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The Road Less Traveled By by Dmetri

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Author's Chapter Notes:
Michael gets a little gift courtesy of the Boys, and there's a new guy in town... but what's he up to? Contains character death.
The Road Less Traveled By


Summary; What if Michael had chosen a different path?

Part Two;

The night is as cool as a kiss, sweet with the scent of candy floss and bonfire smoke. Michael is calm, not as drugged and drowsy as before, merely revelling in the wind as it caresses his face with its fingers. The Lost Boys leave their bikes along the ride of a dune, out of sight and out of mind, away from the hustle and bustle of the Boardwalk, though the faint sound of carousel music is in the air.

David and Marko are a presence at his back, herding him forward along the sand, feet sinking into the softness like the heady scent in the air is sinking into his very pores, making him feel strangely alert. Michael Emerson can feel the steady beat washing through him, the meaty organ that pumps blood around the body, though he’s clueless as to whether he is hearing the languid beat of his own heart, or someone else’s.

“This is for you, Mikey!” Paul is exuberant, all wide smiles and moving hands, eyes bright in a way that is decidedly feral. “We got ya a little gift!”

That scent... sharp and distinct, and his heart quickens in his chest, threatening to burst forth at any moment. Metallic and heady and inviting, and the sight that greets Michael’s eyes is enough to give him pause, for his very body freezes, mesmerised.

Struggling for breath, hands scrabbling intently at the rope around his wrists... is a man. The blood runs in gentle rivulets down the mans arms, softly pudgy, tough, beginning to show age. The suit is torn into thick strips of bloodstained black and white, the normally immaculate hair and bland expression pulled and twisted into some semblance of terror. Dad. Lance Emerson’s eyes bug out of his head, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, unable to voice his fear.

He stinks of terror.

But all Michael can see is the blood.

A golden film is over his eyes, a deep primal instinct rearing its great ugly head and whispering in his ears, so sensual, nudging, and urging. Take, it says, just take. Rip and tear and bite and feed. And the smell... oh the smell... it’s like someone has fucked with the receptors in his brain, and instead of feeling revulsion, all Michael wants to do is sink his teeth into such a treat, as if it is naught but a bowl of ice cream in front of him rather than a quivering semblance of a man.

Vaguely, it dawns on him that this man is his Dad. The abusive sonofabitch who forced them across to this stink hole of a coastal town, the man who’d made his Mom cry. What does Michael remember? The fighting, the tears, the bruises on the pale flesh of his Mom’s slender, bird-like limbs, and all of it just bubbles up inside him.

Anger. Hatred. Revenge.

The need to feed.

Michael never had had a good relationship with Lance. Those with like personalities always clash, or so they say, even if Michael would rather eat his own bike than admit that he and his Dad are alike. But right now, Michael isn’t exactly rational. Right now, Michael is sinking further and further into delirium, only aware enough to know that he is so very hungry and that his pack are pressed close to him... and are letting him take this kill for his own.

That’s all Michael needs before he sinks his teeth in deep.

The pulse beneath his lips flutters wildly, and the blood cascading into his mouth is full of the odd tang of adrenaline. But Lance’s terror only pumps the bitter, wonderful blood down Michael’s throat, and it’s nothing like he’s ever tasted before. Blood. Metallic and bitter and yet strangely sweet all at the same time, making him feel rejuvenated from the inside out. Lance struggles vainly against Michael, stubby hands pushing against his chest, but soon the fight goes out of him, allowing the newling vampire to suck at the bloody wound on the man’s throat like a suckling babe, lips and chin slickened with blood.

Slowly, gradually, Lance’s heart begins to slow, the meaty organ in his chest fluttering vainly, before stuttering harshly, body heaving, dead-as-a-doornail.

It slumps down onto the sand, a victim, and Michael feels drowsy, wiping the remaining blood off of his mouth with the back of his hand. Languid and with the taste of blood in his mouth, sliding thickly down his throat and into the core of his belly, where it begins to change him completely.

Cool hands grace his hot face, sliding through the slick-sticky mess. David. The animal in him is still there beneath the surface, its hunger sated, but it reacts in a way that both excites and unnerves him, sets his body ablaze.

“David.”

Michael’s voice is sand-paper rough, the needle sharp bone of his fangs accidentally knicking the side of his lip, drawing blood that intermingles with that of Michael’s poor, dead victim, and it’s that action which causes David’s eyes to become as feral and golden and primal as a beast. It’s the blood and the expression on Michael’s face, the scent of death and the underlying presence of something which wants to rip open Michaels chest and crawl inside, but will settle for burying into the crook of his neck.

It’s always about the blood.

Chest to chest and lips to lips, and a kiss which is nothing but lust, permeating the both of them until it’s all they know, until fingers arch into claws that want to do nothing but tear away the restriction of clothing, to fuck until the threat of the sun drives them home.

But for now, with David claiming Michael as his own, a kiss will just have to do.

- - - - - - - - - - -


On the outskirts of Santa Carla, there is a man. This man, enshrouded in darkness and avoiding the fluorescence of the street lamps, is of the sort that isn’t welcome in a town like this. A scar runs down the side of his face, eyes as black as coal, as he watches the night life, overlooking the town he has come to visit.

Gabriel is his name, and vampires are his game.

In the boot of his truck is Gabriel’s arsenal, kept under lock and key. A gun in its holster is hidden beneath the heavy fabric of his coat, a cigarette stuffed between his thin, scarred lips. At most, Gabriel -- which, as it happens, isn’t even his real name -- is around thirty two, though the battle scars adorning his entire body gives him an air of menace... and ups the estimation. The chain around his neck, long and silver, has gleaming, polished charms upon it; fangs.

But, of course, Gabriel isn’t here to socialise, and thus what the residents of Santa Carla think of him means absolutely nothing. To a seasoned hunter such as himself, the scent of the death surrounding this coastal town is a stench that just stays in his nostrils, causing a sneer to be stuck on his face.

Stubbing out his cigarette, Gabriel slides into the driver’s seat, shifts into gear, and drives, thinking only of his target, and his contacts.

After all, a hunter’s gotta do what a hunter’s gotta do.
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