. Then again, others of his kind considered it just as absurd that he'd befriended a lyco and a ghost, too. In silent contemplation of the new information he'd received, Mitchell wheeled the bucket to the utility room.

[Melissa Kane]

And Then What? Chapter Two

Four days earlier: His eyes flickered open and the first thing that hit him was a distinct lack of light. Still, in the gloom, George was able to see – a leftover 'perk' of the transformation. In the greyish blue shadow, he could see uneven brickwork stretching out above him. With slight turns of his aching head, he could see the same patterns on all sides. His stomach churned unpleasantly and there was a disgusting acrid coating at the back of his throat told him he'd probably already been sick once. It wouldn't be long before he needed to throw up again.

As he became more awake, George was certain he could hear movement, muted footsteps and hushed voices. And the smell... it was all wrong. He could smell blood, rich and terrifyingly delicious, and sour, dried sweat. But there was something else. He could pick up the scent of werewolves, and of vampires, and of humans, but there was something else which he'd never smelt before. Everything was a little muzzy but George knew this was wrong.

The next thing of which he became aware was the cold. The room in which he lay was freezing and he could feel something soft, crinkly but still deathly cold beneath his bare back which wasn't helping his plummeting body temperature at all. And his skin, his skin that felt unnaturally stiff in spite of the prickle of goosebumps almost constantly rippling from his head to his toes, was actually hurting. He was, of course, aware of an acceleration of his breathing and the hard, rapid beat of his heart in his chest as his body tried to combat the drop in temperature. His breath hung in a vague cloud in front of him. Why was it so bloody cold? It wasn't usually this cold in the isolation room. Isolation room...

“Nina.” A single word escaped him as he remembered the previous night in a profusion of recalled sight, scent and sound. He recalled the entire, excruciating change before advancing on Nina, her wolf form shocking his human side and arousing his lupine nature in equal measure... and he clearly remembered what came next, rough but without a doubt embarrassingly pleasurable. However that was as far as the memories went, they faded as his presence alongside the wolf had ended. Predictably, George was beginning to be flooded with guilt at letting himself go like that, even though he knew he wasn't in control, simply a passenger for a short time.

However, it wasn't this strange, recent blending with his wolf-self that was getting to him. It was the strong tang of blood that was scaring him. He'd been afraid of harming Nina and now, in spite of what he knew he had done, he was slowly becoming convinced he'd done something a good deal more brutal – if that were possible.

He tried to sit up and found himself unable to do so. A tight band across his chest held his body and arms down, though an experimental flex of his hands proved his wrists were unbound. And covered in dried blood - it was crusted under his nails and ingrained in his skin. Raising his head, he could see much of his body was in the same state. He swore softly in a voice rough from vomiting. He took several shallow, panicky breaths, the air he drew into his lungs was as sharp as knives and hurt. That did nothing helpful for the nausea which was presently rolling around the pit of his stomach.

An agitated wriggle revealed more bands holding down his thighs and ankles. This binding was convincing him more and more that he had done something terrible. Mitchell wouldn't have done this though, surely? He let out a cry of frustration and tried fighting harder against the restraints.

“Hush now.” A strong Irish brogue broke in, halting George's struggles almost immediately. The bewildered werewolf held his breath as a loud rustling sound came to his ears. “You'll do yerself a mischief, boy.” A blanket, lined with a white sheet on one side and a silvery foil on the other was slung over his body from chin to toes. Even though he was unnerved by the turn of events, George had to admit the warmth was appreciated. He gave a violent, involuntary shiver, accompanied by a soft whimper which escaped as he let himself breathe again. “There, You'll be warmed up in no time, son.” He turned his head toward the direction he had ascertained the voice was coming from.

The speaker was a man, now leaning down close to look him in the face. He was an older man, forty-ish, with a craggy yet kindly face. The eyes, dark and holding a lifetime of knowledge, regarded him carefully. He had taken the man for a paramedic, but the clothes he wore were anything but those of a professional care giver. He was clad in a grey coverall, an unfamiliar circular logo stitched to the left breast pocket. He had the manner, of course, of a concerned patron but the thing was, George was getting a very unsettling feeling this man was dead. A short sniff brought that strange odour to his again, the one which wasn't human, nor werewolf, nor vampire but further thought on the subject ended when an acute bolt of pain shot through his sinuses. George would be d**ned if it wasn't getting colder still. His extremities, and any feeling he'd once had in them, were a distant memory right now.

“W-wh-who are you?” He managed to gasp, trying to not release the newly warm air from his lungs.

George flinched as the man reached out a hand and placed it on the top of his head. “The name's Crowley. Cathal Crowley. And you are?” George found himself completely unable to answer. The moment stretched. Crowley spoke again, soft. “Thats okay. Names aren't important.” As the man drew closer, inhaling deeply through his nose as he all but moved in on George's throat. “A fine, strong young werewolf.” Crowley mused, his tone turned from comforting to almost dreamy. “Yeah, you'll be worth a nip or two.” He added, his voice now a low grumble.

As Crowley drew away, George momentarily caught sight of a pair of perfect onyx eyes gleaming hungrily at him from pale face in the gloom. The tremble that ran through his body this time was absolutely nothing to do with the external cold. Crowley, however, simply stroked the short hair of George's head as if comforting a small child and smiled. “I'm not gonna hurt ya.” The inflection suggested an unspoken 'yet' at the end of the sentence. Terrified and vulnerable, George half expected to see gleaming fangs but no, there was nothing but a row of yellowing, humanoid teeth.

*****

“Hey! Nina!” Mitchell called out as he saw the young nurse passing the room he was cleaning.

She took a few steps backwards and peered around the door. “Hi.” She answered dully, as if she weren't happy to see him. She held a green paper folder tightly to her chest like a shield as she turned and faced him.

“Are you okay? We've not seen you around for a couple of days.” He continued, keeping his tone as upbeat and carefree as he could. That Nina was in low spirits was obvious. That she was pining for George was more obvious still.

“Um, yeah. Sorry. I've not felt much like having company.”

Mitchell gave her a single nod. “Yeah, thats understandable. How are you coping?” His concern was genuine and Nina seemed to pick up on it straight away. She looked along the corridor then entered the unused room, closing the door behind her.

“I don't know. I've got this, this urge to run. To just take off and...” Her big brown eyes were tortured. “And leave. I'm a monster.” She sounded in control up until a waver twisted the word monster.

Mitchell set his cleaning cloth aside and put his hands on her upper arms. “You're not a monster. None of this is your fault, you know. And its not George's fault either. Its just one of those things.” He paused. She was searching his face for something more comforting than the non-apportioning of blame. Mitchell found he couldn't think of a single thing that might ease her mind.

“So, there's been no bodies found anywhere in Bristol that match his description.” Nina suddenly blurted. “I've got a friend, well an old boyfriend actually, on the police force and he's been looking around for me. As a favour. He told me there's been a few bodies found, some pretty nasty wounds on some of them, but none of them are George. They didn't match any fingerprints to his record. I didn't know he had a criminal record. There's lots of things I didn't know about him. That I-I won't get to...” Nina tailed off from her babble with a deep, heart-weary sigh.

Mitchell smiled. Nina was beginning to remind him of George with her breathless and lengthy chattering when she was nervous. She didn't huff or squeak as much as George, mind you. Actually, Mitchell had to admit he was missing those annoyingly regular over-reactions.

“He'll be back. We'll find him. And then you can ask him all about everything.” Beneath his hands, the nurse was trembling but she raised her chin, nodded. “What do you say to coming over to our for tea? Its pizza night.” He tried to lighten the mood, making pizza night sound like the height of foodie season, and Nina's sweetly grateful expression made him smile.

“Yeah, yeah okay. Annie won't mind?” Nina asked. Her stomach grumbled noisily as if it were reinforcing the acceptance and Mitchell grinned.

“She'll welcome the company.” He assured her. “So will I. Oh, when do you finish your shift tonight?” He let go of her arms and got out a little notepad from his pants pocket and a pen from his shirt.

“I'm off the clock at seven.” She replied, glancing at the clock on the wall of the room. “ Couple of hours to go.” Nina spoke with longing about finishing her shift. Mitchell knew she'd had a long set of shifts this week because of the incident at A&E. He suspected she was throwing herself into her work to try to forget. Ultimately, that wasn't going to work but she would figure it out for herself. All he and Annie could do was be there for her if she needed them.

“So, what's your poison? Its coming from Donnelly's.” He asked.

Nina thought for a moment. “I think I'll have an eight inch mess-'o'-meats.”

Mitchell nodded. “Eight inch mess-'o'-meats it is. I'm off shift at six thirty, but there's someone I want to speak to so I'll meet you at the gates at seven, okay? ”

“Sounds like a plan.” She replied cheerfully, though Mitchell was more than aware of the sadness behind the smile. “Thanks.”

*****

Nina left the room silently and walked down the corridor as slow as her feet could carry her. She knew Mitchell and Annie only wanted to help, but there was nothing they could really do. Nothing they could understand about this. They had tried hard, but Nina now knew that this wasn't something anyone outside of the condition could really know. It was why George couldn't talk about it to them – she was sure he was also in denial as Annie had told her, but she was now completely confident that the main reason for George's reticence had been that nowhere in the human language, any language, were words to express how it made a person feel, even to a man as educated and clever as her boyfriend.

She knew all about the massacre, she had demanded to be told when she saw it on the news at George's house, though Mitchell had reassured her she'd had no part in it. She'd been in an entirely different part of the hospital. Somehow, the knowledge that it was her boyfriend who caused such carnage was less than able to set her mind at rest. Had it not been for her interference, her pleas, George would have headed off into the woods outside Bristol and none of this would have happened. She was being crushed under the weight of immeasurable guilt. She had caused these deaths as surely as if it had been her... her own... her teeth and claws that caused it. That was hard to accept for a woman who spent her career trying to save lives.

She was scared to death. She couldn't get her head around it. It was impossible, physically impossible, for one biological creature to become something so different just because of a little refracted sunlight from a small lifeless orb of rock in the sky. It was the stuff of cheesy horror films and books. Or worse, some psychologists metaphor for uncontrolled anger or perhaps the beast inside all of us. But she'd experienced it at first hand. At first, agonising, unspeakable hand. The impossible was devastatingly possible despite everything her knowledge of the human body told her. She had no mental picture of the animal she became but the memory of George's wolf form was horrifying enough to set her mind into overdrive.

Not a monster, indeed. Mitchell was just being kind, of course, but was there really a place for kindness toward werewolves? If one of them that was so careful, like George, could kill so many people and not be able to stop himself, what was the point in allowing such a destructive species to continue, natural order be d**ned? She snorted at her thought, earning her a disparaging glance from a passing porter. She couldn't care less. There was nothing natural about this. It was mental. It was cruel. It was a curse.

The next change was a long way off, but not far enough for her liking. She never wanted there to be another full moon again.

*****

George had realised he was on a hospital bed when he was wheeled into a big room, built of the same kind of bricks as the cold room. Crowley had undone the restraints and left him standing barefoot on concrete wrapped only in the silver emergency blanket as he wheeled the bed away again. All the retreating vampire had said was that there were clothes in the room on the left. George looked down at himself, peeking down inside the blanket. His skin all over was stained a strange brownish-orange colour. He was soaked in blood. He felt sick all over again, but held onto the urge as he forced himself to look around the large room.

George looked around. The building looked to have been some kind of factory or warehouse, given the scale of it. Whitewashed internal walls were scattered randomly around. Once, it seemed, they would have divided rooms apart but now only the barest remains of them still stood to hold up the roof. On the far side of a broken but quite lengthy wall, there were low, circular walls set into the floors at regular intervals, probably about twenty-five in all. Some had bits of fabric poking out of the tops; one even had a bulky yellow teddy bear perched on the edge, looking for all the world as if it were peering at the new arrival curiously; others were just dusty and neglected. What the circular openings had once been, George couldn't even begin to hazard a guess, but now the ones with fabric in them looked like nests. In the room he currently occupied, he noted there was a trench stretching for almost twelve feet cut out of the concrete. It was filled with clear water.

Tense wasn't the word for how George felt right now. He was way beyond tense, nearly into paranoia, as he was quite sure now that he was being watched.

[Melissa Kane]

And Then What? Chapter Three

Nina was sitting on the wall, tapping the end of her unlit cigarette against her thigh. The hood of her jumper was pulled up over her ears as the wind began to pick up even in the sheltered area near the main gate. Now and then she would raise the slightly crumpled f*g to her lips only to twirl the stick away from her and begin tapping some more. For her, it was a comforting habit and something to do with her hands since she hadn't actually smoked since the night she had been scratched. Well, she had tried once, but that close to the full moon, with full senses, the combined smell of the smoke and all the toxins within had put her off pretty quickly and, so far, completely. She could now just about cope with the smell of smoke from others, at a pinch. Effective though it might be, she wouldn't recommend becoming a werewolf as a way of stopping smoking.

Mitchell appeared, hurrying from the automatic doors while pulling on a greenish brown tracksuit top. He looked both ways then hurried across the car park towards her. He offered a smile.

“Did you get to see whoever it was you needed talk to?” Nina asked as he drew level. She hopped off the wall and slid the cigarette into the small pouch-like pocket in the front of her hooded jumper before inserting her hands also. A good head and a half shorter than Mitchell, they looked an odd couple as they trotted out of the gates.

“No. He wasn't in. I'll have to see him tomorrow afternoon when I'm back on shift.” Mitchell replied, a little too quickly for her liking.

“Who was it?” she asked, then instantly thought she had overstepped a mark. Mitchell was a nice guy, but she wasn't a close enough part of the group to be allowed to ask such things. She was just his best mate's girlfriend. Though in hindsight, Mitchell had been the driving force in bringing them together so maybe that would let her get away with her forthrightness this time.

However, when he spoke after a short hesitation, it was with a candidness and honesty she found touching, especially in the circumstances. “George made friends with one of the hospital chaplains. I wanted to talk to him a little more.”

“Isn't that a bit dangerous, given what, um, what you are?” Nina observed as they crossed Guinea Street and headed down the hill toward the smaller car park on the corner. Mitchell had sour memories of this area at present, but those, like all the others, would fade and become just another remembrance after a while. They usually did.

“Well, a little.” He conceded, dismissing the idea that the risk was of note. “But he said something quite strange earlier and I wanted to clarify it.” The vampire said. Something in his tone piqued Nina's interest.

“Was it about George?” Her hope spilt over before she could properly get a handle on it. She almost became animated.

Mitchell gave her a small, sad smile and shook his head. “I don't think so. But he might be able to help solve another problem that may tell us where those missing people are.”

Unsuccessfully hiding her disappointment, Nina nonetheless added her thought. “And George might be among them?”

He had to extend her a little hope. “Anythings possible.”

*****

Four Days Earlier: George had to duck to get through the rough opening that the vampire-that-wasn't-quite-a-vampire had called a door but that was little more than a hole beaten through the wall. In bare feet he was sure he'd be stepping on rubble but so far the floor was clear. A single, 40 watt light bulb swung from a tether in the ceiling and the blanket, which dragged behind him, cleared the damaged threshold.

Inside were precarious stacks of clothes, roughly folded and grouped according to type. All were filthy, damaged and smelt like they'd been there for a long, long time. The overriding aroma of mould and ancient mothballs hung in the air, actually making it a little hard to breathe. He took as deep a breath as he could, the lingering odours clinging to his already raw throat.

Clutching the blanket around him, George looked over the contents of the dim little room more closely. Pants were over in one corner, T-shirts and shirts together in another stack, skirts and dresses piled in a heap and various pairs of shoes and trainers occupied the fourth corner. With quick, nervous glances back at the entrance, George hunted and gathered.

The clothing room was quite cozy, maybe the fabric kept the worst of the chill away, but there was only the one knocked-through hole which served as both entrance and exit. At one point he yelped and stopped. The hand holding the blanket around him was hurting and he paused, swapping his grip to the opposite hand and holding the aching appendage close to the light bulb. The nail of the ring finger of his right hand was half missing, roughly torn. It had, of course, healed to the nail bed during his transformation back and would grow quickly, but it really hurt right now. A cold draught from the so-called doorway reminded him that he was quite insulated in here. The gradual warming up of his skin now was probably why he'd not noticed it before. The cold had numbed it along with most of the rest of his body. Resolving to ignore such petty things, he began methodically rooting through the clothes for something to wear. Normally, he wasn't this spoilt for choice.

Finally, he was satisfied as he took up a dark woven shirt and a pair of torn jeans which were covered in old, dry blood. He was reminded of his own bloodied appearance as he dropped the blanket to find himself filthy. The sensation of dried blood tugging at the hairs on his arms, legs, stomach and chest was unpleasant – George found himself longing for a bath. Even a pack of wet wipes would do. Or a tissue he could spit on, for heavens sake. But, in possession of none of these, he pulled on the only clothes he had discovered in roughly his size. The shoes were a find, though. He uncovered a pair of almost new trainers only half a size too big. No socks, but at least his feet felt warmer. He did feel a strong need to tidy the stacks of clothes up, such was the state of their disorganisation, but he suppressed this urge, instead gathering the survival blanket and folding it neatly. He held it to his aching belly as he sidled toward the improvised doorway.

He squealed in surprise. Outside, people had arranged themselves in a kind of semi-circle, looking at him from a safe distance. His still-sharp senses told him, without question, that these were all werewolves. There were six that he could count men and women ranging from the quite young to middle age, and a child, a small boy, probably no more than eight years old though George was really not good at guessing ages, especially in kids. One thing seemed clear, though. That teddy in the nest must belong to the child.

A big, bearded man was close by, standing with his hands on the shoulders of the small boy in front of him. The man wore a green tracksuit which appeared a little tight under the arms. Though he was built like a brick wall, he had a kindly face. The little boy in front of him was in an outsized jumper which reached almost ot his knees. Beside them, a pretty Chinese girl of possibly 19 years stood with her arm linked through that of an older man who wore a rather fashionable jumpsuit and black steel-toecapped safety boots. She, meanwhile, wore a sparkly black blouse, scuffed beige cargo pants held up with a piece of string and pair of flip-flops. Quite an eclectic ensemble, all told. She was staring and looking him up and down. George felt somewhat like an exhibit in the National Gallery, a curiosity for the masses. Self-consciously he hugged the blanket closer to his stomach.

The others, two men who looked to be in their mid-to-late thirties, stood not far from them and a few feet from each other. The one with long, straggly blonde hair and a wiry body wore tuxedo pants with a pink and grey sweater with brown brogues on his feet which were at least two sizes too big. The other, a shaven-headed man wore shorts and a thin white t-shirt with heavy Doc Marten boots.

He moved cautiously back a little, glancing at the opening in the wall and the werewolves who were moving forward. There was no doubt they'd be able to detect the reek of his nervousness. He could smell it on himself. The big, dark man nodded and gave a gap-toothed smile of encouragement. The Chinese girl did likewise as she moved closer, though her smile was far prettier. George had no clue what they wanted of him but he stopped. Backing into a sealed room wouldn't help matters. Besides, they didn't seem dangerous, just inquisitive. The six people were all just staring at him curiously and in spite of the chill still in his bones, George felt his cheeks flush with colour.

The big, black-bearded man said something quickly and it took George a moment or two to realise he understood the language spoken to him. Rusty though he was, he knew Russian when he heard it.

*****

“... I couldn't believe it when Sasha told me” Nina was chattering as she and Mitchell came into the house. Mitchell was carrying three pizza boxes stacked in his arms, two with their pizzas and one with a whole cheese-and-garlic bread – this was a part of the order which had surprised Nina. He was actively encouraging her to continue. The truth be told, it was good to see her finally coming back to life, little by little – her earlier demeanour had concerned him. “The room was turned upside down and some of the files were gone. Its just.... Mitchell? Whats wrong?” She asked.

The boxes hit the floor and the bottom one crumpled open as Mitchell darted over them. In the corner of the kitchen, Annie was crouched on the floor with her arms wrapped around her legs. It wasn't this position that galvanised Mitchell into action. It was the transparency. Hell, he could clearly see the patterned wallpaper through her. He all but threw the dining chair aside as he dropped to his knees before her. “Annie! Annie, what the hell...?” He tried to take her hand in his, but there was nothing to grab hold of. The ghost's lips moved as she looked toward him, but Mitchell couldn't hear her voice. She looked scared as her fingers closed on Mitchell's hand only for all but one of them to sink through his flesh.

Moments later, he felt the barest sensation of solidity as she clutched at him again. It was like holding an icicle when he managed connected with one slender finger. To this he clung. “Annie?” There was more urgency now. “Annie!!”

Nina came and knelt beside him, looking from one to the other. “What's wrong with her?” There was a further ripple of solidity. Mitchell could feel her fingers growing more substantial and he held on. With his other hand, he took hold of Nina's wrist. She resisted for a moment as he held on, surprised by the sudden move but stopped twisting as Annie slowly became more visible. Understanding, Nina took hold of Annie's newly visible hand, in a sense completing the circle. Nina shivered violently, feeling like she was trying to hold onto the vapour around dry ice with one hand and the hand of a corpse in the other - in both cases her analogies weren't far from the truth.

The wall behind Annie was now less visible, the poltergeists fear, though still present, was assuaged by their combined presence. By degrees, she was becoming more solid again. A small sound escaped her as her voice returned also. “I'm sorry.” The words were barely audible, like communication over a long distance. Mitchell broke his contact with Nina, murmuring that Annie had no need to apologise and asking her what happened as he put his arms around Annie's now firm shoulders. Her ice cold forehead pressed against his neck and he held her tighter. Nina broke her contact to let Annie return the embrace but stayed close, carefully watching the two people who were her only link to George.

Annie looked to be in shock, eyes wide. Nina had no idea what had happened but the peculiarities of the dead weren't something she'd investigated or much thought of before. It didn't appear to be something that happened often, however, judging by Mitchell's reaction. Meanwhile, as he held onto her, Nina could now see that the strain of the past few days had taken their toll on him.

Mitchell helped Annie to her feet after a few minutes. He helped her sit at the table and held onto her hands as he too sat down. Nina rescued the fallen pizzas and put them on the kitchen worktop. The garlic bread was crushed and half was left on the floor, but the rest of the food would still be edible later. She picked up and righted the third chair that Mitchell had thrown aside and set it at the table. She made to leave but Mitchell caught her arm and gently urged her to join them. He didn't want to make her feel left out.

“What happened?” Mitchell asked for a second time, hoping Nina's presence wouldn't make Annie clam up. Those fears there were unfounded though his other ones were about to be reinforced.

The poltergeist's voice was strong but slightly unsteady as she explained. “I should have listened to you. I opened up, listening to the dead to see if they had any news on what had happened at the hospital. See if anyone knows where he is.” Mitchell nodded with an empathic but disapproving look and allowed her to continue in her own time. “It was so, so loud.” She said this as if it had hurt her, which it probably had. “It was like every spirit in Bristol was talking and wouldn't stop, even my aunty Margaret would have a hard time getting a word in. So I just, I was trying to narrow it down. I was a bit tired but I was starting to hear things when... when...”

“When what?” Nina asked keenly.

Annie took a virtual breath to steady herself. “It felt like elastic snapping inside me.” She looked between the two of them. “Something broke and I couldn't control it. I felt so weak. And then... you found me.” She finished. Nina saw a stricken look pass between the others, a look she didn't understand.

[Melissa Kane]

”And Then What? Chapter Four

When things had settled down, the food reheated in the oven and consumed, Annie asked Nina to stay the night, a sentiment Mitchell echoed. Their werewolf friend had resisted for a while, unwilling to impose on them for longer than she needed to, until Mitchell explained that this time, it was as much for Annie's wellbeing as for Nina's own. With her desire to help awakened, Nina had agreed and had gone home to collect her overnight bag which was now always packed and ready to hand.

It hadn't gone unnoticed that Annie became far more corporeal when Nina was around too as opposed to it being only Mitchell. Annie was fading slightly, a little less than the solid form she usually held, when Nina was away. She was still quite shaken by her experience but she was putting a brave face on it.

Over coffee, Mitchell calmly explained away the event by saying Annie had used up her already depleted energies by trying to do too much too soon, but having known him for almost a year now, Annie knew there was something else he wasn't telling. Vampires might be good liars, they'd have to be to do what they do, but not good enough to fool those closest to them.

“You'll have to do better than that.” Annie sounded worried as she sat toying with a half-full cup on the table. Occasionally she'd pass right through it, but that was happening less, thank goodness. “Something, a connection broke. I know it did.”

Mitchell lowered his cup to the table. “I don't doubt you. But I'm not sure what it means.” He replied honestly.

“Could it... it can't be that... we've lost him, can it?” She was hesitating and her hands began to shake. It wasn't an option they wanted to face.

“No! No. Well, maybe. Maybe he's just too far away.”

Annie regarded him sadly. “Maybe he's dead.” She really was feeling low right now.

“Or maybe by using your energy so much you made it hard to keep the connection.” Mitchell was trying to think on the bright side. “Or maybe it was here. You should be able to be solid all the time in here, right? To us, I mean. So maybe whatever you did with, well with Michael's energy, maybe that weakened your ties to the House?”

It did make sense. “Maybe.” Annie desperately wanted to believe his suggestions but couldn't bring herself around to such optimism yet. With the best will in the world, Mitchell couldn't know what she had felt in that moment and she didn't know what she could say to explain it. “Yeah, maybe.”

*****

Three or four days had passed since first meeting “the pack”, though it may have been more, or perhaps less. There was no way of charting the passage of time in here. No light, from either sun or moon, got in. There was just the overhead fluorescents sending out that maddeningly artificial light that stayed on all the time. Despite the dilapidated appearance, the building itself was sealed up as tight as a drum. Sitting on the stone perimeter of his little spot, his nest, George pondered what the phrase “tight as a drum” actually meant, quickly coming to the conclusion that the note of a drum changed according to how tightly the skin was stretched over the frame. Perhaps they could loosen that skin and get out.

As he pondered how to escape, George was watching the pack as they interacted quite some distance away – at this range he could see them clearly without straining his spectacle-less eyes. Yuri, the big black-bearded Russian man, was playing a stone-throwing game with the little boy, Aleksandr. With a small, well-worn piece of chalk they had drawn three imperfect, concentric circles and were throwing stones. The rules, as far as George could gather, were that the score was higher, the closer to the centre of the circle they were. Aleksandr let out a squeal of childish joy as his stone landed in the smallest circle at the centre and Yuri grinned, clapping his hands in celebration of the boy's good aim. Another werewolf was lurking to the side, watching them from a rare shadowed corner of the room. George couldn't see a face but kept finding his gaze drawn back to the man – he was sure the figure was male. And every now and then he got the distinct impression they were being observed.

George smiled momentarily then hung his head, resting his forehead in his palms and rubbing at his aching temples with his fingertips. His headache was near-constant now that the healing effect of his lycanthropy was gone. With his eyes closed against the harsh light that made his brain ache, he was forced to remember that first day here, it felt like years ago already, when he had had a shower, of sorts. Actually, it was a hosepipe that their captors had fed through a hole high up in the wall into a room with an uneven floor with a drain to one side. At the ring of a bell, the others had moved off, taking George with them and one by one, they went into the room, hosed themselves down and cleaned themselves with carbolic soap before drying off on a single towel.

George was the last in. Despite how uncomfortable it was making him feel, when it came to it, he had found himself reluctant to wash the blood away. He had killed the woman he loved, this was her blood. Nina, the beautiful nurse whose life he'd first ruined and now taken away. He remembered her smile, her dark eyes that he could happily have drowned in, a laugh that lifted his spirits instantly, a perfect body he wanted to hold onto forever... he couldn't cry, much as he wanted to. The guilt and fear of his current situation wouldn't let him. Instead, he'd watched the water, stained pink, as it drained away. The bell rang again, not too far away, and the water shut off leaving George shivering. He took up the by now sodden towel and dried himself as best he could before putting the stained and damaged clothes he had selected back on.

Since then he'd interacted a little with the others, enough to learn names and faces, but intentionally keeping a distance. He wanted to like them, get to know them and learn from them as he'd once tried with Tully, but knowing what he'd done made his need to punish himself stronger. With that in mind, he chose to separate himself, explore the place alone. Thats how come he knew there was no feasible way out.

As George looked up, he saw Luke, the man with long, straggly blonde hair and Daniel, the man with the shaven head, approaching. Their presence drew him back to the here and now. “You haven't eaten.” Luke said in his blunt Yorkshire accent as he seated himself on the opposite wall of George's nest and offered a paper plate with a few sandwiches on. “You're gonna make yerself ill, mate.” George really didn't care. He felt worse than he ever had before about his condition – he'd just begun to completely accept it and now he was back to hating it, hating himself, with a vengeance again. But the hopeful look on the other mans face made George shrug and reach for one of the sandwiches. “No, no. Take the lot. We've all had ours ages ago.” He shook the plate to tempt George and it looked so normal that he had to accept the offering.

“Thanks.” He said, and meant it. However, all he did was set the plate aside.

Luke remained sitting while Daniel stood, both quite unsure of how to break the ice with their reluctant new packmate. “Its not so bad. Hardly the Ritz but its safe.” Daniel finally said, indicating the room around them. He had a slight, barely detectable Welsh accent.

George looked them over awkwardly. “A friend of mine. I, I never used to believe him when he told me that to, to be safe doesn't mean to have no life. Now, though. Now I think I know what he meant.” He scowled, trying to relax his sore eyes.

“Sounds like your friend doesn't have to deal with what we have to.” Luke commented idly, toying with the corner of the survival blanket George would sleep wrapped up in at what he assumed was night.

“He has his own worries.”

“Yeah?” Luke chipped in. “Like what?”

George hesitated. “Well he's a vampire. But he's okay, he's on the wagon. He doesn't kill anymore. Well, except when he loses control. But that, that, that doesn't happen often.” He added hastily. “Actually, he's the best friend I've ever had. And theres our other friend, she's a ghost. Um, a poltergeist, really.” He let out a soft sigh. “That sounds like the start of a bad joke.” George added without thinking, blinking hard a couple of times before rubbing a hand over his eyes. He managed to let out a dry chuckle. He'd denied himself the right to talk and interact with people for only a few days and the first chance he got, he gave in to verbal diarrhoea.

Luke gasped and George looked up sharply, no longer laughing, to see Daniel and Luke sharing an uneasy look. “Oh, um, right.” Luke was suddenly quite agitated, glancing over his shoulder as if for an escape route.

Was someone coming up behind? “Whats wrong?” George asked, half-turning to look behind him but saw nothing. The expanse behind him was filled with a broken-down boiler and disused office space. But there was no movement and nothing of note to see as far as he was aware.

As he turned back, George only just managed to catch sight of Luke and Daniel as they disappeared behind the half-broken wall. George slid into his nest and pressed his back to the cold stone sides, a little confused as to what had happened. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

*****

High above, in the mezzanine-level offices, a dark eyed man with white-blonde hair stared down through the blacked out windows at the warehouse below. Moving along the window past the dividing wall, he regarded the creatures studiously. Behind him, a door opened and closed softly.

“The records, Sir.” An oriental man had entered carrying a cardboard box which rattled in a plasticky way. He stood holding the box for what felt like a long time.

Finally the older man, without turning to face his subordinate, waved a hand. “Put them by the desk if you please, Mr Li.” The white haired spectre sounded distracted as Mr Li did as instructed. The desk was just proud of the corner of the room, lit by an old-fashioned green glass table lamp. The desk itself was from the same period, a lovely mahogany desk, all made from one piece of wood, with a leather square for writing in the centre. However, there were no writing materials. Just a dated computer and hard drive sitting and making a low buzzing sound. The chair accompanying the table was a cheap plastic and rough fabric chair, the kind where you adjust the height by a lever under the seat and which sits atop a five legged spider of casters. Li wrinkled his nose at the dust which rose as he put the box on the floor and came to his master's side.

“Mr Turner? How is the new one doing?” He asked, standing a little back but still able to look down on the holding room. He could only see the far end of the room from here where the big Russian was again entertaining the child.

Turner sighed. “Refuses to interact with the others. Quite opposed to joining in. But thats of no matter. I believe I know the reason.” His crisp, almost plummy English was accented and softened by a Scots tang.

“And that is, Sir?” Li asked. Really, he wasn't that interested, but to be part of this was something he'd never have dreamed of. The benefits he would reap far outweighed the menial tasks he had to perform in order to receive them. Most of all, he had to show the proper respect or he'd wind up like Crowley and that would never do.

“Its pining for its mate.” Turner replied pointedly, fixing Li with a dark, accusatory stare. Li immediately looked at the floor.

“We will find it.”

“Yes, you will.” The older man intoned commandingly before looking back into the warehouse. “Preferrably before that one starves itself to death.” There was a pause filled only by the ticking of a clock. Turner liked the ticking of clocks. He found it soothing, reminding him of an eternal heartbeat. Thirty-eight ticks later, he again spoke. “Are you still here, Li?”

Li bowed as he backed away and escaped out of the room. He closed it behind him and leaned against the wall, one hand still on the doorknob. Despite the calmness of the words, he knew the master was livid. He, Li, had been in charge of the apprehension of the lycos and had, in Turner's view, failed miserably by losing one. As he stood against the wall, wondering how to go about finding the second lyco, Crowley moved past wheeling his trolley of raw meat. The blood pooled in the bottom of the sealed plastic cart but wasn't as tempting as it once had been.

“Mr Li.” Crowley greeted. “Hows the master?”

“Not happy, Cathal. Not happy at all.” The small oriental man replied.

Crowley let out a short, low laugh. “When is he anything other these days?” He asked rhetorically and went on his way without another look back. Li had to agree as he straightened and headed the opposite way toward the outside doors of the building.

[Melissa Kane]

And Then What? Chapter Five

George knelt and scooped a handful of water into his mouth from the trough in the floor. He felt like an animal doing this. That was something else he hated about being here. He'd barely eaten for however many days, but he always kept drinking the water from the trough. The wolf in him wasn't letting him give up so easily.

“Hey.” Yuri grasped George by his collar and hauled him upright. George couldn't help but squeal as he was set on his feet quite easily then set off balance and pushed back a few steps.

“Wh-what?!” George had to blink a number of times to focus. The entire pack was there, with the exception of Aleksandr. The child had obviously been sent away and that didn't bode well. The pack were led by Yuri, and none looked particularly happy. He was looking from one to the other nervously. “What's going on?”

“Traitor.” The young Chinese girl, Zhen, hissed, sounding more like a vampire than any kind of werewolf.

George frowned. He'd been keeping his distance. How could these people think he was trying to betray them when he'd barely let himself have contact? “What?! I don't understand. I'm not...” Yuri cut him off with a cuff around the ear, eliciting what he considered a satisfying yelp. “What is wrong with you people?!” George retorted, holding his stinging ear.

“I thought you strange.” Yuri said in a form of English so heavily accented, but was barely English at all. “Now I learn you work with enemy.”

“Enemy?” George repeated a tad stridently, thoroughly bewildered. “What enemy?” He was less concerned with the werewolves that were gathered around him than the hulking man looming over him. He straightened himself up but took a prudent step back. “I haven't the faintest idea what you mean.”

Another voice chimed in. “You told us. You commune with vampires. You live with vampires.” This was Luke, his fine disheveled hair matted and resembling a mane. His blue eyes were accusing and scared in equal measure.

For some reason, this accusation made George angry. He snapped back defensively. “A vampire. Singular. He's my best friend. He's not dangerous.” Part of he knew he should be scared. But he was far too tired and lonely for his friends, what he now thought of as his own pack, to allow fear in.

“ALL VAMPYR ARE DANGEROUS!” Yuri roared in George's face, spraying him with spittle. However, this time George did not step back. He was alone, he had no-one to back him up, he'd done the worst thing he could think of in the world and he knew he'd be punished for it. There really was nothing much left to worry about. The mob here would do what he had been subconsciously attempting all along and put him out of his misery.

With a chilling softness of tone, George stretched to look Yuri in the eye. “So are all lycos.” Yuri drew back as a murmur ran through the pack.

“He used their word.” Someone whispered. In spite of his stinging ear, George knew the voice. His head whipped around to look for the speaker. It wasn't possible it was the same person. He hadn't realised but there were actually six werewolves around him, one more than there should have been. In hindsight, this distraction was a mistake. In that unguarded moment, two werewolves – Daniel and the older gentleman in the jumpsuit whose name was either Kevin or Kelvin – leapt forward and grabbed him by the arms.

Yuri had recovered himself and advanced on George who was struggling for all he was worth. With each point, Yuri jabbed him painfully in the chest with a finger. “You speak of vampyr as friend. You use that word. They use that word. They keep us here. You are not like us. Not packmate. Not really a werewolf. No, you are traitor by own admission.”

Fear was creeping in, that reflexive fight-or-flight response he always got in tense situations, as his short-lived bravado ebbed away. Still, though, he twisted and turned, trying to free himself. “How can I be a traitor if I'm a captive too?”

“You must be here to blend in, to know from us.” Yuri suggested awkwardly to the echoes of questioning murmurs. Yuri jabbed his finger randomly in George's chest again, for effect.

Panting and whimpering a little with the barest edge of panic as he slowed his exertions, George nonetheless answered. “And I've been staying away. If I was trying to get information about you, wouldn't I have tried to blend in? I don't want to be part of this pack. All I want is to go home.” The last sentence drained his energy. Abruptly, he stopped moving and hung his head. To be rejected by his own kind hurt deeper and more keenly than he realised. He knew, in that moment, how Tully must have felt to have been rejected by him.

“You observe. I see you. We have knowing that you are clever. You can work how to betray us all to, to make sure your safety.”

Somewhere, deep inside, George was becoming stronger again. That defiance which directly opposed his nature and made him do things he knew were inadvisable was rising. Whether is came from himself, or from the wolf, or an odd combination of the two, he didn't know. It was the same feeling he'd had when he ran from his family and his old life. The same as when he chose to stand after his beating at the hands of vampires and ask “And then what?” of Mitchell. The same faculty within that drove him to confront Herrick alone to protect Mitchell and Annie. It came to the fore only when he was so lost that there was nothing else for him to do.

He stood still and waited for the inevitable.

*****

It was late. Late for normal people, Mitchell amended mentally. Annie and Nina were in the kitchen. Annie was making a cup of hot chocolate as the women talked. Mitchell watched for a moment then moved into the living room. He went to a fairly large and battered wooden box on the shelves and opened it. George's glasses glinted as he took them out. Underneath lay George's wallet and, under that, he knew was the necklace.

He wanted to try something. He wasn't sure if his experiment would work but if Annie's fears were right and George really was dead, Mitchell had to assume the protection from the Star of David that their friendship gave him would cease also. The thought made him feel sick. Gingerly, Mitchell lifted the corner of George's wallet and peered underneath. The gold pendant reflected the light from above, shiny from years of being constantly worn, but he felt none of the burning pressure against his skin that he was expecting. He wasn't being repelled. Putting George's glasses back inside, Mitchell closed the box feeling a little better than he had. The experiment wasn't conclusive, of course. But Mitchell chose to hang onto the fragile hope that it meant exactly what he hoped.

He glanced back at the kitchen, Annie was talking quite loudly about the benefits of chocolate over sex, something with which Nina seemed to agree with a laugh before going quiet. Annie continued chattering innocently about something she saw on Loose Women this afternoon and this brought Nina back to the conversation once more. Mitchell smiled.

*****

Mitchell arrived for work early the following morning, climbed the steps and went directly to his locker. He was about to open it when he noticed a sliver of blue paper poking out between the hinges. He looked left and right but there was no-one anywhere around. He put his bag down and after checking again to see if anyone was there, he teased the light blue paper from the crack with his thumb and fore finger. He was alone.

The blue paper was actually an envelope. Written on the front in a classically curly hand was his name. He broke the seal carefully and slid out a piece of paper in the same shade of baby blue as the envelope. He didn't want to unfold the letter inside but after a moment's hesitation, he did. He read slowly, twice, then folded it up and absently put it back in the envelope.

He closed his eyes and puffed out a loud, exasperated breath. This was something he so didn't need right now.

*****

George had moved as far from the others as he could possibly get. Quietly, without a fuss, he had elected to hide away. Sitting on the survival blanket on the floor of the abandoned offices at the very back of the warehouse, he was feeling incredibly alone right now. He had brought the plate of sandwiches with him and had even eaten one. His stomach had rebelled after so long without sustenance so he had stopped at one. It was darker in here, less painful. He was too far away to make out what the others were doing now, but they all seemed to be congregated together.

He still couldn't quite believe that they has simply let him walk away from them earlier. Yuri had looked at him and George could have sworn he saw fear in the big man. Fear in all of them. In that moment, he pitied them. Their attack on him was a knee-jerk reaction because there was nothing else they could do. A mob mentality. Now he had time to sit and think it over rationally, George really couldn't hold a grudge against the pack. They were scared, they needed each other.

He drew his knees to his chest and folding his arms across them, rested his chin on the back of one wrist. Yeah, they all had each other and that was good. For them. But he wasn't part of that. He was like them, but not like them at all.

Besides, he already had a place he belonged and he hadn't realised how much he needed it until now. He hadn't understood just how much he'd taken it for granted, the whole life he had built with Mitchell and Annie, until it was gone. “I'm sorry.” He whispered, blinking hard against the tears. His lower jaw trembled as it all caught up to him, the bitter regrets, the loss, the knowledge that two years of struggling and trying to fit in was all for nothing. The floodgates had opened and he was powerless to stop it. “I'm so, so sorry.” He buried his face in his forearms and sobbed as his heart broke into a thousand pieces.