Bound by silver (2/4)
Bound by silver
One
They encounter their first problems within a few days. Brendon has healed enough to do simple chores, things that don’t require much strength or time because he’s worn out even by the simplest of acts, like shuffling to the chamber pot without Spencer’s support. He wants to help, is even eager to make himself useful to them, but there’s only so much he can do. Ryan won’t let him do anything in the kitchen because the knives are too close, and he doesn’t want to untie Brendon’s hands. Even knowing he’s not much of a threat, bound in human form and sick with blood loss, Ryan can’t quite bring himself to trust.
Finally Spencer says, “Let him pull some weeds in the garden. The fresh air will be good for him, and I’ll be out there skinning dinner.”
Ryan looks at the bloody carcass outside their back door, then at Spencer. “You’ll be busy,” he says, low-voiced. Brendon could slip the leash and run, or worse, sneak up and kill Spencer. Or try, anyway. Ryan doesn’t really think he has any chance of succeeding.
Spencer just grins, sharp. “I’ll have a big knife,” he points out, and Ryan yields.
They’re still keeping Brendon bound, although it’s mostly a remnant of precaution, since they untie his legs whenever he asks to use the chamber pot, and his hands during meals so that they don’t have to feed him. Ryan unties him without explaining, knowing that Brendon’s been watching and listening since they started speaking. He’d feel more annoyed about the eavesdropping if they weren’t all practically on top of each other in the small space anyway.
Brendon doesn’t need much help walking anymore, but Ryan follows closely anyway, just in case. Spencer’s already at work, sharp knife digging in cleanly beneath the skin to separate meat from hide. They get as far as the back door and then Brendon stops suddenly, vibrating with tension.
“What is it?” Ryan asks, and Spencer looks up at them, frowning.
There are beads of sweat beginning to stand out on Brendon’s brow, and his joints are locked stiff, unmoving. “I…” he says, and then stops to lick his lips, breathing hard. “I can’t…”
Spencer sets down the carcass and stands watching, alert. He’ll be ready if Brendon goes down, Ryan knows, but equally ready if this is a trick and Brendon’s going to try something. Ryan doesn’t move, just waits. Brendon still hasn’t unfrozen.
“I can’t move,” Brendon says, and then laughs, awkward and strained and, Ryan thinks, frightened beneath it. He flinches back a little, into the house, and takes the first deep breath he’s had in a while. Then he starts to move forward again but stops almost immediately, frozen in the doorway. “I can’t,” he says again, arms crossing over his chest. “I can’t, I don’t…”
“Spence,” Ryan says, understanding dawning. “The garden.”
Spencer looks around, confused. He gets it a second later, Ryan knows, but shakes his head. “It’s just a myth,” he says, gesturing at the green patch nearest to him. “He came through here before.”
“He was unconscious,” Ryan says. “And you were carrying him.”
Brendon’s trembling in earnest now, obviously not clued in to what they’re talking about, his skin going ashy as he drags in breaths. “What…?” he asks, and then stops, throat working. He swallows loud enough that Ryan can hear it, and inches back, almost unconsciously.
“Wolfsbane,” Ryan says. The whole garden is lined with it, precautions taken at every corner. It’s mostly for the sake of tradition - a myth, as Spencer had pointed out - but apparently there’s also some truth to it.
Brendon shakes his head. “That can’t be it,” he says. “We have it too, in our garden. My family. I’ve walked through a thousand times…” And then he stops, going even paler, and Ryan thinks grimly that it’s starting to hit home.
“Sit down,” Spencer says suddenly, sharply, and Ryan moves just in time to catch Brendon as he buckles. Brendon clings to him, still shaking, close enough that Ryan can smell the sweat on his skin. He sees Spencer’s grip tighten on the handle of the knife, and realizes too late the situation he’s put himself in; Brendon has an arm around his shoulders, inches from his throat, and his hands and feet aren’t tied. If this is a trick, Ryan’s in a perfect position to be used as a hostage.
Brendon makes no move against him, though, just lets Ryan ease him down until he’s sitting, head dropped forward between his legs. “I can never go back,” he says, and there’s genuine shock in his voice, as if until this point there had still been a possibility, a slight chance, and now it’s winked out of existence. “Even if they…if I…I can’t even…”
He stops talking abruptly, mouth snapping shut. Ryan understands that instinct. In a similar position, he would have done the same thing. There’s no point in pouring your heart out to people who don’t care. Especially when those people have their garden filled with a superstitious plant meant to keep you away.
Spencer sets down his knife, slowly, and Ryan finds that he’s not really worried. Brendon might still be waiting for his chance, looking for an opportunity, but it’s not going to come now. They could easily overpower him even if he lunged for the knife, and all signs point to that being unlikely. Anyway, Ryan notes, Spencer’s set the knife down in the nearest patch of wolfsbane. Just in case.
Brendon’s back is shuddering, chest heaving as he tries to breathe. Spencer approaches slowly and sits down next to them on the other side of the doorway, a physical barrier between Brendon and the garden, and the reminder of a place he could never return to. Spencer reaches out and Ryan leans in, and between them, Brendon lets out a jagged, shaken breath and doesn’t cry.
* * *
They’re eating dinner when Ryan first hears singing. It’s coming from outside, around the side of the house where the path leads to the front door they never use. Ryan’s head jerks up in surprise, and he sees that Spencer’s heard it, too. Neither of them move for a single frozen second, and then they both turn to look at Brendon.
He stares back at them, eyes wide, and shakes his head. Ryan hadn’t realized they’d been asking him a question, but Spencer moves as soon as Brendon does, heading for the window nearest that side of the house. Ryan sets his bowl aside and stands, uncertain. Brendon doesn’t move, gone completely still.
Spencer returns in a matter of seconds, attention fixed on Ryan. “It’s Jon.”
That’s all he says, but Ryan hears what he means underneath it. Spencer is giving Ryan a chance to get out of this now, without any repercussions. Jon is a hunter, but he’s one they trust, one they consider a friend. Jon would see Brendon tethered to the floor and not ask any questions. Jon wouldn’t turn them in to the authorities for harboring a werewolf. Jon would take Brendon out and kill him and never say a word.
Ryan doesn’t realize he’s made the decision until the words come out of his mouth. “The attic,” he says. “We can hide him up there.”
“No time,” Spencer says, but he’s already moving, yanking at the knot tying Brendon to the iron ring. It snags, and he gives up after only a few seconds, dropping the rope. Ryan takes over, picking at the knot that’s somehow gotten hopelessly tangled, growing more and more panicked as it refuses to give. Spencer shoulders him out of the way a second later and hacks the rope apart with a kitchen knife.
“Go,” he orders, and Ryan grabs the rope with one hand and Brendon’s uninjured elbow with the other, pulling him into the bedroom. There’s a trapdoor that opens from the ceiling, and a ladder that drops down, leading up to the attic. Brendon stumbles on the rungs, and Ryan belatedly lets go of his arm so that he has one hand free to use for climbing.
He follows Brendon up to make sure the attic is clear of guns and knives, that there’s no escape route once Ryan shuts the trap. Brendon is mute, tense, his eyes huge and pleading when he looks at Ryan. Ryan gnaws on his lip, assessing the situation, and then wraps the rope still binding Brendon’s legs around his wrists, trussing him up as hastily as he can. His efforts twist Brendon’s shoulder, and Ryan hisses, “Sorry,” over Brendon’s bitten-off noise of pain.
Below them, he hears Jon knock on the front door.
Brendon’s eyes grow even wider. Ryan can’t take the time to reassure him, just yanks the knot taut and retreats, sliding down the ladder and slamming the trap shut just as he hears Spencer open the door. He dusts his palms off and walks into the room just in time to hear Jon say, “Good evening.”
“Jon,” Ryan greets him, before Spencer can say anything, give an excuse for why Ryan isn’t here. Spencer looks over at him, but his expression is inscrutable, no trace of a question in his eyes.
“Come in,” Spencer says, and Jon steps over the threshold, into the warmth of the room. Ryan feels guilty just looking at him, cramps twisting his stomach. He knows what happened to Tom.
“I just came to see how you were doing,” Jon offers. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, face crinkled and smiling. “You live close to the forest, and we haven’t seen you in the village for a week now.”
“We were there for services,” Spencer says smoothly, although that was nearly two weeks ago now, so it doesn’t negate Jon’s point. He waits until Jon gets further into the room to close the door behind him, a dull thud that echoes as awkward silence descends on the room.
“Are you hungry?” Ryan speaks up, to fill the pause. “We were just having dinner.”
“Sure, if you’ve enough to spare,” Jon agrees affably. Ryan turns to dish up another serving and inhales sharply when he sees the bowls sitting out on the floor. His, Spencer’s. Brendon’s.
Spencer reads his mind, thank God, and blocks Jon’s view, holding out a hand. “Let me take your coat, it’s warmer by the fire.” Jon turns his back to let Spencer help him and Ryan scoops up the third bowl, dishing another spoonful of stew over what’s left to cover the fact that it’s been eaten from already. Jon doesn’t seem to notice anything when Ryan hands it to him, just thanks him and takes a seat.
“You cook pretty well for hermits,” Jon jokes after the first bite, and then stops, his expression changing. Ryan follows his gaze, frowning, and sees the rusted stain from the first night, when Brendon had passed out on the wooden floor.
“It was raining a while back,” Spencer says, smoothly answering the question Jon hasn’t asked. “It was easier to do the skinning inside, and the rabbits were fresh.”
Jon’s brow is still furrowed, but he lets it go with half a shrug. “You do what you have to,” he says simply.
After a few more bites, Spencer asks, “So you came all the way out here to check up on us?”
Jon shrugs. “I shot a werewolf the last time I was out this way, during the full moon.” Ryan’s breath catches, but he keeps his eyes on Jon, expression neutral, fingers clenched tight around the bowl in his hands. Jon doesn’t seem to notice. “I got it pretty good, I think, but I haven’t found a body, so I wanted to make sure it hadn’t tried to raid your place.”
“Nothing here,” Ryan says. His voice is perfectly even, the way he knows Spencer’s wouldn’t be. Ryan has always been a better liar.
“Good,” Jon says. “Let me know if you get any trouble.”
“We will,” Ryan promises. Spencer starts to agree as well, leaning forward so his hair falls over his face, when there’s a thump from overhead like something falling. Like a body tipping over sideways.
Jon’s eyes snap up, and Spencer’s do as well. Ryan keeps looking straight at Jon, although his heart has sped up, and blurts out, “Squirrels.”
Jon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Squirrels?” he asks.
“In the attic,” Spencer clarifies, shooting a quick glance at Ryan and recovering some of his poise. “Crazy squirrels.”
“Nutty squirrels,” Ryan corrects, and smirks, enough to make Jon laugh.
“Tell me if it ever becomes a real problem,” Jon offers. “I have a rifle.”
Spencer flinches slightly. Ryan guesses he’s thinking about Brendon, but doesn’t let himself think about it. “Spencer has traps,” he says. “We’re fine. They’re pretty scrawny, though. Not worth the bother.”
Jon laughs again, eyes crinkling up at the corners. Ryan stands up and offers politely, “More stew?”
* * *
Jon stays well into the evening, until Ryan is nearly to the point of asking him to stay the night, as politeness dictates. He’s stayed over a few times before, in bad weather, and would have no reason to refuse their hospitality. Ryan isn’t worried about being caught as much as he is about leaving Brendon unattended overnight.
He realizes that he’s more concerned about Brendon spending a night awkwardly tied on a hard, cold floor than he is about the possibility of Brendon getting loose and sneaking down from the attic while no one’s watching him. That thought surprises him into losing track of the conversation for a moment, and when he tunes in again it’s because Jon is squeezing his arm and saying, “Have a good evening.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” Ryan says automatically.
Jon smiles, but shakes his head. “I have my own bed, and it’s not far. Thanks for the offer, though. And the stew.”
“Anytime,” Spencer says.
Jon laughs. “Maybe next time it’ll have some of those squirrels in it,” he says, and Ryan’s heart thuds against his rib cage, but he doesn’t let his expression flicker in the slightest. Spencer hands Jon his coat and they all say goodnight, and finally Jon leaves and Spencer throws the latch on the front door.
They stand beside it for a few minutes, listening, and Spencer eventually murmurs, “I think he’s gone.”
Ryan’s body is flooded with relief, so quickly that he sags against the heavy door. “I thought he would suspect,” he admits. “I thought so many times…”
“I know,” Spencer says, and holds up his hands, teeth bared in a slightly panicked grin. Ryan thinks he’s supposed to be noting the way Spencer’s hands are shaking, and then he realizes that what he’s really looking at are his bare fingers.
Ryan sucks in a breath, dread pooling in his stomach. “Do you think he…?”
“No,” Spencer says quickly. “I mean, yes, he noticed, but he also clasped my hand and my arm a half dozen times, and he was wearing his rings. He doesn’t suspect me.”
“Thank god,” Ryan says dully, and turns his attention back towards the bedroom. “Is it safe now, do you think?”
“He’s gone,” Spencer says again. “Do you want me to bring him down?”
“I’ll do it,” Ryan tells him. He walks back to the bedroom, opens the trapdoor and climbs the ladder. He hesitates for a moment just before poking his head through into the attic, but Brendon’s not lying in wait to bite off his head or come at him with a wooden stake.
He’s still lying exactly where Ryan left him, although he’s tipped over onto his side. There’s sweat soaking through his shirt, beading on his forehead. His hair is hanging limp where it’s not plastered to his scalp.
“It’s okay, he’s gone,” Ryan says, voice hushed in response to Brendon’s palpable fear. “He just stayed for dinner.”
Brendon nods, mute, and Ryan crawls over to untie him. He has one hand on the rope when he realizes that the knot he’d tied around Brendon’s wrists is no longer in place. There’s a loose coil around his wrists, but it slithers loose at Ryan’s touch. Brendon’s hands are free.
Fear and shock freeze him in place for a long, terrifying second. Brendon twists around to look at him, mouth twisted into an unhappy line, and says, “It came undone when I fell over, I’m sorry. I swear, I haven’t moved. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
It’s probably true. They would have heard noise from the attic if Brendon had been shuffling around, and the tangle of rope looks mostly undisturbed. Even so, Ryan’s hands shake slightly when he tugs the rope completely free, when he leans in to help Brendon up off the floor. There are no weapons hidden on him anywhere that Ryan can see, but that doesn’t mean much. He can ask Spencer to check as well, tell him what happened and maybe have Brendon strip down.
Brendon moves slowly when they head down the ladder, and when they reach the bottom, Ryan sees fresh blood staining the bandage on his shoulder. Spencer notices it as well, tells Brendon, “Sit,” and puts the water over the fire to heat.
“Are you hungry?” Spencer asks as he helps Brendon remove his shirt. “We can find something for you. Jon ate most of the stew, but there’s some left.”
Brendon eyes the pot for a second, but shakes his head. Finally he asks quietly, “Does he know?”
Spencer glances at Ryan first, then back at Brendon. “No,” he says calmly. “We don’t think so. He would have said something.”
Ryan’s heart is still rabbiting, wondering if what Jon said about the squirrels was meant to be a hint, if he’d guessed and was simply biding his time to take them unawares. He doesn’t think so, but there’s always a possibility. There’s always a chance.
Brendon clasps both hands in front of him, between his knees. He’s trembling, skin glistening in the firelight as the sweat on his body cools. Spencer reaches down and gently pries one of his hands loose from their grip, stretching it out so that he can clean Brendon’s wound.
“Who was he?” Brendon asks at last.
“A friend,” Ryan says, a beat too late, because what he’d been about to say was, ‘A hunter.’
“Someone we have good reason to hide you from,” Spencer adds. He presses a cloth to Brendon’s shoulder to stop the bleeding and admits, “If he returns, we may have to do it again.”
Brendon fidgets, then goes still at a look from Spencer. “You could lock me in the cellar outside,” he says eventually. “If it’s safer for you. I’m healthier now, it would be all right.”
“No,” Ryan says without thinking. Spencer raises an eyebrow at him, silently questioning. Ryan turns his attention to Brendon instead and asks, “Why didn’t you try to get away?”
Spencer sits back on his heels. Brendon looks startled, eyes wide and dark in his pale face. “What?” he asks belatedly.
“Upstairs, just now,” Ryan clarifies, although he’s certain Brendon knows exactly what he means. “You were untied. You could have used me as a hostage, or just killed me and gone after Spence. You didn’t even try.”
Spencer doesn’t look particularly alarmed by hearing that Brendon was loose in the attic, although there’s a tilt to his head that means he and Ryan will be talking about this privately later. He just watches Brendon, who looks back and forth between them like a trapped deer until he finally stammers out an answer.
“You’ve been good to me,” he says. “I couldn’t…and you didn’t turn me in. You said I could stay here. Where else would I go?”
“We could have been bringing you down to hand you over to Jon,” Spencer points out, voice perfectly even. “How did you know we wouldn’t?”
“I…” Brendon begins, looking between them, and then says in a small voice, “I trust you.”
Ryan lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Spencer looks up at him at the sound, eyebrow raised again, but Ryan shakes his head. Spencer turns back to Brendon and ruffles his hair, which makes Brendon duck his head and flush.
“You’re a terrible werewolf,” Spencer tells him. He claps Brendon on the knee and says, “Come on, I’ll help you with your shirt.”
* * *
The days go by with such normality that it startles Ryan when Spencer says, “Bren, if you want to weed tomorrow, I think we might be able to pull enough vegetables out of the garden for an actual dish.”
“What, are you getting tired of stew?” Brendon asks mockingly, but there’s no heat in it. A second later he seems to catch on, and says, “But…”
“I pulled out the wolfsbane,” Spencer explains, holding up his dirt-stained hands as evidence.
Ryan goes still. “Spencer,” he says, low and grave. Brendon’s gone still beside him, looking down at the floor as if that will provide the illusion of privacy for this conversation.
Spencer doesn’t back down. “The only thing it’s doing right now is keeping him in the house. With us. Although he could just as easily go out through the front door, so really, all it’s doing is keeping him from being able to weed the garden and pull vegetables.”
It also makes him skittish whenever he has to open the back door, which is why Ryan suspects Spencer really pulled it up. Even so, it’s the principle of the thing. “He’s still…” he begins, but Spencer cuts him off.
“Ryan,” he says, and nods to where Brendon is sitting on the hearth with a washbasin in front of him, rinsing out Spencer’s shirt. “The dangerous werewolf is doing our laundry.”
That stops Ryan for a moment. He hadn’t realized how much freedom they’d been giving Brendon, how much he was allowed to do now. He hadn’t been tied up in weeks, ever since they’d forgotten one night and Brendon had knocked on the door to politely remind them.
“What about during the…?” Brendon asks, sitting up straighter. He still won’t meet their eyes, gaze fixed on the washbasin. He clears his throat and finishes quietly, “I’ll be dangerous then.”
“We won’t be here then,” Spencer points out, and Ryan relaxes a fraction. “Even if you came here, we’ll be at services. We won’t return until after you’ve changed back.”
Brendon nods, but he’s still tense. Ryan knows why, or at least suspects. Now that the moon is waxing instead of waning, he’s gotten twitchier by the night. Ryan catches him curled up next to the window sometimes, staring up at the moon as if they’re in a race and he can feel it gaining. They don’t talk about it, any of them, but Ryan tries on those nights to lure Brendon away from the window and closer to the fire.
“What about others?” Ryan asks suddenly. “Other werewolves?”
Spencer stops for a moment, and then shrugs. “I don’t know. I think we can handle them.” He looks over at Brendon and says, “It’s three against one, right?”
Brendon looks shocked speechless, jerking his head up to meet Spencer’s gaze, but there’s no treachery in him at all. After a second he smiles, the lines of his body loosening. “Yeah,” he agrees.
“So there we go,” Spencer affirms, slapping a dirty hand down on Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan scowls at him, but Brendon giggles nervously right after and he can’t keep it up.
“There had better be some damn fine vegetables out there in that shitty garden,” he grumbles, and Spencer crosses his eyes at him, which means they’re fine.
Spencer starts to go back out, but pauses in the doorway. “Hey, Bren,” he calls back, and Brendon’s head comes up again, but more relaxed this time. “Just remember not to sing when you’re doing the weeding, please.”
Brendon blinks, frozen mid-tune as he lays out Spencer’s shirt to dry. “I…” he stumbles awkwardly. “Sorry, does it…it bothers you? I can stop.”
Privately, Ryan isn’t sure Brendon can stop, but he keeps that thought to himself. It’s cheerier somehow with Brendon’s voice following them everywhere throughout the day. Ryan’s gotten used to it.
Spencer smiles. “No, it’s just,” he says, and his smile gains teeth, which makes Ryan’s eyes narrow. “In case anyone comes up the path unexpectedly. I don’t sing while I work. And Ryan can’t sing for shit.”
Ryan squawks indignation and throws the first thing that comes to hand, which happens to be the shirt Brendon is soaking. It hits Spencer’s chest with a wet squelch, and a second later Ryan ducks a beat too late and ends up with sopping fabric plastered to his face. Dripping onto his newly-muddied shirt.
He starts to throw it at Brendon in retaliation, but Brendon’s eyes are wide and innocent, and even though he knows it’s an act, it still feels like he’d be kicking a kitten. Ryan tosses the shirt into the bucket, water slopping sluggishly over the side, and takes off after Spencer.
* * *
The night before the full moon, Ryan doesn’t even pretend to sleep. Neither does Brendon; Ryan finds him by the window, staring out at the moon. Ryan doesn’t bother with pleasantries, just sits beside him and keeps the same weary vigil. “I can feel it,” Brendon whispers, skin pale and cold, and they don’t speak again until Spencer finds them at dawn.
Brendon doesn’t broach the subject until the afternoon, but when he does it’s with clammy hands, twisting one of Spencer’s old shirts between his fingers, so Ryan guesses he’s been thinking about it for a while. “You should lock me in the cellar,” he says. “If you don’t mind me staying here. I’ll move everything out of it myself, and back in tomorrow.”
Spencer’s the one to speak, taking Brendon’s cue for a discussion and sitting down to address him. “You could hurt yourself in there,” he reasons. “Trapped, caged in, you might panic.”
Brendon drops his gaze and says quietly, “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Ryan finally sits as well, putting the buzzing thoughts of the day out of his mind to concentrate on the coming night. “There won’t be anyone out,” he points out. “They’ll all be at services.”
Brendon’s eyes flash, and then he bottles the emotion up just as quickly, answering with a remarkably even tone, “I wasn’t.”
Ryan had meant to ask, but it seems a thoughtless thing to bring up. It could have been anything; a prank, a moment of forgetfulness, an errand, willful disobedience. One moment and Brendon’s life was forever changed.
“There are others, too,” Brendon presses on. “People who are sick, or hunters. It happens.”
He has a point. Spencer knows it, too, Ryan can tell by his expression. “There’s also at least one hunter after you,” Spencer adds. “Keeping you out of sight might be better for everyone.”
That sword cuts both ways, though. Jon knows there was a wolf near here during the last full moon. If he suspects anything; if he hears a noise and checks the cellar; if he becomes wounded or even hungry and decides to help himself to their stores and make reparations later…there are a dozen ways for Brendon to die in a heartbeat, while Spencer and Ryan are too far away to help him.
“We should find some way to keep him back,” Ryan says abruptly out loud, and both Spencer and Brendon turn to look at him. “In case Jon comes too close and hears a noise.”
“We should see about keeping any others away as well,” Spencer says grimly. “I don’t know how, but if they sense him in the cellar somehow, there could be trouble.”
“I don’t want a fight,” Brendon says quickly.
Spencer favors him with a belittling look. “Brendon,” he says. “Look at you. It wouldn’t be a fight, it would be a massacre.”
Brendon folds his arms over his chest and looks worried. Ryan scoots a little closer without thinking, and then realizes he’s attempting to comfort a werewolf. Still, he thinks, glancing sideways at Brendon’s bitten-raw lips, this particular werewolf looks like he could well afford the comfort.
“I’m feeling better,” Brendon offers timidly. Spencer snorts. Ryan supposes he’s thinking less of the healing gunshot wound, and more of the fact that Brendon is not only on the small side, he also hasn’t gone feral and is probably nowhere near as dangerous as the others.
Yet, Ryan reminds himself. He hasn’t gone feral yet.
“We should get going soon,” he says out loud, since no one else is speaking and it looks like the conversation has reached an end. “Spencer and me. We have to make it down to the village before nightfall.”
Spencer nods, but it’s still a long moment before any of them move. When they do, it’s Brendon who starts it, cracking his neck and startling them both. “Let’s do this,” he says, and Ryan’s slightly amazed that there’s not even the smallest waver in his tone.
They move most of the stores out of the pantry in remarkably short time, all pitching in despite Brendon’s protests that he can do the work. The sun is beginning to sink, which means all of them really do have to work together in order to beat the rising moon and get Brendon secured.
Finally there’s nothing left to do but leave, and Ryan still hesitates, standing in the cold, damp cellar with Brendon waiting dark-eyed in front of him. It smells of the dank down here, packed earth and musty cobwebs, and Ryan wishes they had more to offer than a dirt floor and a barred door.
“We could bring down a blanket,” he offers.
Brendon cracks a smile, although it’s tense at the edges, brittle with nerves and anticipation of the inevitable. “I’d just rip it to shreds,” he points out.
Ryan doesn’t like thinking of Brendon that way, wishes he wouldn’t say ‘I’ as if he’ll be the one consciously growling and snarling, looking to kill and maim and poison in a few short hours. “Maybe it won’t happen, with you down here,” he says. “Away from the moon.” It’s not as if any of them know how this works, not really. It’s not as if there isn’t a chance.
Brendon tries to smile again, but it’s wan. “Maybe,” he says. “I’d rather not take the chance. Tie me up?” He kneels on the floor and holds his wrists together, looking up at Ryan with more trust than Ryan is truly comfortable with.
Ryan has the rope, coiled neatly on the floor where they’d dropped it earlier during the preparations. He’d rather Spencer did this, trusts Spencer’s hand more than his own, but he manages the first few knots without his hands shaking and it seems simple from there. Brendon holds perfectly still, lets him loop the rope around wrists and ankles and even one length across his throat to keep him from struggling. It might end up choking him, but Ryan hopes he’ll stop fighting before that happens. He trusts Brendon’s - the wolf’s - instincts to keep him alive.
Spencer calls for him above, signaling that they really need to be going. Ryan hesitates with his hand hovering over the final knot, unsure of what to do. Finally he rests his hand on Brendon’s cheek, feeling the warmth of skin and blood and bone. “You’re not like the others,” he says. “You’re not like them.”
Brendon just watches him with wide dark eyes, and Ryan finally pulls himself away and out of the cellar.
Spencer’s waiting for him next to the cellar door, dressed for services and perfectly groomed. Ryan brushes haphazardly at the dirt clinging to his trouser legs from where he knelt on the floor to tie the knots.
“All set?” Spencer asks. He’s shut the door now, and set the heavy wooden bar in place over the braces just in case.
Ryan takes one more look at the cellar, up at the first faint hint of the moon, and forces himself to stop thinking of Brendon. “Yes.”
* * *
Services seem to take forever, as they always do, but this time it’s because Ryan can’t tear his thoughts away from Brendon, how he’s managing in the cellar and whether they’ve been discovered. If they have, Brendon will already be dead, which isn’t something Ryan is ready to face up to.
Spencer is giving little away with his expression, but Ryan can tell he’s troubled by the way their eyes catch; by the way Spencer stumbles through the first few words of each call and response as if he’d forgotten where they were.
Ryan says the words along with everyone else in the village, and tries not to feel too much like a hypocrite. It’s not that he cares what these people think, not really, but it’s still hard to repeat words about protection for the people and death to their enemies without thinking of Brendon, small and frightened and curled up on the dirt floor of the cellar.
Time stretches on endlessly, but finally they’re all released, as the first gray rays of the sun creep over the horizon and through the windows. Ryan can hardly wait to be gone, but he forces himself to make brief but polite conversation with a few people from the village, holding Spencer back at his side. The last thing they need right now is for someone to become suspicious and follow them. They don’t know what shape Brendon will be in when they return.
At last they’re on their way, heading away from the village and towards the forest. Ryan hates himself for asking, “Do you think…?” but Spencer doesn’t take him down for it, just says, “I don’t know,” and keeps walking.
When they reach the cottage everything looks normal, which is a relief. No broken windows, the door securely shut, the garden full of plants stretching up in orderly rows towards the weak sunlight. Then they turn the corner and Ryan’s heart drops.
The cellar door stands open, the bar splintered and broken on the ground. Spencer breaks into a jog as soon as he sees it, while Ryan stands numbly in place. “They found him,” Ryan says. Despite thinking of the many scenarios in which this could happen, he hadn’t actually believed that it might.
“No,” Spencer says, jolting Ryan out of his despair. “He broke out, no one else came in. There’s a chance no one has noticed this. Look, the door’s been scratched up from the inside.”
Ryan investigates reluctantly, tracing his fingers over the deep grooves clawed into the heavy wood. Spencer hesitates before he goes down into the cellar, but when he returns it’s with nothing more than a frayed length of rope.
“He chewed through it,” Spencer guesses, tossing the rope back down into the cellar. He throws the broken pieces of the bar down after it, and shuts the cellar doors with an echo of finality. “A badger got inside,” he says, turning to Ryan and wiping his hands off on his pants. “That’s what made the scratches. It was mad as hell when it got out. I’ll cut a new bar, but if anyone asks before then, the wood had gone rotten and it broke by accident.”
Ryan stares blankly at him, and then realizes they’re lying now. They have to lie.
“Do you think he’s still out there?” he asks, and Spencer hesitates, knowing as well as Ryan what the chances are that he’ll make it back. It’s possible, of course, once sense returns and Brendon figures out where in the forest he is, but then he has to survive the others for long enough to make it back.
“Maybe we should go back to the village later today,” Spencer says quietly, and Ryan blinks twice before catching on to his meaning. They’re going to go back and see whether the hunters have brought in anything. Anything that looks like it might have been Brendon.
They’re still standing there when a crack rings out from the forest, echoing around them and startling the birds in a noisy exodus from the trees. Ryan stares at Spencer, shock making his heart pound, and they both think the same thing at the same time.
Spencer starts running. Ryan reaches out after him, ready to warn him of the dangers of the forest and the penalty should they be caught and the fact that there’s not much they can do right now, not against a hunter, but Spencer isn’t staying to listen. Ryan finds he really doesn’t want to say any of those things anyway, and starts after him.
It’s impossible to judge where the shot originated from, but Spencer knows the forest well, and he’s guiding them through on one of the easier trails. There’s a clearing up ahead, and a crumpled heap that Ryan knows in his bones is Brendon. He runs faster.
Brendon is naked and shivering, but not bleeding anywhere, so the shot wasn’t for him. He catches sight of them as Spencer first breaks into the clearing, and holds up a hand as if to ward them off. Ryan slows, his strides tangled in confusion, but Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He keeps running, and that’s when Ryan sees Jon.
The first shot might have been for Brendon and missed, or it might have been for something else, but this one is aimed at Brendon’s heart. Jon is taking his time - Brendon isn’t going anywhere - and he hasn’t seen them yet. Spencer will never reach Brendon in time.
Ryan stumbles to a halt and yells, “No!” with as much force as he can put behind it. Jon startles, the barrel dropping a few inches as he turns around, and Spencer sprints to Brendon’s side, putting himself between Brendon and Jon. Ryan’s there a few seconds later, holding his side and wheezing, but unflinching when Jon brings the gun to bear again.
Jon studies them, disheveled and panting, then looks past Spencer to Brendon curled terrified on the ground. Finally he asks, “Who was he?”
“Jon, please,” Spencer says, not answering the question. “Let’s go back to the house and talk about this. Please.”
Jon has always had a soft spot for Spencer, but Ryan doesn’t know whether that will be enough this time. He knows how Jon feels about werewolves, knows hunting is more of a personal vendetta than an occupation. He’s brought back far more corpses in the past year than any other hunter, despite his youth.
He’s never, to Ryan’s knowledge, killed one in human form, however. Ryan clings to that, hoping that Brendon’s deer-eyes and small, vulnerable frame will make a difference. It’s all they have.
Jon finally lowers the gun and says, “All right. Let’s talk.”
* * *
Three
One
They encounter their first problems within a few days. Brendon has healed enough to do simple chores, things that don’t require much strength or time because he’s worn out even by the simplest of acts, like shuffling to the chamber pot without Spencer’s support. He wants to help, is even eager to make himself useful to them, but there’s only so much he can do. Ryan won’t let him do anything in the kitchen because the knives are too close, and he doesn’t want to untie Brendon’s hands. Even knowing he’s not much of a threat, bound in human form and sick with blood loss, Ryan can’t quite bring himself to trust.
Finally Spencer says, “Let him pull some weeds in the garden. The fresh air will be good for him, and I’ll be out there skinning dinner.”
Ryan looks at the bloody carcass outside their back door, then at Spencer. “You’ll be busy,” he says, low-voiced. Brendon could slip the leash and run, or worse, sneak up and kill Spencer. Or try, anyway. Ryan doesn’t really think he has any chance of succeeding.
Spencer just grins, sharp. “I’ll have a big knife,” he points out, and Ryan yields.
They’re still keeping Brendon bound, although it’s mostly a remnant of precaution, since they untie his legs whenever he asks to use the chamber pot, and his hands during meals so that they don’t have to feed him. Ryan unties him without explaining, knowing that Brendon’s been watching and listening since they started speaking. He’d feel more annoyed about the eavesdropping if they weren’t all practically on top of each other in the small space anyway.
Brendon doesn’t need much help walking anymore, but Ryan follows closely anyway, just in case. Spencer’s already at work, sharp knife digging in cleanly beneath the skin to separate meat from hide. They get as far as the back door and then Brendon stops suddenly, vibrating with tension.
“What is it?” Ryan asks, and Spencer looks up at them, frowning.
There are beads of sweat beginning to stand out on Brendon’s brow, and his joints are locked stiff, unmoving. “I…” he says, and then stops to lick his lips, breathing hard. “I can’t…”
Spencer sets down the carcass and stands watching, alert. He’ll be ready if Brendon goes down, Ryan knows, but equally ready if this is a trick and Brendon’s going to try something. Ryan doesn’t move, just waits. Brendon still hasn’t unfrozen.
“I can’t move,” Brendon says, and then laughs, awkward and strained and, Ryan thinks, frightened beneath it. He flinches back a little, into the house, and takes the first deep breath he’s had in a while. Then he starts to move forward again but stops almost immediately, frozen in the doorway. “I can’t,” he says again, arms crossing over his chest. “I can’t, I don’t…”
“Spence,” Ryan says, understanding dawning. “The garden.”
Spencer looks around, confused. He gets it a second later, Ryan knows, but shakes his head. “It’s just a myth,” he says, gesturing at the green patch nearest to him. “He came through here before.”
“He was unconscious,” Ryan says. “And you were carrying him.”
Brendon’s trembling in earnest now, obviously not clued in to what they’re talking about, his skin going ashy as he drags in breaths. “What…?” he asks, and then stops, throat working. He swallows loud enough that Ryan can hear it, and inches back, almost unconsciously.
“Wolfsbane,” Ryan says. The whole garden is lined with it, precautions taken at every corner. It’s mostly for the sake of tradition - a myth, as Spencer had pointed out - but apparently there’s also some truth to it.
Brendon shakes his head. “That can’t be it,” he says. “We have it too, in our garden. My family. I’ve walked through a thousand times…” And then he stops, going even paler, and Ryan thinks grimly that it’s starting to hit home.
“Sit down,” Spencer says suddenly, sharply, and Ryan moves just in time to catch Brendon as he buckles. Brendon clings to him, still shaking, close enough that Ryan can smell the sweat on his skin. He sees Spencer’s grip tighten on the handle of the knife, and realizes too late the situation he’s put himself in; Brendon has an arm around his shoulders, inches from his throat, and his hands and feet aren’t tied. If this is a trick, Ryan’s in a perfect position to be used as a hostage.
Brendon makes no move against him, though, just lets Ryan ease him down until he’s sitting, head dropped forward between his legs. “I can never go back,” he says, and there’s genuine shock in his voice, as if until this point there had still been a possibility, a slight chance, and now it’s winked out of existence. “Even if they…if I…I can’t even…”
He stops talking abruptly, mouth snapping shut. Ryan understands that instinct. In a similar position, he would have done the same thing. There’s no point in pouring your heart out to people who don’t care. Especially when those people have their garden filled with a superstitious plant meant to keep you away.
Spencer sets down his knife, slowly, and Ryan finds that he’s not really worried. Brendon might still be waiting for his chance, looking for an opportunity, but it’s not going to come now. They could easily overpower him even if he lunged for the knife, and all signs point to that being unlikely. Anyway, Ryan notes, Spencer’s set the knife down in the nearest patch of wolfsbane. Just in case.
Brendon’s back is shuddering, chest heaving as he tries to breathe. Spencer approaches slowly and sits down next to them on the other side of the doorway, a physical barrier between Brendon and the garden, and the reminder of a place he could never return to. Spencer reaches out and Ryan leans in, and between them, Brendon lets out a jagged, shaken breath and doesn’t cry.
* * *
They’re eating dinner when Ryan first hears singing. It’s coming from outside, around the side of the house where the path leads to the front door they never use. Ryan’s head jerks up in surprise, and he sees that Spencer’s heard it, too. Neither of them move for a single frozen second, and then they both turn to look at Brendon.
He stares back at them, eyes wide, and shakes his head. Ryan hadn’t realized they’d been asking him a question, but Spencer moves as soon as Brendon does, heading for the window nearest that side of the house. Ryan sets his bowl aside and stands, uncertain. Brendon doesn’t move, gone completely still.
Spencer returns in a matter of seconds, attention fixed on Ryan. “It’s Jon.”
That’s all he says, but Ryan hears what he means underneath it. Spencer is giving Ryan a chance to get out of this now, without any repercussions. Jon is a hunter, but he’s one they trust, one they consider a friend. Jon would see Brendon tethered to the floor and not ask any questions. Jon wouldn’t turn them in to the authorities for harboring a werewolf. Jon would take Brendon out and kill him and never say a word.
Ryan doesn’t realize he’s made the decision until the words come out of his mouth. “The attic,” he says. “We can hide him up there.”
“No time,” Spencer says, but he’s already moving, yanking at the knot tying Brendon to the iron ring. It snags, and he gives up after only a few seconds, dropping the rope. Ryan takes over, picking at the knot that’s somehow gotten hopelessly tangled, growing more and more panicked as it refuses to give. Spencer shoulders him out of the way a second later and hacks the rope apart with a kitchen knife.
“Go,” he orders, and Ryan grabs the rope with one hand and Brendon’s uninjured elbow with the other, pulling him into the bedroom. There’s a trapdoor that opens from the ceiling, and a ladder that drops down, leading up to the attic. Brendon stumbles on the rungs, and Ryan belatedly lets go of his arm so that he has one hand free to use for climbing.
He follows Brendon up to make sure the attic is clear of guns and knives, that there’s no escape route once Ryan shuts the trap. Brendon is mute, tense, his eyes huge and pleading when he looks at Ryan. Ryan gnaws on his lip, assessing the situation, and then wraps the rope still binding Brendon’s legs around his wrists, trussing him up as hastily as he can. His efforts twist Brendon’s shoulder, and Ryan hisses, “Sorry,” over Brendon’s bitten-off noise of pain.
Below them, he hears Jon knock on the front door.
Brendon’s eyes grow even wider. Ryan can’t take the time to reassure him, just yanks the knot taut and retreats, sliding down the ladder and slamming the trap shut just as he hears Spencer open the door. He dusts his palms off and walks into the room just in time to hear Jon say, “Good evening.”
“Jon,” Ryan greets him, before Spencer can say anything, give an excuse for why Ryan isn’t here. Spencer looks over at him, but his expression is inscrutable, no trace of a question in his eyes.
“Come in,” Spencer says, and Jon steps over the threshold, into the warmth of the room. Ryan feels guilty just looking at him, cramps twisting his stomach. He knows what happened to Tom.
“I just came to see how you were doing,” Jon offers. His hands are stuffed into his pockets, face crinkled and smiling. “You live close to the forest, and we haven’t seen you in the village for a week now.”
“We were there for services,” Spencer says smoothly, although that was nearly two weeks ago now, so it doesn’t negate Jon’s point. He waits until Jon gets further into the room to close the door behind him, a dull thud that echoes as awkward silence descends on the room.
“Are you hungry?” Ryan speaks up, to fill the pause. “We were just having dinner.”
“Sure, if you’ve enough to spare,” Jon agrees affably. Ryan turns to dish up another serving and inhales sharply when he sees the bowls sitting out on the floor. His, Spencer’s. Brendon’s.
Spencer reads his mind, thank God, and blocks Jon’s view, holding out a hand. “Let me take your coat, it’s warmer by the fire.” Jon turns his back to let Spencer help him and Ryan scoops up the third bowl, dishing another spoonful of stew over what’s left to cover the fact that it’s been eaten from already. Jon doesn’t seem to notice anything when Ryan hands it to him, just thanks him and takes a seat.
“You cook pretty well for hermits,” Jon jokes after the first bite, and then stops, his expression changing. Ryan follows his gaze, frowning, and sees the rusted stain from the first night, when Brendon had passed out on the wooden floor.
“It was raining a while back,” Spencer says, smoothly answering the question Jon hasn’t asked. “It was easier to do the skinning inside, and the rabbits were fresh.”
Jon’s brow is still furrowed, but he lets it go with half a shrug. “You do what you have to,” he says simply.
After a few more bites, Spencer asks, “So you came all the way out here to check up on us?”
Jon shrugs. “I shot a werewolf the last time I was out this way, during the full moon.” Ryan’s breath catches, but he keeps his eyes on Jon, expression neutral, fingers clenched tight around the bowl in his hands. Jon doesn’t seem to notice. “I got it pretty good, I think, but I haven’t found a body, so I wanted to make sure it hadn’t tried to raid your place.”
“Nothing here,” Ryan says. His voice is perfectly even, the way he knows Spencer’s wouldn’t be. Ryan has always been a better liar.
“Good,” Jon says. “Let me know if you get any trouble.”
“We will,” Ryan promises. Spencer starts to agree as well, leaning forward so his hair falls over his face, when there’s a thump from overhead like something falling. Like a body tipping over sideways.
Jon’s eyes snap up, and Spencer’s do as well. Ryan keeps looking straight at Jon, although his heart has sped up, and blurts out, “Squirrels.”
Jon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Squirrels?” he asks.
“In the attic,” Spencer clarifies, shooting a quick glance at Ryan and recovering some of his poise. “Crazy squirrels.”
“Nutty squirrels,” Ryan corrects, and smirks, enough to make Jon laugh.
“Tell me if it ever becomes a real problem,” Jon offers. “I have a rifle.”
Spencer flinches slightly. Ryan guesses he’s thinking about Brendon, but doesn’t let himself think about it. “Spencer has traps,” he says. “We’re fine. They’re pretty scrawny, though. Not worth the bother.”
Jon laughs again, eyes crinkling up at the corners. Ryan stands up and offers politely, “More stew?”
* * *
Jon stays well into the evening, until Ryan is nearly to the point of asking him to stay the night, as politeness dictates. He’s stayed over a few times before, in bad weather, and would have no reason to refuse their hospitality. Ryan isn’t worried about being caught as much as he is about leaving Brendon unattended overnight.
He realizes that he’s more concerned about Brendon spending a night awkwardly tied on a hard, cold floor than he is about the possibility of Brendon getting loose and sneaking down from the attic while no one’s watching him. That thought surprises him into losing track of the conversation for a moment, and when he tunes in again it’s because Jon is squeezing his arm and saying, “Have a good evening.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” Ryan says automatically.
Jon smiles, but shakes his head. “I have my own bed, and it’s not far. Thanks for the offer, though. And the stew.”
“Anytime,” Spencer says.
Jon laughs. “Maybe next time it’ll have some of those squirrels in it,” he says, and Ryan’s heart thuds against his rib cage, but he doesn’t let his expression flicker in the slightest. Spencer hands Jon his coat and they all say goodnight, and finally Jon leaves and Spencer throws the latch on the front door.
They stand beside it for a few minutes, listening, and Spencer eventually murmurs, “I think he’s gone.”
Ryan’s body is flooded with relief, so quickly that he sags against the heavy door. “I thought he would suspect,” he admits. “I thought so many times…”
“I know,” Spencer says, and holds up his hands, teeth bared in a slightly panicked grin. Ryan thinks he’s supposed to be noting the way Spencer’s hands are shaking, and then he realizes that what he’s really looking at are his bare fingers.
Ryan sucks in a breath, dread pooling in his stomach. “Do you think he…?”
“No,” Spencer says quickly. “I mean, yes, he noticed, but he also clasped my hand and my arm a half dozen times, and he was wearing his rings. He doesn’t suspect me.”
“Thank god,” Ryan says dully, and turns his attention back towards the bedroom. “Is it safe now, do you think?”
“He’s gone,” Spencer says again. “Do you want me to bring him down?”
“I’ll do it,” Ryan tells him. He walks back to the bedroom, opens the trapdoor and climbs the ladder. He hesitates for a moment just before poking his head through into the attic, but Brendon’s not lying in wait to bite off his head or come at him with a wooden stake.
He’s still lying exactly where Ryan left him, although he’s tipped over onto his side. There’s sweat soaking through his shirt, beading on his forehead. His hair is hanging limp where it’s not plastered to his scalp.
“It’s okay, he’s gone,” Ryan says, voice hushed in response to Brendon’s palpable fear. “He just stayed for dinner.”
Brendon nods, mute, and Ryan crawls over to untie him. He has one hand on the rope when he realizes that the knot he’d tied around Brendon’s wrists is no longer in place. There’s a loose coil around his wrists, but it slithers loose at Ryan’s touch. Brendon’s hands are free.
Fear and shock freeze him in place for a long, terrifying second. Brendon twists around to look at him, mouth twisted into an unhappy line, and says, “It came undone when I fell over, I’m sorry. I swear, I haven’t moved. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
It’s probably true. They would have heard noise from the attic if Brendon had been shuffling around, and the tangle of rope looks mostly undisturbed. Even so, Ryan’s hands shake slightly when he tugs the rope completely free, when he leans in to help Brendon up off the floor. There are no weapons hidden on him anywhere that Ryan can see, but that doesn’t mean much. He can ask Spencer to check as well, tell him what happened and maybe have Brendon strip down.
Brendon moves slowly when they head down the ladder, and when they reach the bottom, Ryan sees fresh blood staining the bandage on his shoulder. Spencer notices it as well, tells Brendon, “Sit,” and puts the water over the fire to heat.
“Are you hungry?” Spencer asks as he helps Brendon remove his shirt. “We can find something for you. Jon ate most of the stew, but there’s some left.”
Brendon eyes the pot for a second, but shakes his head. Finally he asks quietly, “Does he know?”
Spencer glances at Ryan first, then back at Brendon. “No,” he says calmly. “We don’t think so. He would have said something.”
Ryan’s heart is still rabbiting, wondering if what Jon said about the squirrels was meant to be a hint, if he’d guessed and was simply biding his time to take them unawares. He doesn’t think so, but there’s always a possibility. There’s always a chance.
Brendon clasps both hands in front of him, between his knees. He’s trembling, skin glistening in the firelight as the sweat on his body cools. Spencer reaches down and gently pries one of his hands loose from their grip, stretching it out so that he can clean Brendon’s wound.
“Who was he?” Brendon asks at last.
“A friend,” Ryan says, a beat too late, because what he’d been about to say was, ‘A hunter.’
“Someone we have good reason to hide you from,” Spencer adds. He presses a cloth to Brendon’s shoulder to stop the bleeding and admits, “If he returns, we may have to do it again.”
Brendon fidgets, then goes still at a look from Spencer. “You could lock me in the cellar outside,” he says eventually. “If it’s safer for you. I’m healthier now, it would be all right.”
“No,” Ryan says without thinking. Spencer raises an eyebrow at him, silently questioning. Ryan turns his attention to Brendon instead and asks, “Why didn’t you try to get away?”
Spencer sits back on his heels. Brendon looks startled, eyes wide and dark in his pale face. “What?” he asks belatedly.
“Upstairs, just now,” Ryan clarifies, although he’s certain Brendon knows exactly what he means. “You were untied. You could have used me as a hostage, or just killed me and gone after Spence. You didn’t even try.”
Spencer doesn’t look particularly alarmed by hearing that Brendon was loose in the attic, although there’s a tilt to his head that means he and Ryan will be talking about this privately later. He just watches Brendon, who looks back and forth between them like a trapped deer until he finally stammers out an answer.
“You’ve been good to me,” he says. “I couldn’t…and you didn’t turn me in. You said I could stay here. Where else would I go?”
“We could have been bringing you down to hand you over to Jon,” Spencer points out, voice perfectly even. “How did you know we wouldn’t?”
“I…” Brendon begins, looking between them, and then says in a small voice, “I trust you.”
Ryan lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Spencer looks up at him at the sound, eyebrow raised again, but Ryan shakes his head. Spencer turns back to Brendon and ruffles his hair, which makes Brendon duck his head and flush.
“You’re a terrible werewolf,” Spencer tells him. He claps Brendon on the knee and says, “Come on, I’ll help you with your shirt.”
* * *
The days go by with such normality that it startles Ryan when Spencer says, “Bren, if you want to weed tomorrow, I think we might be able to pull enough vegetables out of the garden for an actual dish.”
“What, are you getting tired of stew?” Brendon asks mockingly, but there’s no heat in it. A second later he seems to catch on, and says, “But…”
“I pulled out the wolfsbane,” Spencer explains, holding up his dirt-stained hands as evidence.
Ryan goes still. “Spencer,” he says, low and grave. Brendon’s gone still beside him, looking down at the floor as if that will provide the illusion of privacy for this conversation.
Spencer doesn’t back down. “The only thing it’s doing right now is keeping him in the house. With us. Although he could just as easily go out through the front door, so really, all it’s doing is keeping him from being able to weed the garden and pull vegetables.”
It also makes him skittish whenever he has to open the back door, which is why Ryan suspects Spencer really pulled it up. Even so, it’s the principle of the thing. “He’s still…” he begins, but Spencer cuts him off.
“Ryan,” he says, and nods to where Brendon is sitting on the hearth with a washbasin in front of him, rinsing out Spencer’s shirt. “The dangerous werewolf is doing our laundry.”
That stops Ryan for a moment. He hadn’t realized how much freedom they’d been giving Brendon, how much he was allowed to do now. He hadn’t been tied up in weeks, ever since they’d forgotten one night and Brendon had knocked on the door to politely remind them.
“What about during the…?” Brendon asks, sitting up straighter. He still won’t meet their eyes, gaze fixed on the washbasin. He clears his throat and finishes quietly, “I’ll be dangerous then.”
“We won’t be here then,” Spencer points out, and Ryan relaxes a fraction. “Even if you came here, we’ll be at services. We won’t return until after you’ve changed back.”
Brendon nods, but he’s still tense. Ryan knows why, or at least suspects. Now that the moon is waxing instead of waning, he’s gotten twitchier by the night. Ryan catches him curled up next to the window sometimes, staring up at the moon as if they’re in a race and he can feel it gaining. They don’t talk about it, any of them, but Ryan tries on those nights to lure Brendon away from the window and closer to the fire.
“What about others?” Ryan asks suddenly. “Other werewolves?”
Spencer stops for a moment, and then shrugs. “I don’t know. I think we can handle them.” He looks over at Brendon and says, “It’s three against one, right?”
Brendon looks shocked speechless, jerking his head up to meet Spencer’s gaze, but there’s no treachery in him at all. After a second he smiles, the lines of his body loosening. “Yeah,” he agrees.
“So there we go,” Spencer affirms, slapping a dirty hand down on Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan scowls at him, but Brendon giggles nervously right after and he can’t keep it up.
“There had better be some damn fine vegetables out there in that shitty garden,” he grumbles, and Spencer crosses his eyes at him, which means they’re fine.
Spencer starts to go back out, but pauses in the doorway. “Hey, Bren,” he calls back, and Brendon’s head comes up again, but more relaxed this time. “Just remember not to sing when you’re doing the weeding, please.”
Brendon blinks, frozen mid-tune as he lays out Spencer’s shirt to dry. “I…” he stumbles awkwardly. “Sorry, does it…it bothers you? I can stop.”
Privately, Ryan isn’t sure Brendon can stop, but he keeps that thought to himself. It’s cheerier somehow with Brendon’s voice following them everywhere throughout the day. Ryan’s gotten used to it.
Spencer smiles. “No, it’s just,” he says, and his smile gains teeth, which makes Ryan’s eyes narrow. “In case anyone comes up the path unexpectedly. I don’t sing while I work. And Ryan can’t sing for shit.”
Ryan squawks indignation and throws the first thing that comes to hand, which happens to be the shirt Brendon is soaking. It hits Spencer’s chest with a wet squelch, and a second later Ryan ducks a beat too late and ends up with sopping fabric plastered to his face. Dripping onto his newly-muddied shirt.
He starts to throw it at Brendon in retaliation, but Brendon’s eyes are wide and innocent, and even though he knows it’s an act, it still feels like he’d be kicking a kitten. Ryan tosses the shirt into the bucket, water slopping sluggishly over the side, and takes off after Spencer.
* * *
The night before the full moon, Ryan doesn’t even pretend to sleep. Neither does Brendon; Ryan finds him by the window, staring out at the moon. Ryan doesn’t bother with pleasantries, just sits beside him and keeps the same weary vigil. “I can feel it,” Brendon whispers, skin pale and cold, and they don’t speak again until Spencer finds them at dawn.
Brendon doesn’t broach the subject until the afternoon, but when he does it’s with clammy hands, twisting one of Spencer’s old shirts between his fingers, so Ryan guesses he’s been thinking about it for a while. “You should lock me in the cellar,” he says. “If you don’t mind me staying here. I’ll move everything out of it myself, and back in tomorrow.”
Spencer’s the one to speak, taking Brendon’s cue for a discussion and sitting down to address him. “You could hurt yourself in there,” he reasons. “Trapped, caged in, you might panic.”
Brendon drops his gaze and says quietly, “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Ryan finally sits as well, putting the buzzing thoughts of the day out of his mind to concentrate on the coming night. “There won’t be anyone out,” he points out. “They’ll all be at services.”
Brendon’s eyes flash, and then he bottles the emotion up just as quickly, answering with a remarkably even tone, “I wasn’t.”
Ryan had meant to ask, but it seems a thoughtless thing to bring up. It could have been anything; a prank, a moment of forgetfulness, an errand, willful disobedience. One moment and Brendon’s life was forever changed.
“There are others, too,” Brendon presses on. “People who are sick, or hunters. It happens.”
He has a point. Spencer knows it, too, Ryan can tell by his expression. “There’s also at least one hunter after you,” Spencer adds. “Keeping you out of sight might be better for everyone.”
That sword cuts both ways, though. Jon knows there was a wolf near here during the last full moon. If he suspects anything; if he hears a noise and checks the cellar; if he becomes wounded or even hungry and decides to help himself to their stores and make reparations later…there are a dozen ways for Brendon to die in a heartbeat, while Spencer and Ryan are too far away to help him.
“We should find some way to keep him back,” Ryan says abruptly out loud, and both Spencer and Brendon turn to look at him. “In case Jon comes too close and hears a noise.”
“We should see about keeping any others away as well,” Spencer says grimly. “I don’t know how, but if they sense him in the cellar somehow, there could be trouble.”
“I don’t want a fight,” Brendon says quickly.
Spencer favors him with a belittling look. “Brendon,” he says. “Look at you. It wouldn’t be a fight, it would be a massacre.”
Brendon folds his arms over his chest and looks worried. Ryan scoots a little closer without thinking, and then realizes he’s attempting to comfort a werewolf. Still, he thinks, glancing sideways at Brendon’s bitten-raw lips, this particular werewolf looks like he could well afford the comfort.
“I’m feeling better,” Brendon offers timidly. Spencer snorts. Ryan supposes he’s thinking less of the healing gunshot wound, and more of the fact that Brendon is not only on the small side, he also hasn’t gone feral and is probably nowhere near as dangerous as the others.
Yet, Ryan reminds himself. He hasn’t gone feral yet.
“We should get going soon,” he says out loud, since no one else is speaking and it looks like the conversation has reached an end. “Spencer and me. We have to make it down to the village before nightfall.”
Spencer nods, but it’s still a long moment before any of them move. When they do, it’s Brendon who starts it, cracking his neck and startling them both. “Let’s do this,” he says, and Ryan’s slightly amazed that there’s not even the smallest waver in his tone.
They move most of the stores out of the pantry in remarkably short time, all pitching in despite Brendon’s protests that he can do the work. The sun is beginning to sink, which means all of them really do have to work together in order to beat the rising moon and get Brendon secured.
Finally there’s nothing left to do but leave, and Ryan still hesitates, standing in the cold, damp cellar with Brendon waiting dark-eyed in front of him. It smells of the dank down here, packed earth and musty cobwebs, and Ryan wishes they had more to offer than a dirt floor and a barred door.
“We could bring down a blanket,” he offers.
Brendon cracks a smile, although it’s tense at the edges, brittle with nerves and anticipation of the inevitable. “I’d just rip it to shreds,” he points out.
Ryan doesn’t like thinking of Brendon that way, wishes he wouldn’t say ‘I’ as if he’ll be the one consciously growling and snarling, looking to kill and maim and poison in a few short hours. “Maybe it won’t happen, with you down here,” he says. “Away from the moon.” It’s not as if any of them know how this works, not really. It’s not as if there isn’t a chance.
Brendon tries to smile again, but it’s wan. “Maybe,” he says. “I’d rather not take the chance. Tie me up?” He kneels on the floor and holds his wrists together, looking up at Ryan with more trust than Ryan is truly comfortable with.
Ryan has the rope, coiled neatly on the floor where they’d dropped it earlier during the preparations. He’d rather Spencer did this, trusts Spencer’s hand more than his own, but he manages the first few knots without his hands shaking and it seems simple from there. Brendon holds perfectly still, lets him loop the rope around wrists and ankles and even one length across his throat to keep him from struggling. It might end up choking him, but Ryan hopes he’ll stop fighting before that happens. He trusts Brendon’s - the wolf’s - instincts to keep him alive.
Spencer calls for him above, signaling that they really need to be going. Ryan hesitates with his hand hovering over the final knot, unsure of what to do. Finally he rests his hand on Brendon’s cheek, feeling the warmth of skin and blood and bone. “You’re not like the others,” he says. “You’re not like them.”
Brendon just watches him with wide dark eyes, and Ryan finally pulls himself away and out of the cellar.
Spencer’s waiting for him next to the cellar door, dressed for services and perfectly groomed. Ryan brushes haphazardly at the dirt clinging to his trouser legs from where he knelt on the floor to tie the knots.
“All set?” Spencer asks. He’s shut the door now, and set the heavy wooden bar in place over the braces just in case.
Ryan takes one more look at the cellar, up at the first faint hint of the moon, and forces himself to stop thinking of Brendon. “Yes.”
* * *
Services seem to take forever, as they always do, but this time it’s because Ryan can’t tear his thoughts away from Brendon, how he’s managing in the cellar and whether they’ve been discovered. If they have, Brendon will already be dead, which isn’t something Ryan is ready to face up to.
Spencer is giving little away with his expression, but Ryan can tell he’s troubled by the way their eyes catch; by the way Spencer stumbles through the first few words of each call and response as if he’d forgotten where they were.
Ryan says the words along with everyone else in the village, and tries not to feel too much like a hypocrite. It’s not that he cares what these people think, not really, but it’s still hard to repeat words about protection for the people and death to their enemies without thinking of Brendon, small and frightened and curled up on the dirt floor of the cellar.
Time stretches on endlessly, but finally they’re all released, as the first gray rays of the sun creep over the horizon and through the windows. Ryan can hardly wait to be gone, but he forces himself to make brief but polite conversation with a few people from the village, holding Spencer back at his side. The last thing they need right now is for someone to become suspicious and follow them. They don’t know what shape Brendon will be in when they return.
At last they’re on their way, heading away from the village and towards the forest. Ryan hates himself for asking, “Do you think…?” but Spencer doesn’t take him down for it, just says, “I don’t know,” and keeps walking.
When they reach the cottage everything looks normal, which is a relief. No broken windows, the door securely shut, the garden full of plants stretching up in orderly rows towards the weak sunlight. Then they turn the corner and Ryan’s heart drops.
The cellar door stands open, the bar splintered and broken on the ground. Spencer breaks into a jog as soon as he sees it, while Ryan stands numbly in place. “They found him,” Ryan says. Despite thinking of the many scenarios in which this could happen, he hadn’t actually believed that it might.
“No,” Spencer says, jolting Ryan out of his despair. “He broke out, no one else came in. There’s a chance no one has noticed this. Look, the door’s been scratched up from the inside.”
Ryan investigates reluctantly, tracing his fingers over the deep grooves clawed into the heavy wood. Spencer hesitates before he goes down into the cellar, but when he returns it’s with nothing more than a frayed length of rope.
“He chewed through it,” Spencer guesses, tossing the rope back down into the cellar. He throws the broken pieces of the bar down after it, and shuts the cellar doors with an echo of finality. “A badger got inside,” he says, turning to Ryan and wiping his hands off on his pants. “That’s what made the scratches. It was mad as hell when it got out. I’ll cut a new bar, but if anyone asks before then, the wood had gone rotten and it broke by accident.”
Ryan stares blankly at him, and then realizes they’re lying now. They have to lie.
“Do you think he’s still out there?” he asks, and Spencer hesitates, knowing as well as Ryan what the chances are that he’ll make it back. It’s possible, of course, once sense returns and Brendon figures out where in the forest he is, but then he has to survive the others for long enough to make it back.
“Maybe we should go back to the village later today,” Spencer says quietly, and Ryan blinks twice before catching on to his meaning. They’re going to go back and see whether the hunters have brought in anything. Anything that looks like it might have been Brendon.
They’re still standing there when a crack rings out from the forest, echoing around them and startling the birds in a noisy exodus from the trees. Ryan stares at Spencer, shock making his heart pound, and they both think the same thing at the same time.
Spencer starts running. Ryan reaches out after him, ready to warn him of the dangers of the forest and the penalty should they be caught and the fact that there’s not much they can do right now, not against a hunter, but Spencer isn’t staying to listen. Ryan finds he really doesn’t want to say any of those things anyway, and starts after him.
It’s impossible to judge where the shot originated from, but Spencer knows the forest well, and he’s guiding them through on one of the easier trails. There’s a clearing up ahead, and a crumpled heap that Ryan knows in his bones is Brendon. He runs faster.
Brendon is naked and shivering, but not bleeding anywhere, so the shot wasn’t for him. He catches sight of them as Spencer first breaks into the clearing, and holds up a hand as if to ward them off. Ryan slows, his strides tangled in confusion, but Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He keeps running, and that’s when Ryan sees Jon.
The first shot might have been for Brendon and missed, or it might have been for something else, but this one is aimed at Brendon’s heart. Jon is taking his time - Brendon isn’t going anywhere - and he hasn’t seen them yet. Spencer will never reach Brendon in time.
Ryan stumbles to a halt and yells, “No!” with as much force as he can put behind it. Jon startles, the barrel dropping a few inches as he turns around, and Spencer sprints to Brendon’s side, putting himself between Brendon and Jon. Ryan’s there a few seconds later, holding his side and wheezing, but unflinching when Jon brings the gun to bear again.
Jon studies them, disheveled and panting, then looks past Spencer to Brendon curled terrified on the ground. Finally he asks, “Who was he?”
“Jon, please,” Spencer says, not answering the question. “Let’s go back to the house and talk about this. Please.”
Jon has always had a soft spot for Spencer, but Ryan doesn’t know whether that will be enough this time. He knows how Jon feels about werewolves, knows hunting is more of a personal vendetta than an occupation. He’s brought back far more corpses in the past year than any other hunter, despite his youth.
He’s never, to Ryan’s knowledge, killed one in human form, however. Ryan clings to that, hoping that Brendon’s deer-eyes and small, vulnerable frame will make a difference. It’s all they have.
Jon finally lowers the gun and says, “All right. Let’s talk.”
* * *
Three