Author's Note: Oh my god, it's done. It's done, it's done, it's done. Whew. I have such a hard time finishing long fics, especially in a timely manner, so I'm thrilled I managed to squeak this in about seven hours before my arbitrary "before Season Two starts" deadline. I may do a few small one-shot sequels or a mini-mini-series if I'm called back to this universe, but otherwise consider this story finished! This chapter was a beast to complete (action is harder than emotional angst and banter for me) but I hope it's an enjoyable end. Thanks for reading! ~ Tsuki

*I do not own Hemlock Grove. All characters are the property of Brian McGreevy, Eli Roth, and Netflix. No infringement intended; just a bit of fun!*

Chrysalis - A Hemlock Grove Story

Chapter Ten: Evolution

...

You think she looks like an angel. Right now, with the sun shining through her hair, creating a golden halo. But then, she's always been an angel to you. She smiles and your heart tightens in your chest. She's the only truly good thing in your life. There's Shelly too, but there's sadness and pain there, with how she looks and how people treat her. But with Letha, it's an easy goodness. You sigh and feel the blades of grass against your skin. It's a Sunday afternoon and she's made some feeble excuse to her parents to get out of dinner with them, so you have until a few hours past sundown to lay lazily in the park, your fingers tangled with hers, to talk about school and family, hopes and dreams. She tells you sometimes she feels like she'll break into pieces if she doesn't get out of this town. That she wants to do something special in her life, to be something special. You rub the inside of her wrist with your fingers and insist that she's special to you. She smiles and shakes her head, saying, "You don't count."

. .

Now it's a Friday night and you want to rip Mark Camben's throat out. Instead you just storm out of the party and light a cigarette. You can tell she's behind you, drunk and fuming. "What the hell, Roman!" she yells. "You can't threaten a guy just because he acts like he likes me! Jealous much?" She nearly trips on a loose rock on the road. You snarl, wanting to say that you absolutely can do just that. But that's not it. Well, not entirely. "Mark is slime," you practically spit. "If you want to end up passed out and date raped, do it sometime that I'm not here to watch over you. But yeah, I am going to threaten a guy like that. Hell, I should've done much, much worse." She sighs at you, trying to shake her head but then thinking better of it as her brain probably swims from too much jungle juice. "Between you and my dad—I swear, you want me to be some kind of chaste princess! A doll you can keep in a glass case and only take out when—" she stops abruptly, groaning for a second before she turns and vomits on the ground. You are over at her side immediately. You pull back her hair, whisper softly as you place a comforting hand on her back. She murmurs thanks as you wipe the bile from her lips. On the ride home, she falls asleep on your shoulder as if it's the most comfortable place in the world.

. .

Then it's Christmas. Shelly is playing piano, and your parents are talking in that tense way where they're trying to act like family but there are hurts and secrets under the surface, and you are sneaking quietly up to your room with Letha. She almost ruins it by laughing a few times, and you comically cover her mouth, make an exaggerated shushing sound that makes her laugh harder. You're grinning from ear to ear, your face flushed. This is a ritual—something you've done since you were kids. There are presents exchanged with the families, toys as children and typically cash as teenagers, but you and Letha have always given each other something extra, something just from and for each other. This year she gives you a pair of cufflinks that are pewter-looking silver and in the shape of wolves. "I don't know why," she says, her shrug causing her blond hair to slip over her shoulder. "They just called to me, saying they were for you." You love them, you tell her, and it's true. Then you hand her your gift—a bundle of roadmaps wrapped in silk ribbon. She purses her lips, looking up at you, confused. "I thought we could go on a road trip," you say. "Get out of the Grove. Go visit some colleges you want to see—plan your special and amazing future." You feel vaguely manipulative for how perfect the gift is, handing her a bundle of her greatest hopes. Sure enough, she tears up, her smile wide and shining. She throws her arms around you, tells you the gift is perfect, how she can't wait, and then she's kissing you and you're kissing back. This has happened before—nearly countless times. As your tongue slides against hers and you hesitantly thread your fingers through her soft hair, you know where this will lead. You'll break apart and her eyes will look to the ground, not meeting yours again for at least an hour. Then you'll both agree that it shouldn't have happened—that it can't happen again. It's weird, you'll agree. You're cousins. But no one cares for each other like you do, and the draw to each other is like a constant magnetic pull. So you'll fall and fall again, your lips on hers, her hands slipping under the hem of your shirt. You'll promise and promise that it'll never happen again and always know you're lying.

. .

Her father—dear Uncle Norman —won't let her go on the road trip. You kind of expected as much, but Letha hadn't. She yells and cries, calling him controlling. Your uncle keeps glancing over at you, furious for putting him in this position. Like he knows it was a chess move in the game of possession for Letha's heart, a move which so clearly pulls her away from her father and towards you. That's not the reason you did it—not completely. But you knew the result if he said 'no.' You propose a local camping trip instead, something shorter and safer. He grimaces, clearly still not happy about it, but now he has to say yes. You leave that weekend, your Porsche packed tight with sleeping bags, fishing rods, and a handle of whiskey hidden in the trunk. Letha sings Britney Spears and Katy Perry songs the whole drive, but you don't complain because she looks so blissfully happy. And that's really all you want, for the most part. To make her happy. It makes you feel like a good person, something you're really not sure that you are deep down.

That night, neither of you drink. Letha just wants to stare at the stars and talk about old stories. Not long before you both go to bed, she mutters, "You know, it used to be that cousins got married all the time. Turns out both Einstein and Darwin married their first cousins. Did you… know that?" You don't know what to say, so you light a cigarette and don't say anything at all.

The next night, you both polish off the whiskey with a tense determination, knowing where it will lead. Soon you're all tongues and hands, pushing her dress off her shoulders as she unbuckles your belt. "Are you sure?" you whisper, almost kicking yourself as you do so. Thankfully she whispers her agreement against your lips. You mold your hands against her skin, tongue her open until she's wet and shaking. You didn't bring protection—and you honestly would be hesitant to leave her touch for it, even if you did—but she doesn't seem to care, keeps pulling you towards her with her small legs. When you push into her fully, you know it hurts and she cries a bit against your neck. Everything makes sense. You've never felt like you cared for anyone like you care for Letha. This is right. You thrust harder, kissing away her tears, wishing this could last forever.

. .

It's February, just a month after the camping trip. You and Letha have seen as much of each other as you can since then, but between parents, Shelly, and a new semester at school, alone time has been scarce. There have been a handful of intimate moments, stolen kisses and passionate fondling, but they've been few and far between. You hunger for Letha. You have dreams about her—ones which begin with soft lovemaking and gradually shift into a nightmare of blood. You dream you rip her apart. You dream she screams. You wake up disturbed by these dreams, but more disturbed at how alive they make you feel.

Then you get the phone call—Letha's parents are worried. She won't come out of her room. She won't stop crying and won't tell them why. In desperation, her father has turned to you. You rush over as fast your Porsche will take you, bound up the stairs with barely a word of greeting to your aunt and uncle. You knock tentatively. "Letha?" She practically pulls you inside her room, buries her face in your chest. She won't stop sobbing. With trembling arms, she hands you a thin white stick. A pregnancy test. Fuck.

You suck in your breath and feel your blood run cold. You hold her until her sobbing starts to soften. "What do you want to do?" you say. "I can look for a doctor to get rid of it, you know—we could say we're taking a day trip to—" "No!" she interrupts immediately, her eyes wide. "No, no, no! I couldn't live with myself if I killed it. It's a person, Roman! Or, at least, it will be. I—I just couldn't!" You grind your teeth in annoyance. You don't understand why killing something that "will be" a person is that big of a deal, but Letha is insistent. Her voice tightens and she starts to shake again as she bemoans what to tell her parents, what people will say. "Oh God, Roman we should never have done this, I don't know if I can live with what people will—how could this happen?!" You stop yourself from making a sarcastic comment about sex-ed. It would just be a defense mechanism anyway, something to distance yourself. "I just—I wish I was dead. I don't—I—I almost grabbed some of my mom's old sleeping pills. It just seemed easier." You grab her by the shoulders so hard it almost bruises. "You what?! So killing it is wrong, but killing yourself—thereby killing it anyway—is fine? What the fuck—you idiot!" Letha winces and shakes her head, sniffling, "It's not fine. But I don't think I can face this! I don't know what to—what to—" She starts to hyperventilate again. In the next moment, which feels like a small eternity, you make a decision.

You sit down with Letha on the bed and tilt her head so that she's looking at your eyes. "Letha," you whisper. And then you push. It's like breaking through an invisible membrane. Her eyes become glassy, and you're in. "Letha, I want you to listen to me. You're okay. You're fine. You're calm. It's going to be okay." Her shoulders relax slightly and her breathing slows. "It's going to be okay because you're going to be the best mom in the world. You're going to love that baby like it's a piece of your soul. Nothing is going to make you happier." You take a deep breath. "You—you don't know who the father is. You don't remember having sex. It was an angel, like in the bible story. Which is fitting, I guess—" Your voice cracks slightly. "You're going to meet a great guy. Not an asshole like Mark Camben. Someone who sees you for who you are, who wants to take care of you. Someone kind. And he's going to be your first time. It'll be beautiful and special—everything you ever wanted. And it won't even hurt." You feel your eyes start to sting with unshed tears. This next part feels like you're ripping away a part of your soul. You feel blood start to trickle out of your nose. "You were never in love with me. We never kissed. Ever. We've always just been cousins. We love each other, but as family. I'm not the man you want. I never was." You pull back, the membrane reclosing behind her eyes. You wipe your bloody nose. Your eyes have stopped stinging, the tears suddenly dry. Letha blinks, her gaze starting to refocus. "It'll be okay," she sighs. "I think… I think I can handle this. In fact," she smiles and her cheeks flush, "I'm weirdly kind of excited."

"You'll be a good mom," you agree. You kiss her on the forehead, chaste and familial. You leave and tell your aunt and uncle that Letha has calmed down, that she'll be down to tell them what was wrong shortly. That night you get dangerously drunk and fuck Casey Lennen so hard she complains about it for a week. You insult one of Mark's douchebag friends, prompting him to take a swing at you. You nearly crack his head open in retaliation, and you tumble into a fight that leaves you both sore and bleeding. None of it makes your heart hurt less. You wonder if anything ever will.

. .

Peter gaps awake, alone in a cool bed, his pulse racing. He stares at his hands, taking a moment to remind himself where he is—to remind himself who he is. He reaches for his wolf, who stirs from sleep and prickles its fur beneath Peter's skin. When he's sufficiently grounded, Peter carefully makes his way out of the Godfrey house guest room and over to the main living room.

There Roman stands, staring out the window, a mason jar full of defrosted blood in one hand. His hair is slightly tussled, like he's just recently woken up too.

"Hey," Peter mutters.

"Hey," Roman says in kind.

"How are you feeling?"

Roman shrugs one shoulder. "I'm healed up and not bleeding from my side anymore." He takes a gulp of the mason jar's contents, careful not to meet Peter's gaze.

Peter hesitates for a moment before blurting out, "Were you just dreaming about Letha?"

Roman starts, eyes flashing in confusion. "More like remembering while sleeping, I guess. Why?"

Peter takes a breath. "I think we dream-shared again."

"Fuck," Roman says. His pale face flushes slightly.

"Was that—was that how it happened?"

Roman nods, swallowing nervously. "Pretty much. Yeah."

Peter huffs out a loud breath and shakes his head. "Shit." He walks over to the window, next to Roman, and leans against the glass. "I'm not… I'm not actually sure I would do anything different. You did what you thought was right. I mean, you loved her."

"I did," Roman agrees. "I still do, even though she's dead."

Peter nods slowly. "It must have terrified you. Letha flirting with me—a gypsy drifter, pretty much the definition of 'bad news.' After the sacrifice you made, you just wanted her with someone normal and safe."

"Yeah, well," Roman grimaces to himself as he takes another sip of the blood, "turns out it wouldn't have made a difference. I still killed her in the end."

"You…" Peter shakes his head and stares out the window, unsure of how to meet Roman's gaze, "you didn't mean to, Roman. You loved her. Fuck what that guy said—you're no killer."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

"I know," Peter insists firmly. They stand together in near-comfortable silence for a moment before Peter asks "So, what are we going to do?"

"We aren't going to do anything," Roman says flatly. "But you are going to go back home. Check on your mom. Maybe run in the woods. Chase your tail. All that shit."

Peter frowns. "And what about you?"

Roman's grip tightens on the mason jar. Peter can hear the crackling sound of the stressed glass. "I'm going to go to Godfrey Industries and very clearly explain to the Bishop that he needs to leave me alone."

Peter's spine stiffens. "And if he doesn't agree?"

Roman's face darkens and he takes in another mouthful of blood. "Then I'll show him what he wants to see. That I'm a monster."

"You're not—"

"Don't kid yourself, Rumancek," Roman interrupts sharply. "If it's him or me, I'm surviving. I don't want to kill anyone, but if I have to I will."

"That doesn't make you a monster. That makes you a survivor," Peter insists.

Roman hesitates then looks up at Peter. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

Peter nods. "But they know who you are, and that you know who the Bishop is. They'll probably expect you—and so they'll be prepared. Who knows how many other guys with swords or God knows what else they'll have waiting for you." When Roman doesn't respond, Peter sighs. "Well, clearly I'm going with you."

Roman starts, the mason jar nearly slipping from his hand. "What? No—absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because it's dangerous, you idiot—did you not listen to what you just said about guys with swords?"

"If you're going in, I'm going in too."

"No!"

"I'm not arguing with you about this."

"Fuck you—"

"Why shouldn't I go?"

"Because, you asshole, I couldn't live with myself if you got hurt. Or worse."

"Well I couldn't live with myself if you got hurt—or worse—and I wasn't there to help watch your back."

Roman's eyes flash and he grits his teeth angrily. "Why do you even care?! You were leaving me anyway. You know I'm not worth it, so just—"

Peter stops Roman's fury with a kiss. It's fierce and passionate, the energy of everything that has happened over the course of the day. "Just shut up and let me help you. You're worth it. And, for the record, I'm not going anywhere."

The sound that erupts from Roman's mouth is small and pitiful, a strangled sob. He buries his face in Peter's neck, hands scraping at his shoulders. The two men stand, clinging together, for a long quiet moment while the sun starts to disappear behind the Hemlock Grove horizon.

"Okay," Roman finally whispers, pulling back to wipe away the evidence of tears. "Call your mom—let her know you're being an idiot. Then let's go piss off a bunch of monster hunters."

.

.

The hunters rush past, and Michael can hear the click of guns being loaded and swords being checked and sheathed. The Bishop, meanwhile, is fuming. "One vampire! One! And a new one at that! And you call yourself the arm of the Vatican?"

"There was information we did not have," Michael insists. His chest feels tight and he lets out a shuttering breath. "Roman Godfrey has a werewolf ally. Apparently they're involved. I... I think it might be the werewolf who killed my sister, your excellence."

A flash of confusion passes over the Bishop's face. "The werewolf who killed…? Oh, yes. Yes, of course." The Bishop's features soften ever so slightly. "Oh, my child, the Lord does put such challenges before those he cherishes. Yes. Surely, this is your chance to avenge your sister's death and do His will. Protect our Order and slay these demons."

"Yes, sir." Michael bows his head and picks up his sword. There is something troubling about the Bishop's change of tone, but he'll worry about that later. For now, he has monsters to stop.

It's nightfall when they arrive. Roman Godfrey, dressed in a rich black jacket and designer slacks, strolls into the building's lobby likes he owns it. His face is cool and determined, his cheeks a soft shade of pink like he has recently fed. Michael's grip tightens on his rapier's hilt. Next to Godfrey's side, a large gray and brown wolf stalks, eyes a clear yellow and ears high on alert.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," Godfrey announces coolly. "I only want to speak to the Bishop." The only answer to his request is the sound of the safeties on the guns around the lobby perimeter being clicked into release. The wolf growls menacingly, but Godfrey shushes it. "Last chance—let me through." Hesitating, he adds a flat "please."

One of the hunters tightens his finger on the trigger. His gun goes off and, after that, it's chaos. Godfrey is a blur of motion, separating hunters from their weapons if he can, dodging and striking. The wolf's snarls are loud, even over the gunfire. Its teeth clamp onto one hunter's pant leg, pulling hard and jamming his fur-covered body against him to throw the man off balance. The hunter screams loudly, afraid of becoming bitten, and turns to fire at the wolf. His attempts are stopped quickly by the crushing grip of Godfrey, whose strength breaks the man's hand with a deafening crunch.

Michael grits his teeth and backs away, protecting the entrance to the Bishop's office. Roman appears to be shockingly strong, even by vampire standards. Michael silently curses Olivia Godfrey's hellish bloodline as, one by one, the twelve hunters who guard the lobby fall.

.

.

Roman's breath comes hard and fast as he punches the last hunter—a woman with some sort of hooked katana—in the throat. Peter's wolf growls at the woman, as if telling her to stay down. The door is now blocked only by a final obstacle, the same man who stabbed him earlier.

"I will not let you harm the Bishop, demon," the man asserts, his this sword poised at the ready.

"And I won't let myself be hunted and killed for absolutely no reason," Roman snaps in return. "You assholes came to me first! And right back there—one of your guys fired his gun at us before we'd done anything. You keep telling me that I'm some sort of violent monster, but it seems like you guys want to kill a hell of a lot more than I do." The wolf at his side snarls in agreement.

"I will not listen to your tricks," the man scoffs. He raises his sword and moves forward to strike. The wolf is on him in an instant, jaws crunching down on the man's arm. He screams, pushing Peter's wolf off of him. The wolf just snarls and pounces again. Roman hesitates a moment, wondering if he should help Peter, but the wolf seems to have the situation under control so Roman steadies himself and slips past the doorway and into the Bishop's office.

.

.

The bite is hot and burning. Though fresh, it feels infected. Michael grimaces and tries to reach for his sword, but his left hand won't close—the bite is deep and has severed something—and another deep bite in his right shoulder has rendered his other arm useless as well. He closes his eyes and says a quick prayer, waiting for the inevitable, for the werewolf to finish him off.

When nothing happens, Michael opens his eyes again.

Before him, brown fur dissolves back into human flesh. The boy groans as his mouth returns to normal, lips and teeth reforming over the remains of the wolf's muzzle. He coughs for a moment, spits out a mouthful of blood. Then he looks up at Michael, his green eyes crisp and clear.

"What are you doing?" Michael chokes out. "You've won. Kill me."

The boy frowns. "I thought we'd made it pretty clear that wasn't our goal. You'll notice we didn't kill any of your friends either." He gestures at the hunters, unconscious or groaning on the ground around them.

"You may as well have killed me," Michael spits. "I'm bitten now. Infected. A monster."

The young man lets a surprised laugh escape from his lips. "You're a fan of the 'm' word, aren't you? Look, we're not monsters. We're different. But we make choices just like anyone else—Roman chooses every day not to kill, to not be his mother. And I haven't killed anyone in my life. A lot of wildlife, sure, but no people. My mom did a good job of teaching me how to deal with the wolf, and because of her I've never slipped up. You're actually the first person I've ever bitten… sorry about that. You didn't really leave me much of a choice though."

Michael stares at the young man in confusion. "… what about my sister? She was killed looking for you in Hemlock Grove."

The boy frowns, brow wrinkling for a moment before he gasps in realization. "Shit—that wildlife agent. Um, Clementine, right? She was your sister?" Michael nods, teeth gritted in silent fury. The young man just shakes his head. "It wasn't me. I actually didn't know she was dead. We were hunting a Vargulf. That could have gotten her I guess, but I never heard about a body and it's not like a rabid werewolf cleans up after itself. But, I promise you, I didn't kill your sister."

Michael's heart sinks. He was so sure he had the answer—that the questions raised by the mysteriously empty file were answered. But the boy does seem like he's telling the honest truth, leaving Michael with a sinking heart. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but the boy holds up a hand, requesting silence. Then the young man bolts forward, his head tilted sideways and straining toward the Bishop's office. There is yelling coming from the room, and it's getting louder. Michael watches as the boy's eyes glint yellow again and his skin begins to stretch and tear, the wolf emerging once again.

Perhaps against his better judgment, Michael does not use the transformation to his tactical advantage. Instead, like the young werewolf, he tilts his head toward the door and listens.

.

.

"Why me?!" Roman demands furiously. The Bishop had been ready and is now training a silver pistol on him, but Roman refuses to be intimidated. "I haven't done anything to you and I haven't—I haven't killed. Not like my mother. If you're supposed to kill 'monsters,' why didn't you do after her?"

The Bishop raises an eyebrow and then half-shrugs, as if the information is trivial. "It would have been politically and economically inconvenient to go after your mother. She knew this as well as I did. Which is why she killed Clementine so brutally—it was a message to me. A dare: I could choose to go after her head-on and give up any hope of gaining a control of Godfrey Industries, or I could help cover up her murders and turn a blind eye in exchange for having a chance at perhaps the greatest weapon imaginable."

Roman's stomach sinks. "Weapon?"

"Yes, my boy. You really don't pay any attention to what your company does, do you? Dr. Pryce has been working on creating vampire-animal and vampire-human hybrids. Something as deadly as you, but easier to control. Imagine a pack of dogs—trained to kill vampires—that had the same speed and abilities that you do. A pack completely in the Vatican's control. That is worth a few broken eggs."

"You mean 'a few broken people,'" Roman spits back. "Including me."

"Oh, dear lad, you are no 'person,'" the Bishop laughs. "But yes, perhaps you're right. Your mother certainly deserved our wrath, and—in many ways—you do not. But that is the reality of life, and ultimately your guilt is inconsequential. You stand in my way, and you are a demonic creature. I shall lose no sleep over your demise, and your death shall be mourned by no one."

The Bishop clicks his pistol to ready and braces to fire. The action is immediately interrupted by a blur of fur and teeth, Peter's wolvish jaws crunching down on the Bishop's hand. The older man screams, backhanding the wolf and forcing it off of his arm. Roman takes the opportunity to rush forward, grabbing the Bishop's injured arm and trying to force the gun from his hand. In the struggle, the gun fires blindly. Roman hears a loud yelp and his blood runs cold.

"Peter?!" Roman turns and sees the wolf on the ground, blood pooling from its side. "No! Oh shit, Peter!" Without thinking, Roman lets go of the Bishop and rushes over to the animal's side. There is blood rushing from the wound, raw and red. Roman collapses to his knees and presses down on the wound hard, trying to stop the bleeding. His heart is in his throat, every nerve a livewire of panic—so much so that he barely hears the click of the Bishop's gun, poised and ready to fire.

But there's no burst of a shot, no explosion of sound. Instead, just a bubbling gurgle as a thin silver rapier is pushed though the Bishop's chest. "May God forgive us all," the hunter whispers as the Bishop collapses to the ground.

.

.

Michael watches as the Bishop's body falls to the ground, his blood pooling on the marble floor. Roman Godfrey stares in shock. "You—you just—" Then he shakes himself and turns back to the wolf. "He's bleeding badly! I don't know what to do!" the vampire half-sobs. Michael stumbles over and looks at the wolf's wound.

"You're doing well," he insists. "Just keep applying pressure. In a few minutes, feed him a little bit of your blood—not much, just a few drops. That should help speed up healing. The rest his body will do itself before he shifts back into his human form."

"Yeah?" Roman's eyes are crazed with worry. With what Michael can only call 'love.'

"It's why werewolves are so difficult to kill. They're excellent healers." Sure enough, Michael looks down at his own bite wounds. The skin has already started to stitch together and heal. "Hurry though—the hunters are recovering and may call for reinforcements. If you want to escape alive, we must leave now."

.

.

Peter wakes up feeling like death warmed over, a phantom pain in his side and the taste of blood in his mouth. He groans and tries to sit up, only to be pushed back down again by a cool hand. "Careful," Roman says. "You just shifted back, and you're definitely still injured."

"What—?"

"You were shot," Roman explains.

Peter closes his eyes and feels the world moving around him. Cracking an eye open, he sees the landscape moving outside glass windows. "Where are we? This isn't your car."

"No, we made a trade-in. And by trade in, I mean that some guy is going to be very shocked and pretty fucking happy when his head clears and he discovers that he has a practically new sports-car rather than his ratty old Honda. Seriously, this thing looks like shit."

"It's less conspicuous," a voice calls from the driver's seat.

Peter's eyes adjust to the darkness and he gasps, his whole body tensing. It's the hunter. "What the fuck is—"

"Don't worry," Roman puts a hand on his neck, soft but firm. "He's on our side now."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I killed my mentor, the Bishop," the older man says flatly, his expression grim.

Peter blinks, stunned. "What? Why?"

The man hesitates. "My whole life I've believed in the Justice of the Lord. The Bishop knew that—it's how he got me to join the Order. Clementine joined because I did. But that wasn't real Justice. You were right—you two aren't monsters. The Bishop was concerned with weapons and politics, not with doing what's right. I couldn't sit back and let him kill you. So I acted. Besides," he raises his hand, the bite mark still garishly raw, "I guess I'm going to be a monster now too. I suppose I need to start believing that even a demon can do the right thing."

Roman makes a semi-bitter sound and rests his head against Peter's shoulder. "You can try, anyway. And I guess you'll just have to hope that's enough."

"I guess so," the hunter agrees. He exits the freeway and Peter realizes that they're only a few miles away from his New York home. "The Order will be looking for you, you know. You invaded an Order facility. They won't let you get away with that."

Peter sighs. "Time to run again." He's not sure, but he thinks he feels Roman tense beside him.

.

.

When they pull up to Peter's home, Lynda is out of the house like a racehorse. She wraps a blanket around Peter's bare shoulders, asks about his injuries, whispers to him in Romanian as she gathers him into her arms. She ushers them into the house, shakes Michael's hand, makes them all tea, and listens as the story pours out of them. She is surprisingly calm by the time the story ends.

"You're gonna have to run, baby." She looks at Peter meaningfully. He nods.

"I know. Can I take the emergency stash?"

She nods, turning to retrieve a stack of bills from a coffee can. "You'll have to lay low. Contact me when you can, but make sure you're as in the clear as possible."

"I will." Peter leans in and grasps his mother in a hug. "Thank you." He turns to where Michael is sitting, sipping a cup of tea that Lynda had made for him. "What are you going to do?"

Michael shrugs one shoulder. "There are creatures out there that hurt people. Not every werewolf or vampire is like you. And the fact that the Vatican turned a blind eye to the worst of them because of politics… well, I guess I can go after them on my own. After all, I'm a lone wolf now. No pun intended."

Peter nods grimly. "Just make sure they deserve it before you try to turn them into a pin cushion, alright?" Michael nods and raises his tea mug as if in a toast. "Also, you should talk to my mom. She can probably answer a lot of your questions about the change."

Lynda raises an eyebrow but then smiles softly. "I've been helping this one shift since he was a child. Trust me, shifter kids are enough to give you a heart attack." She chuckles to herself, shaking her head. "I'd be happy to give you the cliff notes."

"Thank you," Michael sighs. "I'd really appreciate that."

Roman is notably silent. Then the ceramic mug shatters in his hand. "Excuse me," he mutters, shoving himself away from the table and hurrying out of the house. Peter is behind him within moments.

"Hey—what is it?" Peter puts his hand on Roman's shoulder, but the upir shoves it away.

"What is it? My whole life is in shambles. I'm not going to be a Princeton student, or a shareholder. I won't be able to be Roman Godfrey anymore at all."

Peter is silent a moment before whispering. "I'm not entirely convinced that's a bad thing. This is your chance to just be you, not what anyone else wanted you to be. Not what Olivia wanted you to be."

Roman groans as he licks a trickle of blood from the cuts on his palm. "I just don't see how this is going to work!"

"Well… I suppose we'll get back in the car and start driving west." Peter says. "Maybe to California, or Oregon. We'll stop along the way, meet new people and see new things."

Roman looks up at him, disbelieving. "I need cities to hunt, and you'll need to run."

"We'll alternate when we can. City one day, forest the next."

"We don't even have the same music taste, and you expect us to share a car radio for god knows how long?"

"Again, we'll alternate."

"We'll fight, you know. We don't go long without one of us biting the other's head off."

"And then we'll make up. And make up sex with us is pretty great."

Peter's voice is round and charming. Roman half-snorts, his voice trembling as he mentions: "You might change your mind. I can't—I literally will have nothing left. No family, no name. I can't—I need—"

Peter steps forward and presses his forehead against Roman's. "I already told you. I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, Godfrey."

Lydia watches from the house as the two young men embrace, burying their faces into each other's shoulders.

As the sun starts to lighten the sky to a pale purple, the promise of sunrise, she can't help but notice the feint hint of hope and optimism glistening behind her son's eyes. It's dangerous, but it's an adventure. It's human life, sweat and blood, laughter and tears. It's so much more to Peter now than just the time in between the wolf.

They pack up bags quickly, their eyes on the horizon.

"You're not the only Godfrey on the run, you know," Peter mentions. "Maybe we'll find Shelly."

Roman pauses, blinking for a moment at the idea. "Yeah. Yeah, maybe." He sighs, watching the clouds outside the window shift to pale pink. "So much is going to be different. I'm going to have to be different. I feel like these past few years I've been wrapped up tightly—like in a cocoon—and I don't know what I'll evolve into when it's all said and done."

"Like a butterfly?" Peter asks. Roman shakes his head.

"Butterflies make chrysalises, not cocoons."

"Same thing, right?" Peter zips up his duffel-bag and looks up at Roman. "Either way, it's change. And we won't know if it's good or bad until it happens. Not knowing is a part of the journey." Roman stares at Peter a second before crossing the room in a blur. He pulls Peter to him, practically devouring him in a kiss. Peter sighs and leans in. "It'll be okay," he whispers against Roman's throat. "You aren't alone." He sighs again, the significance of the statement suddenly real to him. "Neither of us are alone anymore."

The car is packed within the half-hour, and the boys only briefly fight over who's going to drive the first leg (Roman finally convinces Peter that he's less injured and should take the first shift while the young werewolf heals). They wish Michael luck, ask Lynda to give their best to Destiny, and give her the fiercest goodbye hugs she could ever imagine. It kills her that this is it—that she might never see her son again. But this is how it has to be. In some ways, it was the only way it could be.

As the car pulls away, taking Roman and Peter into the unknown, the sun's orange light spills over the road, lighting the way for something new.

END