The First Sip - Glitter_Lisp, eggmuffinwaffles (2024)

Josie doesn't want to check on Mark’s room. She's going to, of course, but she's dreading it. Mark was just two years behind her in school. They weren't close, but they knew each other in passing. It's a special kind of horror to see someone younger than her in a hospital bed, even more to know there's nothing she can do for him.

The doctors have done everything they can. At this point, that mostly amounts to keeping him comfortable. Josie’s tried to get in touch with his family a dozen times since he first came into the ER, shaking and feverish with his arm nearly rotting off before their eyes, but his parents passed away a few years ago, and neither of his sisters still lives in town. Last Josie heard, Ciera was flying in from Portland. She's probably somewhere over the Midwest right now, racing against time to say goodbye to her brother.

She braces herself outside the door to his room, clutching her clipboard and taking a deep breath before she pulls on a smile, knocks lightly, and steps inside.

“Hey, Marker,” she says. It's a dumb nickname, one he'd hated growing up, but it's made him smile every time she's said it while he's here, the times he's been aware enough to know what anyone’s saying to him. “How are you–”

She freezes.

Mark, or what's left of him, is lying in his hospital bed. His eyes are closed. His expression is peaceful. His face is covered in blood that must be his own, because his neck is– his whole throat–

Mark came into the ER with a badly infected wound on his left arm he didn't remember getting. Within 24 hours, he had developed all sorts of horrifying complications that kept the on-call doctors and nurses scrambling trying to keep up, frantically researching what could cause the infection to spread so rapidly. People have tossed around theories about flesh eating bacteria, some sort of unknown poison in the wound, an autoimmune condition that had gone undiagnosed up to now.

None of that explains the absolute wreck something made of Mark’s neck, like a wild animal got into the room somehow, even though that's impossible. Josie didn't even hear any alarms from Mark’s monitoring equipment. She was in here thirty minutes ago. He was asleep, didn't respond to her talking to him, but his throat hadn't been torn out.

The clipboard drops from her numb fingers, and then she starts to scream.

The kid's twitchy as hell, and definitely too young to be at a dive bar like this. Eugene wouldn't care, but he's in town for a job, and the teenager in the corner booth is just the kind of strange that he's looking for.

He also fits the profile of the last three people who have turned up dead in this town: young men in their late teens and early twenties, pale, dark hair. It's not much to work with, but it's enough for Eugene to be keeping an eye out for kids like this, who might get killed next, or—more helpful to Eugene—might know something about who’s doing the killing.

He certainly looks wary when Eugene slides into the booth across from him, bottle in hand. “You mind if I sit here?” he asks, already making himself comfortable. The kid quirks an eyebrow but doesn't say anything. Eugene grins. “Thanks. I'm Flynn.”

“Okay,” the kid says. He's trying to look casual, but he's got one hand wrapped around the glass in front of him so tightly that his knuckles have gone white, and the half-melted ice rattles as his hand shakes.

“Are you even old enough to be here?” Eugene asks, amused despite himself.

The kid doesn't bother to deny it. “They don't check IDs at the door at places like this,” he says quietly. “And I only ordered a soda, so the bartender didn't care, either way.”

“Hm.” Eugene sips at his own soda, careful to keep his palm covering the label. Appearances matter, and it's harder to act drunk if he's clearly drinking root beer. “You from around here?”

“Which answer makes you leave me alone?” the kid asks.

“Why come to a bar if you just wanted a soda?” Eugene presses on. “There's a 24 hour diner in town. Could’ve gone there.”

“I like the atmosphere better here,” the kid says through gritted teeth. “What do you want?”

The “atmosphere” in this bar isn't much to write home about; it's a near-perfect copy of every sh*tty bar Eugene’s seen across the country. Pool table with uneven legs, cheap beer, a drunk passed out at the bar. The bartender ignores him in favor of leaning against the other end of his bar and looking at his phone. The dim lighting, especially in the corner this kid chose, probably has more to do with trying to hide how rundown the place is than any attempt at atmosphere.

Fine, then. Eugene doesn't have to play friendly, if the kid’s so suspicious of him already. He sets his drink down with a clink and leans forward. The kid leans back automatically, eyes narrowing.

“You know anything about the kids showing up dead in this town?” Eugene asks bluntly.

“No,” the kid says. “What kids?”

“Young men all your age, who look a lot like you, showing up with their throats slashed for the last few weeks.”

“That sucks,” the kid says flatly. “Hope they find who’s doing it.”

Eugene hums. “Or what.”

The kid freezes. Bingo.

He recovers quickly, but Eugene caught that reaction, and they both know it.

“What, you think it's some sort of animal?” he asks lamely. “A wolf or something?”

“You tell me,” Eugene says with a shrug. “Like I said, you fit this thing’s profile. You're either gonna get caught up in the mess, probably sooner rather than later… or you're already caught in it, and you're the one they're looking for in the first place.”

The kid flinches so hard that soda splashes out of his cup; he lets go quickly and tucks his hand under the table to wipe it on his pants. It's hard to tell in the poor lighting, but he's gone even paler. His eyes dart quickly around the rest of the bar—clocking the exits, Eugene realizes as he follows his gaze—before he leans over the table as well.

“No one’s looking for me,” he says, voice fierce for all that he's lowered it to barely above a whisper. “I– look, I'm not even from here, okay? My bus dropped me off here a few hours ago, and the depot wouldn't let me stay the night. I just needed a place to hang out until my next bus leaves tomorrow. I don't know anything about people dying here.”

Eugene narrows his eyes. The kid looks sincere, and his rumpled clothes and the dark circles under his eyes definitely line up with having been traveling, but Eugene’s been in this business too long to buy it completely.

“What's your name?” he asks.

“Varian,” the kid says, after the briefest pause.

“Is that your real name?”

“Is Flynn yours?” the kid shoots back. Eugene snorts.

“Fair enough. Where are you coming from?”

“Does it matter?”

“Guess not.”

The kid hesitates, then says slowly, “You're a hunter. Right?”

Eugene pauses. Now, that he hadn't expected. Varian seems a little more knowledgeable than Eugene would have guessed, but he was still bracing himself to explain the existence of ghosts and ghouls. He considers playing dumb, but Varian’s eyes are sharp, and Eugene’s the one who approached him in the first place.

“Yeah,” he says. “You?”

Varian snorts. “No.” He finally leans back in the booth and looks at Eugene with narrowed eyes. “But I can help you. What do you think it is?”

“You're a kid,” Eugene says, shaking his head. “I don't need the help.”

“I'm not a kid, I'm eighteen. And clearly you do, if you're shaking down strangers in dive bars for information.”

“Part of the process,” Eugene says dismissively. “If you're actually not involved, then I'm not getting you involved.”

Varian grimaces, then asks hesitantly, “But you said I fit this thing’s profile?”

Eugene nods, and then realizes what Varian’s really asking. He's a kid by himself in an unfamiliar town, and he clearly doesn't have a place to stay tonight, if his plan was to hide out in this bar until morning.

“Oh, sh*t,” he says.

“What are the odds my throat gets slit before my bus leaves tomorrow?” Varian asks, way too calmly.

“Zero odds,” Eugene says flatly. “My motel room’s warded to hell and back. You can crash with me.” Varian squints, and Eugene holds his hands up, palms out placatingly. “You don't have to. I got extra rock salt in my trunk if you want to get a room for yourself and hope for the best.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Varian says reluctantly, then admits, “I spent everything on the tickets. I can't afford a hotel room.”

Eugene doesn't comment on that, just drains what’s left of his root beer and stands up from the table. “You got anything you need to hang around here for, or you want to go ahead and go?”

Varian swallows nervously, but he stands up as well. “No. We can leave.”

Eugene frowns and ducks his head, peeking under the table. He doesn't see anything but dirt and stained wood. “You got a bag or anything with you?”

Varian wraps his arms around himself almost unconsciously. Kid doesn't even have a jacket, just an unzipped hoodie over a plain t-shirt. “No.”

There's a chance he has luggage, and that the bus depot let him leave it there overnight. Eugene wouldn't count on it.

“All right,” Eugene says, shrugging on his own jacket and heading towards the door. Varian follows him without another word. No one notices or says anything as they leave, which Eugene tries not to be upset about. He's bringing the kid back to his hotel to make sure he doesn't get killed overnight, but none of these people know that. Even so, no one raises an eyebrow as Eugene leads a teenager out of the bar and into his car.

Varian keeps his hands in his lap as Eugene drives, darting the occasional glance at him. After a minute, he asks, “So what do you think it is?”

“What, the monster?” Eugene asks, and Varian nods. “Probably a ghost. I thought it might be a ghoul, but they're leaving too much of the bodies behind for that.”

“Right,” Varian says. “You said the deaths started a few weeks ago. How many people have died?”

“Kid, you don't have to help,” Eugene says. “It's fine.”

“You're letting me stay for the night, and I don't have money to pay you back,” Varian points out. “But I'm good at research. I can at least look over what you've got so far. Not that I think you missed anything!” he adds quickly. “It's just that a second set of eyes could be helpful, right?”

“Right,” Eugene says slowly, “but you don't have to pay me back. My job is to keep people alive.”

“Your job is to kill monsters,” Varian corrects. Eugene doesn't necessarily see the difference, but it seems like an important distinction to the kid.

Varian doesn't say anything else, and Eugene’s not sure how to pick the conversation back up from there. The silence is awkward, but he's pretty sure it would just feel worse to turn on the radio now, five minutes into the drive. At least the motel is close to the bar; it's only a few minutes before he's pulling into the parking lot. Varian once again follows him silently as Eugene unlocks the door and leads him into the room.

As far as no-star motel rooms go, it's not the worst Eugene’s stayed at in his life. Rundown and dilapidated, with a shower that only gets hot for a minute at a time and mattresses that sag in the middle, but relatively clean and without some of the hideous decor he's seen in other places. He locks the door behind them, crosses to the nearest bed, and sits down on the edge to unlace his boots.

Varian doesn't move from where he's standing by the door, taking in the room like he's going to be quizzed about it later. His eyes finally light on the table against the wall and the piles of paper spread across it next to Eugene’s laptop. There's more on the second bed; as soon as he's got his shoes kicked off, Eugene goes to gather up the newspaper clippings and printouts from the library and dump them on the table as well.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says. “They only had a double left to rent, so I've been using the second bed as a shelf all week. Lucky for you, huh?”

Varian glances at the table once more before looking reluctantly back at Eugene. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

He walks past the table and sits cautiously down on the other bed. He doesn't take off his shoes or his hoodie. Eugene considers offering him a change of clothes to sleep in, but he doesn't think it would go over well.

“You want a shower?” he asks. “The, uh, the door locks from the inside, if that's a concern.”

“I'm good,” Varian says. “How do you ward the room?”

“Salt line across the door and under the windows,” Eugene says, pointing. The lines by the windows are undisturbed, and Varian had followed his lead in stepping over the one by the door. “There's more under the bathroom window. Holy water sprinkled by the door, herb packets in the corners, weapons within reach.”

Varian hums in acknowledgment. His eyes keep drifting back to the table with Eugene’s research on it, despite how hard he's trying to look casual. Eugene ignores his obvious curiosity, as well as his offer from earlier. He's not going to get the kid wrapped up in a hunt when he's already a potential target just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“You hungry?” he asks. “I've got protein bars and, uh…” He wracks his brain, trying to remember what he hasn't eaten already out of his snack supply. “Some banana laffy taffies.”

“I'm good,” Varian says again, then winces as his stomach growls. Eugene wants to laugh, but the depressing fact that the kid clearly is hungry and lying about it distracts him from the universe's comedic timing.

He digs the box of protein bars out of his duffel, tosses one to Varian, and unwraps another for himself. He's already eaten, but he doesn't want to make Varian eat while Eugene just stares at him. Poor kid looks uncomfortable enough as he catches the protein bar, but he unwraps it without complaint and starts to nibble.

Eugene busies himself with tidying up his research, double checking his laptop is plugged in and charging, and changing into a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants in the bathroom. It's earlier than he would normally go to sleep, but he doesn't want to work the case with Varian in the room watching him, and he's not sure what else to do other than watch TV or go to sleep. The TV in the room had refused to turn on when he tried it a few days ago, so bedtime it is.

Varian is still sitting on the bed when Eugene emerges from the bathroom. The protein bar is gone, probably gulped down as soon as Eugene turned his back. “I don't have a spare toothbrush, but there's toothpaste in the bathroom if you want to use it,” Eugene says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder as he walks past him. Varian nods and steps into the bathroom without another word.

He leaves the door open. Eugene’s not sure what point he's trying to make with that.

While Varian brushes his teeth as best he can with his finger, Eugene tucks a knife under his pillow and makes sure his pistol is within reach on the bedside table. He doesn't know this kid, and he might be trusting, but he's not an idiot. Varian made it into the hotel room just fine, which negates a lot of possibilities, but there are other things that can get past salt and holy water. Eugene would put money down that Varian’s a human, but he wouldn't bet his life on him being harmless.

Eugene smiles easily as Varian steps out of the bathroom. Varian smiles back like he's not sure how to do it.

“I'm gonna turn in,” Eugene says as he gets under the covers. “I'll drive you back to the station tomorrow. What time’s your bus leave?”

“Six,” Varian says, sitting back down on his own bed before slowly lying down. He doesn't get under the covers. He also, Eugene can't help but notice, doesn't take his boots off. Ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. “But you don't have to drive me back.”

“It's no problem,” Eugene says dismissively, quickly setting an alarm on his phone before dropping it on the bedside table. Despite himself, he's already feeling drowsy. He's used to being on his feet or at least sitting upright driving most of the day. The second he's horizontal, he's already half asleep. “I already dragged you here. I don't mind taking you back.”

“Thanks,” Varian says. Eugene hears the mattress squeak, and a moment later Varian reaches over and clicks off the light, plunging the room into darkness. Eugene rolls onto his side and makes himself comfortable as he slides a hand under his pillow and wraps his fingers around the hilt of the knife his father gave him years ago. With that assurance in hand, it doesn't take him long to drift off.

He wakes up to sunlight coming through the window. He rolls over with an annoyed groan, automatically covering his eyes before his brain comes online.

He set his alarm for five. The sun shouldn't be up yet.

He sits bolt upright, knife still in hand as he flings the covers back and starts to scramble out of bed, wide awake in an instant. Varian, sitting at the table and casually flipping through Eugene’s research, flinches and whips around in his chair to face Eugene, eyes wide and shoulders up around his ears.

“Kid, what the f*ck?” Eugene asks. His heart is racing. “What are you doing?”

“Your alarm woke me up,” Varian says. His eyes are glued to the knife in Eugene's hand. He doesn't meet Eugene’s eyes until Eugene sets it carefully down on the bedside table. “I turned it off for you.”

“And you didn't wake me up?” Eugene asks exasperatedly, rubbing his temples as he tries to convince his heart to stop pounding. “What about your bus?”

“I wasn't gonna get on it anyways,” Varian says. “I bought the ticket just to…” He grimaces and shakes his head. “I was already planning to stay in town. But while I was up, I looked over your research?”

Eugene narrows his eyes. Varian's shoulders hunch even further. His eyes are bloodshot, and the bags under them are darker than they were last night. A quick glance at Eugene’s phone shows that it's barely seven. He doesn't believe that Varian’s only been at this for two hours.

“Who the f*ck are you?” Eugene asks, keeping his hand hovering over his knife again as he climbs slowly out of bed.

“I'm… I'm not anyone,” Varian says, eyes darting between Eugene’s face and the knife. “I didn't mean to– I just wanted to help. I can be helpful.”

“You show up out of nowhere in the middle of a hunt,” Eugene says slowly. “A hunt that you fit the victim profile for to a f*cking T. You're going through my research. You already know a lot more than I'd expect from a random runaway. You get that that's suspicious, right?”

Varian flinches at the word runaway.

“I just wanted to help,” he repeats weakly.

“Christo,” Eugene says. Varian frowns.

“What?”

His eyes stay blue. Well, that's one concern satisfied, but it doesn't answer any of Eugene’s other questions.

“What are you doing in town?” he asks.

“I picked it at random,” Varian says. “Eugene, I'm really sorry, I can go–”

“You're not going anywhere,” Eugene says sharply. “Did you really just get into town yesterday?”

“Yes,” Varian says. “You can ask at the bus station, they probably remember me–”

“Where were you before this?” Eugene continues, ignoring the way Varian is sounding increasingly desperate. “What are you running from?”

“I'm not,” Varian says. “I'm not, I just– I'm– I didn't even know there was a hunt here, I swear. I don't have anything to do with this!”

“And I should believe you because…?”

“Because I'm human!” Varian cries. “I can prove it, I swear–”

He scrambles to his feet. Eugene snatches the knife up, and Varian freezes. He lifts his hands slowly in surrender, staring down the knife again.

“That's silver, right?” he asks, and Eugene nods. “You already know I can get past the wards. You can test me with the silver. And iron, if you have it. Please, I swear, I'm not here to hurt anyone.”

Eugene eyes him warily, then nods. Varian flashes him a quick, nervous smile before shoving one of his sleeves up past his elbow and thrusting his hand out towards Eugene, palm down. His fingers are shaking.

Eugene steps forward cautiously, adjusting his grip on the knife as he reaches for Varian's outstretched hand. Being human wouldn't necessarily mean he's not involved in whatever's going on, but it would at least give Eugene more information to work with. All he needs is a tiny nick to see if Varian reacts to the silver blade.

The second his hand makes contact with Varian’s arm, though, Eugene freezes. The skin of Varian’s wrist against his palm is unexpectedly textured, rough and uneven where Eugene expects it to be smooth. He frowns, and Varian’s eyes go wide as he clearly realizes what Eugene just noticed. He tries to pull away, but Eugene tightens his grip and carefully turns Varian's arm over.

From wrist to elbow, the inside of his forearm is littered in thick, ugly scars, some fully healed and some barely scabbed over. They're the same, all of them: razor sharp puncture wounds the size and shape of human mouths.

Well, likely not human.

Eugene loosens his grip, and Varian snatches his arm back immediately, shaking his sleeve down before clutching his hand to his chest. He looks terrified as he stares at Eugene, knees slightly bent like he's ready to run at a moment’s notice. Eugene stares back at him, and he slowly showers the knife.

“Varian,” he says slowly, “what are you really doing here?”

“I really didn't know there was a hunt here,” Varian says. “I swear, that was just a coincidence. I was just trying to get away. I just don't want to go back.”

Eugene swallows. “What did that to your arm?”

Varian’s lower lip wobbles. “Vampires.”

“Vampires?” Eugene repeats incredulously. “Those are supposed to be extinct.”

Varian shakes his head. “I don't want to go back,” he whispers again. “I thought…” His voice fails, and he licks his lips before he tries again, “I thought that if I helped you, you might help me.”

Eugene covers his face for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control. Christ, no wonder the kid’s so cagey. Some of those scars look old. If he's on the run from vampires, a creature that no hunter Eugene knows has seen in well over a decade, then he's in more trouble than Eugene could have imagined.

“What do you need help with?” he says. “You need someone to take out the vamps? A place to hide? I know a few safe houses.”

“I want to find my parents,” Varian says, soft and hesitant. “I don't– I'm not sure about my mom, but I think my dad could still be alive.”

“Jesus,” Eugene mutters, trying not to think about all the horrifying implications of that statement, or why Varian might not know. “Yeah. Yeah, kid, I can help you look.”

Varian sniffles and hurriedly wipes at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “I was serious, though,” he says. “I can help with the hunt.”

“I can call someone else in to handle this,” Eugene says, gesturing at the papers on the table. The mess he left last night has been carefully organized into several neat stacks, clearly Varian’s doing. He must have been up most of the night going through Eugene's notes. “Another hunter can take this one over for me, and I'll help you get home.”

To Eugene’s surprise, Varian hesitates. “That… might be hard to do,” he says reluctantly. “Besides, you're already close to catching the ghost, and I've waited this long. We should stay, at least for now.”

Eugene co*cks his head to the side. “Why would it be hard to–”

“Besides, I think I found something,” Varian continues, turning to dig through the papers for a minute before he unearths a single printout Eugene had printed at the library two days ago, a scan of an ancient history book they hadn't been willing to let him take with him. “The town’s three hundred years old, right?” he asks, and Eugene nods slowly. He doesn't necessarily care about the hunt right now, and he definitely doesn't get why Varian does, but the kid still looks desperate as he holds the printout towards Eugene.

“Yeah,” Eugene says, taking it and glancing down. It's from a worn out book on local history, a block of text underneath several pictures of old portraits of the town’s founders. “They're doing a big celebration for the anniversary this weekend. Literally every local I've talked to has brought it up, in between talking about the murders.”

“Yeah, I saw the signs up when I got into town,” Varian says. “But everything you have here about the town’s history doesn't go back three hundred years. It only goes back two hundred and ninety-eight.”

Eugene frowns at the paper in his hand, then steps past Varian to flip through another few sheets. “Huh. I mean, a few hundred years is a long time. You think they got the date wrong?”

“I don't think so,” Varian says. “Because everything I read here agrees on the date, and these people are really obsessed with their history. Talking about the founding anniversary when three people have been killed feels like a crazy thing to do. They would know when the town was founded. But there's nothing from those first two years. Everyone agrees that there were people here, but there's nothing about who they were or what they did. The earliest records pick up two years after the town was supposedly founded.”

Eugene frowns harder at the papers, then digs out the notepad he uses when interviewing witnesses. In between notes on the murders, he had also noted that more than a few people in town can trace their genealogies back to original founding families that had settled here in the 1700s. That fact, combined with how much the town is going out for the Founders Day celebration, doesn't match up with the date being wrong.

“You think there was some kind of cover up,” he says, and Varian nods eagerly.

“Yeah. I looked through what you have here. You were looking through obituaries from the last few years, right? Looking for violent deaths?”

Eugene nods. Despite himself, he can feel his attention shifting back to the case. He wants to help Varian, but he came here for a reason, and he's already been turning the case over in his mind since he got to town three days ago. It doesn't take much to bring his mind back to it.

“That's usually how it goes,” he says. “But there wasn't anything that fit the timeline. Car accidents, illness, old age. Nothing that would make someone come back, at least nothing obvious. But if you're right, and there's some weird conspiracy about the town’s founding–”

“They could have died a long time ago,” Varian says. “It might not be a recent death at all. It could be someone who died in that two years, and got woken up somehow during all the celebration prep.”

“It's possible,” Eugene says, already digging through the stacks on the desk for his list of recent deaths. When nothing had come back as an obvious answer from the past year, he'd expanded his search back a decade, and then a century. He hadn't thought to look back three hundred years. “Lots of things can trigger a spirit to come back. An entire town tramping around yelling about the past would definitely do the trick.”

“It would explain why the victims have so little in common, too,” Varian adds, pointing to where Eugene has pictures of the three dead men laid out next to each other. “I mean, there's definitely a type, but ‘young white guys with dark hair’ is really broad, even for a ghost. If they've been dead for a long time, they might not remember exactly who they're angry at.”

Eugene nods as he examines the pictures. The youngest victim had been seventeen, the oldest twenty-five. Beyond hair and skin color and living in the same town, they really hadn't had anything in common. A ghost being centuries removed from their own death would certainly explain the disconnect.

“I don't know how to find death records from that missing time,” Varian says apologetically. “I could only look through what you have here already. I didn't want to use your computer.”

“Well, you already had better luck than me,” Eugene admits. “I wouldn't have thought to go back that far. Thanks.”

Varian beams at him.

“I can go back to the library again today,” Eugene says. “Now that I have a better idea of what I'm looking for, it shouldn't take too long to find. But kid, I'm serious, I can pass this off to someone else. I can take you home first.”

Varian shrugs and doesn't look at Eugene as he says, “I've waited this long. Another few days isn't anything. Besides, I'm good at research. I can help you look.” He finally peeks up out of the corner of his eye and asks hesitantly, “If that's okay?”

“I'd honestly prefer it if you tagged along,” Eugene admits. “You're still in danger until we put the spirit to rest. I’ll feel better if you're somewhere I keep an eye on you.”

Something strange crosses Varian's face at that, but he only nods. “What time does the library open?”

“Eight,” Eugene says. “We have some time. You want breakfast?”

“That protein bar was good, if you have another,” Varian says, and Eugene snorts.

“Yeah, no, actual food. I told you, there's a diner in town that's not bad. Or… did you sleep at all last night?”

Varian shifts uncomfortably and staunchly avoids meeting Eugene’s eyes. Eugene sighs.

“If I go pick up breakfast and bring it back here, do you think you'll be able to sleep for a while?” Varian hesitates, and Eugene continues, “The ghost has only been attacking at night. You'll be safe if you just take a nap for a half an hour while I go grab us some waffles.”

Varian finally looks up at Eugene, eyes wide. “Waffles?” he asks. “Like, with syrup?”

“Sure,” Eugene says with a shrug. “Syrup, whipped cream, whatever you want to put on them. Anything else?”

“You can put whipped cream on them?” Varian asks, sounding amazed, then shakes his head quickly. “No, yeah, um, just that sounds fine. Thank you.”

“Try to get some sleep,” Eugene says. “Make yourself at home, take a shower or something. The shower here sucks, but, you know.”

Varian narrows his eyes, but he doesn't say anything as Eugene crosses back to his bed and digs out a clean change of clothes. A few minutes later, he steps out of the bathroom, as ready as he ever is to start the day. At least Varian’s found him a new lead, which he can't deny has put a little spring in his step. He's only been in town a few days, but he was already getting frustrated with how little he was finding.

Three hundred years, he thinks, shaking his head as he stuffs his dirty clothes into the duffel and grabs his keys. “I'll be back soon,” he says. “Seriously, get some sleep. The case can wait thirty minutes. Breakfast first, then library, then we work on getting you back to your people, okay?”

Varian nods and sits on the edge of his bed again. “Okay. Um, and thank you. For… all that.”

“Hey, I told you,” Eugene says, grinning as he shrugs on his jacket. “It's my job.”

It doesn't take him long to get to the diner and put in their orders—scrambled eggs and waffles for them both, with a side of whipped cream for Varian since he'd sounded so excited about it—but he takes his time on his way back. The kid hadn't exactly looked well rested at the bar yesterday, and he clearly spent most if not all of last night going through Eugene’s research on the murders. Eugene dawdles, takes time to flirt with the cashier, and drives slow on his way back, pretending to appreciate the banners and signs hung up all over town advertising the Founders Day celebration.

Varian is still sitting up on the bed when Eugene gets back, but he's at least leaning against the headboard now with his legs stretched out in front of him, halfway to a comfortable position. If the way he jumps when Eugene opens the door is any indication, he might have even been dozing a little bit.

Or he might just be jumpy, fresh out the hands of monsters even Eugene didn't think existed anymore.

“Got breakfast,” Eugene says, gesturing with the stack of styrofoam containers.

“Thanks,” Varian says, twisting around to put his feet on the floor. He's still wearing his boots. Eugene just barely bites back a comment about having those on the bed. “How much was it? I have some cash left; I can pay you back for my half.”

“Don't worry about it,” Eugene says, kicking the door shut behind him and walking around the bed closer to the door so he can sit on the edge facing Varian. He hands the kid one container, cracks open his own, and drops the paper bag of syrup, butter, and utensils on the side table between the bed. “It was just a few bucks.”

“I can pay you back a few bucks,” Varian says. He doesn't open the container. “I can afford breakfast.”

“So can I, and probably easier than you,” Eugene says, digging out a plastic fork and a plastic container of syrup from the bag. Varian still doesn't move. “Kid, seriously. It's cheap diner food, it was like five bucks.”

Varian bites his lip, still clearly reluctant, but another audible growl from his stomach makes the decision for him. He finally pops the lid open, grabs syrup, butter, and the smaller container of whipped cream, and fully douses his waffle, meticulously filling each square with syrup before spreading the whipped cream and butter over it. He devours his scrambled eggs in a few bites while the syrup soaks in, then finally digs his fork into the waffle. His eyes light up at the first bite, and he actually wiggles in place before diving back in to finish.

Eugene snorts as he watches him. “So you like waffles, I take it.”

“I've never had them before,” Varian says, barely glancing up from his breakfast. “These are great.”

Eugene blinks. “You've never had waffles?”

Varian shrugs, evidently unbothered. “Maybe when I was little. Not that I ever remember.”

He tucks back in without another word, and Eugene shakes his head disbelievingly and follows suit. Never had waffles. And Eugene thought his childhood sucked. His dad might have dragged him all over the country in search of monsters, but at least he let Eugene have sugary breakfast food.

“So this ghost,” Varian says, interrupting his thoughts. “How long has it been active?”

Eugene narrows his eyes, but Varian looks nothing but curious as he continues to eat. Eugene doesn't understand his interest in the case, but he can't deny he's a little relieved that Varian wants to stay to work on it. Eugene doesn't know if there are any hunters in the area who could take over the case for him, and he doesn't want to risk someone getting killed because he took a few days off to drive Varian somewhere.

“Two weeks,” he says, while Varian upends another packet of syrup over what's left of his waffle. “Killed three people in that time.”

“You said it's cutting their throats to kill them?” Varian asks.

“That's the weird thing,” Eugene says, taking a bite of his own waffle, which has a much more normal amount of syrup on it. Varian’s is well on its way to becoming soup. “I talked to the coroner two days ago. Their throats were all slashed post-mortem. Cause of death was actually septic shock.”

Varian frowns. “Infection? From what?”

“Paper cuts, basically,” Eugene says with a shrug. “Little injuries on the left arm that should have only needed a few stitches and a bandaid, but started to shut their bodies down almost immediately. The hospital was looking into the possibility of some kind of flesh-eating bacteria before the first guy nearly got his head ripped off.”

Varian makes a thoughtful noise as he licks syrup off his fork. “Ghosts usually go after people the same way they died, right? Even a minor wound getting infected could have been a death sentence three hundred years ago.”

“Makes sense,” Eugene agrees. “Doesn't explain the…” He mimes slashing a finger across his throat, and Varian grimaces and nods. “Still, as long as we can avoid another person getting killed, I'm okay with not solving every mystery.”

“Makes sense,” Varian repeats. “So… library after this?”

“Yeah,” Eugene says, poking morosely at his eggs. He's avoided the library while he's been here, except for a brief visit when he first arrived to skim through the town’s history. He's not looking forward to the deep dive awaiting him. “If we're looking for a death or disappearance from hundreds of years ago, especially one that someone actively tried to hide, our best bet is probably gonna be old journals and letters from around that time.”

“Would the library actually have that?” Varian asks. “Or if they do, would they even let us see them?”

“Probably copies, at least,” Eugene says. “People around here are proud of the local history; they'd probably be excited that anyone else gives a damn. If the library doesn't have what we need, there's a local history museun. Lots of old maps and books and sh*t.”

“Cool,” Varian says, attempting to scoop up leftover syrup with his fork. “When do you want to check the library?”

Eugene glances down at his phone and sighs. “They open in a few minutes. We should probably head over soon. No telling when the next guy’s gonna get hit.”

Varian nods and closes the styrofoam container with obvious reluctance. Eugene gets the feeling he's fighting himself not to lick up the remaining syrup and whipped cream.

Teenagers.

Getting to the library is no problem. Eugene wasn't lying about wanting to keep Varian close by; the kid’s fresh out of a vampire nest and stumbled into a town where he might get poisoned by a ghost at any minute. He seems just as content to follow Eugene around, buckling himself silently into the front seat and looking around curiously as Eugene drives through town. The Founder’s Day celebration is set to take place later in the day, and people are already preparing for it, hanging signs and making sure the parade route is clear for the afternoon. Eugene doesn't see the point in blocking off Main Street this early in the day; all it does is make him have to take a ridiculously circuitous route to get to the library and park three streets over.

Varian side eyes him as Eugene mutters under his breath, but he doesn't say anything. Thank god. Eugene hates driving in towns; the big ones are absurdly crowded and the little ones seem comprised entirely of one-way streets and dead ends. Give him miles of open road any day.

He parks them as close to the library as he can get, and if he slams his door a little harder than he needs to when he gets out, he's earned it after nearly getting t-bones by a minivan that rolled straight through a stop sign and flipped him off when he honked.

“Okay,” he says, offering Varian a gritted-teeth smile. “Library.”

Varian smiles weakly back. He looks nauseous. Eugene doesn't exactly feel great either, after nearly meeting his end at the hands of a soccer mom who doesn't know what stop signs are, so he doesn't say anything as he strides back into the library. Varian, as talkative as never, ghosts quietly after him.

Eugene hits up the reference desk while Varian heads determinedly towards the history section. They meet back up at a large table a while later and spread out what they were able to find, Eugene resigned and Varian determined. Eugene narrows his search to five years before and after the town’s supposed founding, searching for any names that only appear once, or people disappearing from portraits across the years.

He finds nothing. Varian was right; that two year period is completely empty. No disappearances, no mysterious illnesses, no strange incidents. Definitely no mention of anyone getting their throats ripped out.

A migraine-inducing two hours later, Eugene looks up with a groan. “I got nothing. I don't know if it's just things getting lost over time or someone trying really hard to cover their tracks, but it's like those two years disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Varian flips a page, frowning. “Same here,” he says. “The only thing I can find is reference to the first party of settlers arriving, and this one quote about how they ‘followed the trail laid before them.’ I don't know if that actually means a literal trail of previous settlers, or just a generic drive to go west.”

“It makes sense that someone was here first,” Eugene says, pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to force back his headache. “There had to be someone here first to actually found the town. Why it's such a big secret, I don't know. You ask anyone here about it and they'll give you the date from three hundred years ago, but–”

“But the story from two hundred and ninety-eight years ago,” Varian says, frowning at the book in front of him. He looks up sharply, eyes wide. “Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you.”

“It's fine,” Eugene says, waving a hand dismissively. “I don't get the sense that the whole town is in on some big conspiracy about this. I think most people really don't know that that’s not when and how it happened. So either someone’s gone way out of their way to hide things just recently, or that information disappeared so long again it's been forgotten.”

“But why?” Varian asks. “What happened then that was so awful someone would try this hard to hide it?”

“Hard to say,” Eugene says. “Best guess? Someone got their throat slashed.”

Varian grimaces but doesn't say anything else. Eugene sighs and tugs the book Varian is reading towards himself, flipping back a few pages until he finds the illustration he noticed while Varian was thumbing through it earlier. “Look at this,” he says, tapping the page. Varian looks down and co*cks his head to the side as he examines it, a painting of a scene from the small church originally built in Riverside, depicting several of the founding families standing outside. “This is supposed to be everyone who first moved out here, right?”

“Right,” Varian says, brow furrow. “Unless they had already removed someone from the story by the time this was painted.”

“Yeah, but look,” Eugene says, pointing to one specific figure in the painting. It's hard to make out from a photo of an old painting on such a small page, but one of the men in the painting has dark, curly hair pulled back in a low ponytail, looking off frame like he's waiting for something. “Look familiar?”

Varian doesn't need any more explanation than that; he makes an interested noise and co*cks his head to the side. “Oh, yeah,” he says, eyes darting between that one man and the other settlers in the painting. A lot of brunettes, a handful of blondes, one redhead. No one else that matches the young men dying now. “That could be our ghost’s typesetter.”

He traces a finger down the page as he looks for any information about the painting. “I think that's… Charles Sutton?” he says. “If this is right.”

“Charles Sutton is a start,” Eugene says. “The museum might have more information, if we have a specific name. I bet they have some original letters and journals and sh*t. Hey, maybe they have this actual painting.”

He pulls out his phone and takes a picture, zoomed in on the grainy photo of their suspect’s face. Either he's the ghost or he did something to piss one off three hundred years ago.

Eugene starts to stand up, ready to go ahead and go, and Varian starts gathering up their books. Eugene had been planning to leave them, eager to get out and do something else after hours of sitting and reading, but when he sees Varian taking a stack to the returns cart, he guiltily follows suit. The kid doesn't even say anything, but Eugene's not about to make him put everything back on his own.

It only slows them down a few minutes, and then they're heading back outside. Eugene starts to pull his keys out of his pocket, then hesitates when he sees that even more orange cones have appeared on the street while they were in the library. Driving is only going to be worse now.

“Let's walk,” he says, eyeing the cones and traffic signs like they might bite him. Varian shrugs and follows Eugene placidly as he walks past where he left the car and towards where he remembers seeing the museum. It's a small town, and Eugene’s good with directions. The small, squat building doesn't look like much, but neither do most of the buildings around Riverside. It's in a residential area, away from other businesses; the only thing to distinguish it from the rest of the old-fashioned houses around it is a wooden sign in the front yard, carefully painted with the words Riverside Historical Society.

Eugene absently tries to straighten his leather jacket as he steps through the front door. He's well aware that he looks like exactly what he is—a probably-dangerous stranger drifting through town, who doesn't actually care about the local history—but he doesn't feel like going back to the room to change into slightly nicer clothes just to ask about an old painting. Even if whoever runs the place doesn't want to actually talk to him, he's sure he and Varian will be able to find something on their own.

As he opens the front door, he catches a snippet of conversation from two teenagers at the front desk, one sitting behind it and one leaning against the front, chatting in hushed voices.

“–come on, it's not that bad. Lyla did it.”

“It's creepy! You guys are being creepy!”

“Babe, seriously, we've all done it. Everyone wants us to connect with our history, right? This feels connective.”

“It feels gross.”

The two girls freeze when Eugene steps up to the desk, quirking an eyebrow at them. The one sitting behind the desk smiles brightly at him. “Hi, welcome to the Riverside Historical Society,” she says. “What can I help you with today?”

Eugene glances between him. The one behind the desk keeps her blank customer-service smile in place, fully unreadable, while the one leaning against the desk to talk to her glances at Eugene and visibly dismisses him as uninteresting before looking back to her girlfriend with a small smirk.

Eugene knows a brick wall when he sees one. He asks about any old paintings they have, and the girl points him down a hallway towards what she tells him used to be the dining room, back when this was a house. She says it in the most politely disinterested, I'm-paid-to-tell-you-this tone Eugene’s ever heard, she doesn't get up from her chair, and she turns back to her girlfriend immediately.

Eugene has a healthy fear of teenage girls, but he's also here to save lives. If he can face down ghosts and ghouls, he can talk to a couple of high schoolers.

He glances over his shoulder to Varian and flicks his eyes down the hallway; Varian nods and trots off to look for their painting and any additional information they can find about Charles Sutton, and Eugene turns back to the two girls, who are ignoring him so completely he's not even sure if it's deliberate or if they've actually dismissed him.

“Hey,” he says, and the girls look up at him again. “What were you two talking about just now? Connecting with your history?”

The girls share a look that Eugene recognizes from his own time as a teenager, the mingled annoyance and amusem*nt that an adult is trying to talk about things they know nothing about. He absolutely is an adult that doesn't know what he's talking about, but that doesn't make it less embarrassing to be on the receiving end. He's twenty-eight, damn it. He's young.

“Uh, yeah,” the girl behind the desk says. “It's the Founder’s Day celebration today. There's a parade later, and speeches and fireworks tonight. We're actually closing early for it, but not for a few hours still, and you can see everything in here in that amount of time.”

“Yeah, I heard about some of that,” Eugene says with a nod. “But that's creepy?”

“I mean, it's boring,” the second girl says dryly. “But it's not creepy. That's something else.” She cuts her eyes to the girl behind the desk, and her voice turns teasing as she adds, “Which also isn't creepy.”

“It is,” the first girl insists, but she's laughing. Eugene smiles as charmingly as he can.

“Do I get to know what it is, or is it a secret?”

The girls share another look, and the girl leaning against the desk finally turns her full attention to Eugene. “Um, no offense, but we don't know you,” she says. “You're obviously not from around here. Maybe it's normal wherever you're from for grown men to try to chat up teenagers, but that actually is creepy, so…”

She trails off, and Eugene holds up his hands in surrender and takes a deliberate step back.

“Yep, sorry, didn't mean to push,” he says, nearly stumbling over his words and his own feet. He's done a lot of questionable things in his past—theft, fraud, and a certain amount of murder come immediately to mind—but he can read real wariness in the girls’ eyes behind the confident masks, and he doesn't want to actually scare them. He's a stranger, not to mention easily a decade older than them. He knows when to back off. “Thanks for the help, I'm gonna go look at some paintings.”

He spins on his heel and hurries after Varian before either of them can say another word. He finds him two rooms down, standing in front of exactly the painting they were looking for and squinting at the plaque beneath it. He glances over his shoulder at Eugene steps into the room, looking around at the old maps and paintings on the wall and the antique dining set roped off in the corner, set with ancient-looking place settings and plastic food.

“Hey,” Varian says. “Any luck?”

“None,” Eugene says. “You?”

“Not really,” Varian says. “Found some stuff about the early settlers. Charles Sutton was apparently the cousin of one of the men who moved out here. It was mostly families, but he was single and came here on his own. I don't know if there's marriage records floating around here somewhere, or death records at least, to see what happened to him.”

Eugene hums, then co*cks his head to the side as he looks at Varian. “Hey, you should talk to them.”

Varian’s eyebrows furrow. “Talk to who?”

“Those girls out there,” Eugene says, jerking his head back towards the door. “They won't talk to me because I'm, you know, a random stranger.”

“I'm also a random stranger,” Varian points out. His eyes are wide with alarm. “Why would I talk to them?”

“You're closer to their age,” Eugene says with a shrug. “It wouldn't seem as weird for you to want to talk. Look, they were talking about something creepy to do with the town’s history. I don't know if they know anything, but they might at least be able to lead us to a clue.”

Varian grimaces. “Eugene, I don't really– I'm not that good at talking to people my age? I tend to…” He shakes his head. “They really won't talk to you?”

“Would you trust a random older guy who walked up and asked you to talk about creepy things?” Eugene asks dryly, and Varian looks away with a strained laugh.

“I, uh, I guess not. You want me to find out what they were talking about when we came in?”

“If you can,” Eugene says. “I mean, you don't have to, we can probably figure something else out. But if they know something, it would be a lot faster than spending the rest of the day trying to dig up information here.”

Varian chews on his lip for another moment, then nods decisively and heads towards the door. “What do you want me to ask them?” he asks. “Is there anything specific?”

“What they were talking about,” Eugene says, relieved that Varian’s willing to try. He doesn't want to freak the girls out by trying again, but he also doesn't want to waste time digging through the museum if there's someone just a few rooms away who might have their answers. “Or if they know anything about Charles Sutton, but that might be harder to bring up casually. At least one of them said the Founders Day celebration is boring, if that helps”

“Got it,” Varian says. “Do you want to listen in or keep looking around here?”

“I'll keep an ear out for you,” Eugene says. “Better if we both hear it, in case we need to remember it later.”

Unlike Varian, Eugene's actually worked cases before; the kid might not recognize something as a clue, and Eugene would rather hear it straight from the girls than Varian trying to recall it for him later. Besides, the thought of wandering through the museum and going through every plaque and sign makes his skin crawl.

Varian nods, rolls his shoulders once, and then sticks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and slouches back down the hallway, switching in an instant from a nervous ball of energy to an awkward, sullen teen. Eugene’s impressed despite himself as he follows behind him, lingering behind the doorway as Varian steps back into the front room.

“Hey,” Varian says, glancing back over his shoulder like he's checking to make sure Eugene didn't follow him. “I'm really sorry, was my brother bothering you guys?”

“Oh, hi,” the first girl says. “No, it's fine. He was, like, kind of weird, but he didn't bother us.”

“He bothered me a little,” the second girl says frankly, and Varian huffs out an embarrassed laugh.

“Yeah, I'm sorry about him. He's an idiot, but he doesn't mean to be a creep. He just doesn't know how to talk to people.”

Rude, but effective. Eugene’s impressed despite himself.

The second girl snorts. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“At least you only had to deal with him for a few minutes,” Varian says, sounding amused. “I've been stuck in the car with him for two days.”

“Ew,” the second girl says. “You guys road tripping somewhere?”

“Visiting our grandparents,” Varian says. “He decided it needed to be an experience instead of just flying there, so… road trip. World’s largest ball of twine and random town’s stupid history parties. Uh, no offense,” he adds quickly, and the girls laugh.

“No, it is stupid,” the first girl assures him. “I literally work here, and I don't even care about the history. Or I mean, I care about it a normal amount. I don't think we need a parade and fireworks about it.”

“Seriously,” Varian says. “We're not even from here and he's still all hyped about it. He made me go to the library to read up on the local history.”

“Full offense, dude, but your brother’s weird,” the second girl says, and Varian laughs again.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry again.”

“It's fine,” she says. “Family’s like that sometimes. My sister’s literally in the parade later.”

“Is the whole town actually that obsessed with this celebration?” Varian asks. “What do you guys even do aside from talk about stuff that happened hundreds of years ago?”

There's a pause. Eugene holds his breath.

“Well,” the first girl says slowly, “some of us go hang out at this old cabin sometimes? It's technically part of the historical neighborhood, but it's way out of the way, and no one knows who it used to belong to. Every other house, people can trace back to the original founding families, right? This one’s definitely from the same period, but there's no history attached to it, so we kind of just claimed it as our… I don't know, clubhouse? That's what we called it when we were kids, anyways. We got it fixed up and everything. It's nice.”

“Well, it was nice,” the second girl says. “Now it's haunted or whatever.”

Varian snorts. “Haunted?”

“Okay, so it's actually kind of cool,” the second girl says. “We've been going there since we were kids, me and Gabby and some of our friends, and it's always been fine. But then a few weeks ago, there was this crazy rain storm that flooded the river, and we found a body behind the cabin.”

“No way,” Varian says. “Are you serious?”

“Not a recent one,” the first girl—Gabby, Eugene guesses—hastens to assure him. “No one that got murdered or anything. It looks really old, just a skeleton, and we didn't even find the whole thing. There's just an arm.”

“That's sick as hell,” Varian says. “What did you guys do?”

“I haven't done anything,” Gabby says. “Because I'm normal and not insane. Nora, on the other hand–”

Nora laughs. “I'm not insane! Look, just, we were there with friends when we saw it the first time, and one of the guys dared me to touch it, so I did, and now it's, like, a thing. Like, if you go to the cabin, you have to touch the arm. Except Gabby, because she's a baby.”

“I'm not a baby because I don't want to poke human remains,” Gabby says. “You're the weirdo here and you know it.”

Varian lets out a low whistle. “And people in town are just okay with that? The way everyone here talks about the history, I would have thought they'd be losing their minds to figure out who the mystery arm belongs to.”

“We… might have not told anyone,” Nora admits. “Everyone’s so focused on the parade and the celebration, and if we tell any adults or the historical society about the arm, they'll probably go tramp all over the cabin, and we'll lose our hangout spot.”

“We're gonna tell someone,” Gabby assures Varian. “Just… after all the celebrations.”

“After Gabby touches the arm,” Nora adds, and Gabby laughs.

“I'm not gonna touch it, oh my god.”

“Hey, where's this cabin?” Varian asks curiously. “Is that weird to ask? Just, if I'm stuck here anyways, that sounds better than the museum and the library.”

“It's back in the woods near where the old church used to be,” Nora says. “How long are you in town for? Gabs and I are stuck helping with the parade and the party today, but if you're still in town tomorrow we can show you.”

“Probably not, but I'll check,” Varian says. “I should probably go make sure he's not crying over an old broom or something anyways. Thanks, either way.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Gabby says.

“Hope you survive the rest of the trip with him,” Nora says, and Varian snorts.

“You and me both. Thanks.”

Eugene quirks an eyebrow at Varian as he steps back through the doorway, and they walk back through the museum silently until they're out of earshot of Gabby and Nora.

“So,” Eugene says. “Old church?”

“Old church,” Varian agrees, and they split off through the museum, scouring old maps and paintings. Eugene finds an old map and history of the church in question—built in the early 1700s, destroyed in a flood a few centuries later, and rebuilt as a historical landmark a decade after that on the other side of town, safe from flood zones—and, although there's nothing about a cabin nearby, he marks the spot on his phone and where a home would have most likely been built. More digging eventually turns up an old death report for Charles Sutton, who died of apoplexy in his fifties, unmarried and childless, with no obvious ghosts left behind to haunt the town.

Nora’s already gone by the time they leave. Eugene pretends not to notice Varian shaking his head at Gabby, or her sympathetic smile and wave goodbye as they leave and head back to the car.

He can't help shooting Varian an amused glance as they walk down the street. “Not good with people your age, huh?”

“Huh?” Varian asks, and Eugene shakes his head with a smile.

“They wouldn't give me the time of day, and you got the location of a body in five minutes. I think you might be better with people than you think you are.”

“Oh,” Varian says, laughing self-consciously. “That doesn't count. I wouldn't know how to talk if I just wanted to make friends, but I had an actual reason for talking to them. It makes it easier.”

Eugene doesn't know how to even begin responding to that, so he doesn't. Instead, they once again drive in silence across town to the location of the old church. It's little more than an empty lot now, save for a sign declaring it a historic site, along with directions to the rebuilt church. Eugene and Varian ignore the lot in favor of wandering into the woods behind it, and it doesn't take long to find a well-trod path through the trees that eventually leads to a small clearing with an old, single-room shack built in the center of it. The place is a mess from the outside, but when Eugene eases the door open, they find that it's surprisingly well taken care of; a bright green rug covers the floor, and several bean bag chairs are scattered around the room. Several strands of string lights have been hung along the walls near the ceiling; Eugene finds the switch for one and flicks it, and they all flick on, hooked together to light the place.

“Okay, this is actually cool,” Eugene admits, looking around the room. For teenagers stuck in a small town, this is probably the best getaway they can manage. Eugene expected something a little more horror-story, with talk of cabins in the wood and skeletal arms, but this isn't bad. Gabby wasn't wrong when she called it a clubhouse.

Varian is looking around curiously, too, but he's paying less attention to the decor and more to the house itself, running his fingers along the wall as he walks around the perimeter. “Hey, Flynn, look at this,” he says, resting his hands on the window sill across from the door, and Eugene blinks in surprise.

“Oh, my name’s not actually Flynn,” he says. He honestly forgot that he gave the kid a fake name at the bar last night. “It's Eugene.”

“Oh,” Varian says with a shrug. If he's bothered by the lie, he doesn't show it. “Okay.”

He doesn't offer a different name of his own, and Eugene doesn't ask for one, instead crossing the room to see what Varian’s looking at. “Whatcha got?”

Varian taps the window sill, and Eugene bends down. Faded with time, he can just barely make out the names Charles and Abigail carved roughly into the sill.

“Abigail,” Eugene murmurs. “Think that's our ghost?”

“I think it's at least interesting that the museum said he never married,” Varian says. “And there wasn't any mention of an Abigail at all.”

“Definitely weird,” Eugene agrees, frowning around at the room. It's clear that any old furniture or decorations have long since been removed, either by the historical society or the kids who hang out here now. It's not surprising that two names carved in a windowsill got overlooked. “We should find that arm.”

“We should try to find the rest of the body, too,” Varian says. “If this is the ghost, then we need to salt and burn the whole body, right? Not just the arm?”

“Yeah,” Eugene says. “Bits and pieces aren't usually enough for a spirit to hold onto, but if there's most of a body still buried around here somewhere, then I'll need to get as much of it as possible. Nothing worse than thinking you ganked a monster only to have someone turn up dead the next day.”

Varian grimaces and turns back towards the door. “All right then,” he says. “Arm, then the rest of her.”

“She said they found the arm behind the cabin,” Eugene says, following Varian outside and closing the door behind him. “Didn't say where behind the cabin, so it might– oh, wow, no, that's right the f*ck there.”

Varian barely stifles a laugh, following Eugene’s gaze to the dirty, yellowed bones lying half-buried in mud only a few steps behind the building. Two of the fingers are missing, and the bones are cracked and pitted from years being buried and, apparently, a few weeks being left out in the open air.

Varian approaches curiously, squatting a few feet away from the remains. “It's a left arm,” he says. “Didn't you say that's the one that's been getting injured?”

“Yeah,” Eugene says. “Might just be a coincidence, though. None of the wounds have come close to needing amputation.”

Varian hums. He has the good sense not to touch the bones, at least, even if he doesn't look anywhere near as bothered as Eugene would expect to see human remains out in the woods. Then again, the town’s teenagers hadn't been too bothered either, and Varian’s apparently been facing down vampires recently. This probably isn't the worst thing he's seen.

“Where do you think the rest of it is?” he asks, pulling Eugene out of his thoughts. Eugene co*cks his head to the side, glancing from the bones to deeper into the trees.

“I’d guess uphill somewhere,” he says. “The church was destroyed by flooding, and this got washed up in a storm, right? There's probably a grave deeper back in the trees, either out of the way or well hidden enough that no one’s found it before now.”

Varian frowns as he stands up, looking between the arm half-buried in mud and back at the cabin. “Maybe just out of the way,” he says. “It doesn't seem like anyone knew Abigail was even missing. You don't need to hide something no one’s looking for.”

Eugene nods slowly. “Makes sense. Well, want to go grave hunting, then?”

Varian grimaces as he turns to face the woods. “Sure.”

He doesn't look any more enthusiastic than Eugene feels about the idea, but he's the one who invited himself along on Eugene's hunt, and Eugene’s the one with the car keys. He walks into the trees, and Varian follows.

It takes longer than Eugene would have liked, but not as long as he honestly expected, with miles of forest in Connecticut to search through. Whatever happened to Abigail, it seems Charles didn't want her too far away from their home. After not quite an hour of wandering through the woods behind the cabin in a slowly-widening zigzag, they stumble across another clearing, smaller and more overgrown than the one where the cabin is. In the center, overgrown with grass and flowers, is a cracked and pitted gravestone at the head of what clearly used to be a grave.

“Used to,” because it's a mess now. The storm didn't just unearth the arm; there are other bones poking up through the dirt, filthy and decayed from centuries in the ground. A few of them bear obvious teeth marks, signs of curious animals, but any flesh is long gone, and the remains have otherwise been left mostly alone since the dirt washed away, exposing them for the first time in centuries. There’s a deeper pit on one side, where the storm washed away enough dirt to expose the arm. Eugene can make out ribs and part of the shoulder. What little of the corpse is visible is still wrapped in scraps of filthy lace, the remains of the dress she must have been buried in.

Eugene looks around the clearing warily, automatically holding one hand out to gesture to Varian to stay still and reaching for the gun tucked in his waistband with the other. A regular handgun won’t do much against a spirit–he’d need the shotgun loaded with rock salt out of his trunk if he wanted to actually deter it–but its familiar weight is a comforting reminder all the same.

“I smell ozone,” Varian says, voice hushed. “But it's faint.”

“No cold spots, either,” Eugene says, still eyeing the grave and the ground around it. There are no footprints in the mud. He wouldn't be surprised if he and Varian are the first people to step foot over here in years. “Keep an eye out, just in case.”

He creeps closer, eyes darting around the clearing and the grave. He walks carefully around the ground where the body is, not willing to step on the grave itself, and crouches next to the stone. It's roughly hewn and worn down by time, but he can just barely make out the words chipped into the face of it.

Abigail Sutton.

There's not much else on the headstone, only her date of birth and death, and a mark below them that might be an attempt at a flower or just a crack in the stone.

“Oh,” Varian says softly, and Eugene glances over his shoulder to see that Varian has followed him across the clearing, hovering a few feet behind him. “Look at the date. She was so young.”

Eugene grimaces as he eyes the dates and does some quick math in his head. She would have been barely twenty-three when she died.

“Speaking of dates,” Eugene says, pointing at the year Abigail died. “Look at that. Three hundred years ago.”

“So… so she and Charles moved out here first,” Varian says slowly. “They were here two years before the rest of the colony. That's where the dates got mixed up.”

“Weird that it's not written down anywhere,” Eugene says, pushing himself upright and taking a few steps back from the grave, until he's standing next to Varian. “You'd think there would be some mention of her. This guy’s wife dies, and he… what, just stays here by himself for two years? Leaves, then comes back with another group and never mentions her again? Why go to the trouble of a nice grave and burial if you're clearly trying to forget about her?”

“Maybe he wasn't,” Varian says softly. “Maybe he missed her so bad he couldn't stand to think about her anymore, but that didn't mean he didn't care about her. He never married again, right? He might not have talked about her, but I don't think he forgot her.”

Eugene shoots Varian a narrowed-eyed look. The kid’s voice is subdued, and even though he's staring with laser focus at the grave, Eugene gets the feeling that's not really what he's seeing right now.

Well, it's not like Eugene doesn't have more than a few skeletons in his own closet. Unless Varian does something to prove that he's dangerous to Eugene or to innocent people, it's not Eugene’s business what’s got him looking so sad about a woman who died three hundred years ago.

“Either way,” he says, “I'd bet hard money she's our ghost. I'll come back tonight and take care of the body, when everyone’s distracted with the celebrations.”

“What about me?” Varian asks, frowning at Eugene, and Eugene hastens to assure him.

“Don't worry, I'll ward the room to hell and back before I leave. She won't be able to get you.”

Varian’s frown deepens. “No, I mean, I should come with you. I can help.”

“Sorry, you want to come with me to fight a ghost who probably already wants you dead?” Eugene asks dryly. Varian shrugs.

“You should have backup. If she realizes you're trying to burn her bones, she'll show up and try to stop you. Like you said, I fit the victim profile. I can play bait and distract her while you handle the body.”

“No,” Eugene says immediately, jaw dropping at how casually Varian just suggested that. “What the hell, obviously no. If something wants you dead, you should stay away from it. Do I actually have to explain that?”

“But I can help,” Varian says. He looks confused, like it never occurred to him Eugene would say no. “If she's distracted trying to get me, you'll have more time to burn her bones.”

“Yeah, or she might just actually get you,” Eugene says. “Which is also bad. You get that that's also bad, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Varian says, completely unconvincing, “but it's also bad if you get hurt. I can help.”

It's the third time he's said that. Eugene doesn't know why it makes him so uneasy, but he says, “You can help by staying somewhere I don't have to worry about you. Stay in the salt circle, and for god’s sake, stay out of trouble.”

Varian huffs. Eugene purses his lips. It’s at least a few hours until the celebrations begin—trying to dig out Abigail’s bones now would be a disaster waiting to happen. Varian looks at him, wide eyed and expectant. The bottom of his eye twitches, and the bags under his eyes almost seem like they’ve sunk down into his cheekbones.

He wants to suggest a nap. He might have some chloroform in the trunk–

He’s not chloroforming a teenager.

Varian rubs his eyes and leans back on his heels. He blinks slowly as his gaze turns back toward the headstone.

He might be chloroforming a teenager.

“What now?” Varian asks.

“Beats me,” Eugene shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “How do you feel about sitting in a motel room for about four hours and staring at a wall?”

“Is that what you normally do?”

Eugene snorts.

“Well, it depends on the day. Sometimes I even get to watch paint dry.”

Varian narrows his eyes. He definitely does not believe Eugene. Eugene wouldn’t believe him either, but he’s never spent this long with a teenager before, let alone brought one on a hunt. He’s not used to making plans with someone who wouldn’t make it three feet through any building that actually checks IDs.

He chews his lip.

“What do you want to do?”

Varian blinks.

“What?”

“What do you want to do? We’ve got a whole afternoon to ourselves and I’ve got like three credit cards. The world’s your oyster, courtesy of–” he cuts himself off to glance at his wallet. “Henry Jackson.”

Varian stares at him. After a moment of silence, Eugene squirms uncomfortably. He backs away from the grave, and starts down the path back into town. Varian reacts after a moment, speeding up to catch up with him. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, an attempt to look casual as he tries to cover the baffled expression on his face.

Eugene chews his lip. “Anniversary party is still going on. We could always check it out.”

“Oh, you want to check out the festival?”

Eugene nods. It’s a strange twist on his words. He’d comment on it, but he doesn’t really know what he’d even say.

As they reach the edge of the forest, Eugene’s hand hovers over the car door. His eyes widen.

“Kid,” he says. A grin is beginning to worm its way across his face. “You never had waffles, right?”

“No,” Varian replies, confused. “Why?”

“Have you ever had cotton candy?”

He shakes his head.

Eugene’s face lights up.

Turns out the secret to getting a teenager to get any f*cking sleep is stored in about two bags of cotton candy and about two hours in a crowd.

Better than chloroform, that’s for sure.

It takes about ten minutes after he opens the door to the motel room for Varian to pass out, curled up on the fabric chair in the far corner. He’s curled up in a ball, with his head lolling awkwardly; he’s going to wake up with a crick in his neck, but there’s no way in hell Eugene’s moving him.

He’s careful to shut the door silently as he creeps out, and be leaves a note and a jar of salt just in case. He’s not a fan of leaving the kid alone, but his salted room is going to be a hell of a lot safer than his car.

Even with the far off lights from the festival, and the occasional flashes of color as fireworks sound in the distance, the atmosphere in the forest is still eerie. He holds his breath as he walks up the path.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, and whistles a familiar tune. The wind carries the sound of cheers and laughter– it swells before it stops. The air stills as he steps into the clearing. It’s warm.

Suddenly, a chill runs up his spine. He cringes.

Yep. Definitely the right grave.

His eyes dart across the trees surrounding the clearing. His body feels heavy as he steps toward the grave; there’s the feeling of eyes on him, burning holes into him. He shakes his head and keeps moving, holding up the shovel in his hand, and plunging it into the dirt.

He moves with rhythmic precision: down right up, throw. Down right up, throw. Down right up, throw. There’s a flash of red. (Down right up, throw.) He wipes his brow. (Down right up, throw.) He hits something hard. (Down right up, throw.) There’s a smell, sharp and burning.

He looks up with wide eyes. He’s just barely got his hand on his gun before there’s a strong gust of wind. He staggers back, dropping his shovel as he moves.

He shoots one leg back, stumbling to keep his balance as he draws his gun out of his pocket.

Silence.

He heaves for breath, walking in a slow circle. The leaves on the trees rustle slightly. The smell is gone, but he’s still on edge.

His gaze trails back to the grave. There’s a flash of white as he catches one of the bones sticking out of the dirt. Then a flash of blue in the sky.

He whips around and makes eye contact with a pair of piercing brown eyes. There’s a woman watching him. Her hair is matted, hovering over her shoulders, and her white dress is stained with grass and dirt. Her arm is red, covered in small wounds that never got the chance to heal over.

He swallows and holds up his gun. Before he can pull the trigger, he hears a branch snap. He jumps, turning to find the source of the noise.

Before he can, he feels pressure in his chest. He yelps as a gust of air knocks him into the ground. His head lands before the rest of his body, making his vision go white, and pain shoots up his left leg as his knee twists at the impact.

He groans, pressing his hands into the dirt and shaking his head. Abigail’s ghost lets out an inhuman screech before she vanishes.

Eugene scrambles onto his feet, tensing as she appears again, hovering over him. He swallows.

His ears twitch as he hears another branch snap. There’s the sound of footsteps hurrying towards him.

There’s only one person it could be.

He’s going to kill this kid.

“Abigail!”

Eugene looks up sharply, heart already sinking because he knows what he's going to see: Varian is stepping out of the trees, hands up in surrender, eyes fixed on the ghost.

“Abigail,” he says again. “It's me.”

The ghost of Abigail Sutton turns slowly in midair from Eugene to face Varian. Her face, pale and translucent, flickers rapidly between the skeleton Eugene is digging up and something round and healthy, mouth forming a surprised O as she sees Varian.

“Charlie,” she says, and she walks away from Eugene like she's forgotten that he's here. Varian glances at Eugene, but only long enough to jerk his head towards the half-dug grave before turning his eyes back to Abigail.

“Hello,” he says. “I'm sorry I was gone so long.”

There will be time to yell at the kid later for doing exactly what Eugene told him not to do. Right now, Eugene goes scrambling for his shovel and resumes frantically digging, trying to unearth the rest of her bones.

“Charlie,” Abigail repeats. “You buried me.”

“I– I tried to make it nice,” Varian says. Eugene glances over his shoulder every few seconds, desperately trying to keep an eye on Varian while still focusing on the salt and burn. Varian’s expression is wary, and he keeps his hands up as he continues, “I put you in your nicest dress, and I made a headstone. I, um, I prayed over you?”

His voice tilts up at the end, uncertain and guessing. Abigail doesn't respond. Eugene gets another arm free from the ground and starts knocking away at the dirt around it, trying to get the rest of her exposed.

“You buried me,” Abigail repeats, just as another firework goes off. Eugene hears the whistling scream in the distance, then the clearing is briefly illuminated in red and orange light as it bursts overhead. Abigail disappears briefly, and Varian’s face is thrown into clear relief, expression twisted in painful sympathy.

“I know,” he says. “But I didn't mean to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

He cuts himself off, gasping in pain and grabbing at his left arm just below his shoulder. Eugene’s stomach drops. It's the same place the other victims got hurt, only to die a few hours later. Eugene swears under his breath and tosses the shovel to the side, reaching instead for the bag of salt and beginning to pour it over the remains. This will have to do.

Abigail disappears again under the green and blue flash of another pair of fireworks. “You erased me,” she says, voice echoing across the clearing for all that she's barely whispering.

“I know,” Varian says, voice choked, as Eugene upends have the bottle of lighter fluid over the body, fully dousing the bones and the scraps of dirty lace wrapped around them before reaching for the lighter in his pocket. “But I promise I never forgot you.”

Abigail reaches for Varian. Eugene flicks the lighter and throws it towards the grave.

“I remember all of you,” Varian says softly, and Eugene snaps his head around just in time to see Abigail’s ghost goes up in flames at the same time a wave of heat hits Eugene from the fire at his feet.

Varian, reaching one hand out towards Abigail like he was going to take her hand, goes terribly still, expression stricken. There's another flash of yellow light overhead and a distant boom, and he slowly lowers his hand back to his side.

Eugene limps across the clearing as quickly as he can, wincing every time he puts weight on his left leg. Varian remains frozen, staring into the empty space where Abigail just was. “Varian,” Eugene says, and Varian jumps and whips around to face him. He blinks a few times, looking startled, and then frowns and reaches up to touch his own face like he only just noticed the tears dripping down his cheeks.

“Are you okay?” he asks, before Eugene can say anything else. His voice cracks. “You're limping.”

“She knocked me around a little,” Eugene says, waving a hand dismissively. “What the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay in the room.”

“I, um.” Varian sniffles and drags his sleeve across his eyes, shoulders hitching as he tries to get himself under control. “I realized why she was cutting people’s throats. So they couldn't talk.” Eugene frowns, then his eyes go wide.

You erased me.

“No one remembers her,” he breathes. Varian nods.

“Charles didn't talk about her after she died, so she wouldn't let him talk to anyone at all. You burning her bones would have felt like the ultimate way to erase her.” His eyes drift past Eugene, to the makeshift grave still blazing behind him. “But it's really done now?” he asks. “We k-killed her?”

His voice breaks again. Eugene hesitates, then says slowly, “We put her to rest. She's not gonna be stuck here anymore, and she knows someone remembers her.”

Varian offers him a small, miserable smile. Eugene sighs. “Are you okay? Did she get you?”

Varian frowns and reaches up to grab his arm again, feeling it through the sleeve of his hoodie. “Yeah,” he says. “But it's not bad, and I don't think it'll get infected now that she's… gone.”

“Okay,” Eugene says, glancing over his shoulder at the makeshift bonfire. “We should stick around for a while to make sure that doesn't spread; I didn't exactly have time to make a proper fire pit. I'll take a look at your arm when we get back to the room.” Varian nods, and after fighting with himself for a moment, Eugene reluctantly adds, “And thanks. Don't get me wrong, you shouldn't have showed up here. But you also saved my ass, so.”

Varian looks somehow more startled by Eugene thanking him than he had been to see the ghost in the clearing. “Oh,” he says. “Um, you're welcome.”

“Come on,” Eugene says, jerking his head towards the impromptu bonfire. “Make yourself comfortable. It'll be like a camp out.”

Varian snorts, but his mouth twitches into something almost like a smile. “Yeah, just like that.”

They stay at the clearing for a few hours, waiting silently for the fire to die down and testing the area for any signs Abigail might have stuck around, then finally head back to the motel. Eugene digs out an old brace from the trunk for his aching knee, then offers to wrap Varian’s shoulder for him. Varian hesitates, and Eugene belatedly remembers all the scarring underneath his hoodie. The kid’s arms are f*cked up enough. He doesn't even want to think about what he'd see around Varian’s neck.

Eugene gives him the bandages and tape instead, and Varian disappears into the bathroom for a few minutes. When he comes back out, Eugene is already in bed, leg propped up on his duffel.

“All right,” he says, struggling to keep his eyes open. “It's been a hell of a night. Get some sleep, and tomorrow we'll get you home, okay?”

Varian’s face lights up. “Really?” he asks, carefully returning the leftover gauze and tape to Eugene’s first aid kit. “You mean it?”

“‘Course,” Eugene says. “Said I would, didn't I? And now that the hunt’s out of the way, we don't need to wait for anything else. Just…” He yawns. “Try to actually sleep tonight, okay?”

Varian grins as he drops into the other bed. “Okay,” he says. “I will.”

Just before Eugene closes his eyes, he sees Varian leaning down to unlace his boots and carefully slip them off before he lies down. He leaves them upright next to each other by the side of the bed, clearly ready to step back into them at a moment’s notice, but it's more comfortable than he made himself last night.

Thank god the lights are already off; it means Eugene doesn't have to explain why he's grinning.

He wakes up before Varian, this time, and leaves the kid a note on the table before sneaking out to get breakfast again. Omelet for himself, another two waffles for Varian, and, just for the hell of it, two chocolate milkshakes. It's a big day. He's excited.

It's not often he gets to do something as good as reunite a kid with his family. Call him selfish, but no one’s ever going to thank him for burning Abigail Sutton last night. No one’s even going to know they should be thanking someone at all. He's looking forward to seeing Varian’s parents’ reactions.

Well, he thinks, smile dimming a little, Varian’s dad’s reaction at least. He's “not sure” about his mom, which Eugene can only assume means one thing.

When he gets back to the room, Varian is up already and waiting for him. His hair is damp like he finally used that shower, but he's in the same clothes he's been wearing all week.

“Hey, if you want to borrow a change of clothes, you can,” Eugene says, kicking himself for not thinking to offer earlier. It's obvious Varian doesn't have anything else to wear. “I think pants are a lost cause, but I've got t-shirts and things that should fit okay.”

“Um, okay,” Varian says. “Thanks. Did you get breakfast again?”

“Yeah,” Eugene says, handing him his container and one of the styrofoam cups. “And before you say anything, you're not paying me back for this one, either.”

Varian rolls his eyes but doesn't argue. “Fine.”

Eugene drops onto his own bed, twisting so that he can keep his leg stretched out. It feels miles better today than it did last night, but better safe than sorry. “So where am I taking you after this?” he says. “You live nearby?”

“No,” Varian says, once again drowning his waffles in syrup and butter. “I think I'm from the Midwest. Kansas? Or Illinois, maybe. Somewhere around there.”

Eugene pauses. “You don't know?”

“I haven't been back in a while,” Varian says with a shrug. “My house was on a street with a tree name, if that helps. Ash or Maple or something.”

“That doesn't… really help,” Eugene says. “But I can probably look it up. Varian’s a fake name, right? What's your real one? I can probably find a missing person report.”

Varian’s jaw sets, and he doesn't look up from his waffles as he says, “Varian is my real name.” He hesitates a moment, then admits, “It just hasn't been my name for very long.”

“Okay,” Eugene says. “I get that, that's fine. I'll still call you that, no problem, but I'll need to know your birth name or at least your parents’ names, so I can try to find an address.”

Varian finally looks up, chewing his lower lip. He looks like he's wracking his brains for the answer. “It was something really common, I think,” he says. “Because there was another kid on my street with the same name, so he went by a different nickname. Like Danny and Daniel, or something. I don't think it was actually Daniel, but something like that.”

He picks up his milkshake off the side table, but pauses when he realizes Eugene is just staring at him. “What?” he asks, looking suddenly self-conscious.

“You don't know your name?” Eugene asks. Varian shrugs.

“I told you, it's been a long time. Um, if it helps, my dad’s started with a K or a C, and my mom’s had an L in the middle, like Ella or Ally.” He sucks on the straw for a second, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Holy sh*t, what is this?” he gasps, immediately taking another swallow. “It's so good!”

“It's a milkshake,” Eugene says incredulously. He's completely forgotten his own breakfast now in favor of staring at Varian, who makes a happy noise and goes back to his milkshake. Eugene is fitting together pieces of Varian’s story—layers upon layers of scars, never having had waffles or milkshakes, not knowing his own name—and he really, really doesn't like the picture that's forming.

“Varian,” he asks slowly, “how long ago did you get away from the vampire nest?”

“Four days,” Varian says around his straw. Eugene swallows.

“And how long were you with them before that?”

Varian finally sets the milkshake down in favor of shoving a bite of syrup-soaked waffles in his mouth.

“Fourteen years,” he mumbles.

“Fourteen–” Eugene’s brain shuts down. His brain slowly starts processing exactly what number Varian just said. His train of thought is gone before he can even think to repeat it. He blinks, pursing his lips as he feels his entire mouth go dry.

Fourteen.

Fourteen.

In the back of his head, he’s frantically running through the math. Fourteen years with the nest. Eighteen years old. Eighteen minus fourteen, that’s four.

That would have made him–

“You were four years old?” Eugene hisses. Varian shrugs.

Eugene drags his hands across his face and takes a shaky breath. There are a thousand different words jumping across his brain, but nothing feels right to say. He’s fighting to recover from the full body shock he’s just been dumped into head first. It feels like the ground has just disappeared from underneath him.

Varian finally seems to notice something is wrong, co*cking his head to the side curiously. “Are you okay?”

Eugene lets out a panicked, wheezy laugh. “Am I okay?” he asks incredulously. “Jesus, kid, are you? Are you serious, fourteen years?”

Varian frowns. “But… you said you're a hunter,” he says hesitantly. “You've probably seen stuff like this all the time, right?”

“No,” Eugene says. “No, Jesus, of course I haven't seen something like this before! What the f*ck?”

He doesn't realize how loud he's gotten until Varian drops his fork. The kid’s eyes are wide, and he's gone pale, shrinking away from Eugene. He reaches down to clutch the bedspread beneath him with both hands, fingers white knuckled like he's holding on for dear life.

Eugene’s an idiot.

He takes a deep breath, and then another, trying to force himself to calm down and lower his hackles. He's dealt with victims before, people who saw or escaped a monster. He knows better than to yell at them.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “That just… that took me by surprise. Fourteen years is a long time for vampires to hold onto someone. I've never heard of anything holding onto a victim for that long, let alone… it was a whole nest, wasn't it?” Varian nods. “How many?”

“Five,” Varian says. He still looks wary. “There’s five of them.”

“Five,” Eugene repeats, dragging his hands down his face. “Jesus Christ, kid.”

Fourteen years in a nest of five vampires. No wonder the kid’s so weird. Taking that horrifying fact into consideration, Eugene’s amazed he's able to hold a conversation at all. He's pretty shockingly normal, all things considered.

Varian swallows. “You don't know how to find my parents, do you.”

Four years old and fourteen years are still chasing each other around in Eugene's head, leaving no space for any other thoughts, but… yeah. Yeah, that's true.

“I don't,” he admits, and Varian’s expression crumples. “But I know someone who can,” Eugene adds quickly. “I have a friend who knows this computer genius. He can probably find something. Scratch that, he can definitely find something. I wouldn't know where to start looking, but he'll be able to track something down for you. Might take a while, but he can do it.”

“Okay,” Varian says. Eugene can almost see the disappointment warring with excitement on his face, and his chest aches at the thought of how long Varian must have been clinging to that hope, that his parents were still out there somewhere. God, Eugene hopes they are. He's not sure he can handle the disappointment if there's no one to find. “Where's your friend?”

“He's a few states over,” Eugene says. “Maybe a day or two’s drive. I don't have a hunt lined up after this one; we can go straight there, and he can get things sorted out.”

Varian chews on his lip. “What if… what if he can't find them? What if it's been too long, and I don't remember enough?”

“Never tell him I said this, but Shorty’s an actual genius,” Eugene says. “He'll find something, at least. And if it takes a while, Lance will be able to find you somewhere to stay in the meantime, either with him or with another hunter. We'll get you taken care of.”

“Okay,” Varian says again, voice small but relieved.

Fourteen years. God.

“We should probably head out soon,” Eugene says. “We need to clear out of here by ten, and we might as well get on the road. Do you have…”

He trails off, because he knows the answer to that question. Of course Varian has everything. He's currently wearing everything he owns. Maybe they can swing through a thrift store on their way to visit Lance, or stop by the one in Vardaros after they get there.

“Yeah, I'm ready,” Varian says, then picks up his milkshake and drains what's left of it, grinning helplessly again at the flavor. It's only a couple days’ drive from here to Lance. Eugene vows to himself to buy Varian every flavor of milkshake he can get his hands on in that time.

Eugene looks at his unopened breakfast, then shrugs and stands to throw it away. His stomach is still sloshing sickly as he tries to process Varian living in a vampire nest for fourteen years. He doesn't think he'd be able to keep the omelet down.

It only takes a few minutes to clear up everything left in the room. He doesn't tend to bring most of his arsenal inside with him wherever he stays, and the printouts from the library and old newspaper clippings get balled up and shoved in the plastic bag from the diner, to be thrown away somewhere he won't risk the motel staff finding it. He's gotten in trouble before by leaving his case notes where people can find them and accidentally framing himself for murders he had just stopped.

He'd had to call his dad to bail him out. It's not a mistake he wants to make again.

Now, he tosses the plastic bag into the backseat without looking to see where it lands amongst the mess of bags, books, and ritual supplies that he keeps on the back of his car. He probably should have cleaned it before letting Varian get in the other night, but he'd been in a hurry, and it hasn't seemed worth it since then. Kid grew up with vampires; he's probably not bothered by abandoned hoodies and a few empty water bottles floating around the backseat.

If Varian’s bothered by anything, he's hiding it well. He's back to nearly vibrating with excitement as he slides into the passenger seat and buckles himself in, fingers twisting together like he has to force himself to keep his hands still. Eugene doesn't bother to hide his grin as he hooks his phone up to the car’s bluetooth, queues up some AC/DC, and plugs the Snuggly Duckling into the GPS. Varian makes a face when Back In Black starts blaring through the speakers, but he doesn't say anything about it.

“About two days to get to my friend,” Eugene says, glancing at estimated arrival time on his phone before twisting to back out of the parking lot. “You know any road trip games?”

“Roadkill bingo’s fun,” Varian says, and Eugene winces, mentally kicking himself. Raised by vampires, right. Of course Varian would jump immediately to something involving dead animals. Eugene’s an idiot for asking; the kid’s probably somehow got road trip trauma on top of the vampire stuff, and Eugene just stepped right in it.

He turns to Varian as he pulls onto the street, eyes wide and an apology on the tip of his tongue. The corner of Varian’s mouth twitches, and he makes a strange, half-choked noise that it takes Eugene a second to realize is barely-smothered laughter.

“Dude,” he says, and Varian gives up hiding his grin, laughing helplessly at whatever Eugene's face is doing.

“Sorry,” he says, still snickering. “Just– your expression. I don't know, do you like I Spy?”

“No one likes I Spy,” Eugene huffs, but he can't help the matching grin curling up one side of his mouth. He wouldn't have guessed Varian could tell jokes, even weird ones about roadkill.

Varian is still snickering to himself as Eugene pulls out of town and quickly makes his way onto the interstate, driving past a slow-moving line of semi-trucks, minivans, and one vintage beetle going in the opposite direction as he moves them towards a home cooked meal and, hopefully, answers. Eugene could stand to sleep in a real bed for once, and Varian needs to try some sort of ice cream sundae bar, which Eugene is sure Lance and the girls would be more than happy to help with.

When he glances at Varian out of the corner of his eye, the kid is still smiling a little, small and soft, and his eyes are distant as he looks out the window at the road ahead of them, thoughts clearly elsewhere. Eugene lets his own grin widen since Varian’s too distracted to notice, and he nods his head and drums his fingers against the wheel in time with the music as they drive away from Riverside and the ghost of Abigail Sutton, leaving the monsters behind them.