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Not for the first time, Chris wishes his packmates didn't make so much damn noise.
Tonight's meeting is not likely to end well, and Chris would really prefer if the small contingent of his packmates that are with him would at least try to conceal their presence as long as possible. The vampires are gonna smell their blood from a mile off already; they don't need to exacerbate the problem with their ruckus. The wolves are already at a disadvantage—if the vampires selected for tonight's parley know what they're doing, it won't take them long to puzzle out exactly how many wolves are approaching by scent alone, much less the noise level. And vampires are notoriously hard to detect—aside from a faint scent of grave dirt and blood that seems to hang over vampires like a cloud no matter how many of them there are, they're very good at giving no indication of their presence until you're within line of sight. They don't move, don't breathe, don't make the slightest sound to alert even the most watchful werewolf to their presence.
And Chris's pack is far from the most watchful at the moment.
Chris sighs to himself. He gets it, he does—the moon is nearly full and that tends to lead to a certain kind of restless energy among werewolves. Chris has just gotten so used to ignoring his own wolf unless it's a full moon or an emergency that he's less affected by the desire to move and play and fight. Which, he supposes, is probably why the alpha sent him to lead this parley. He'd much rather be back in his apartment scribbling lyrics on the various and sundry pieces of scrap and notebook paper that tend to follow Chris wherever he goes.
Alas. Duty calls.
The others continue to play-fight as they walk, jostling into one another and setting jewelry chains rattling, and once a chain-link fence that they have to duck through. The meet's been set up in the coarser side of the city, a place known among the supernatural world as The Gutter—a back lot of some run-down old Chinese takeout place that is more than likely a front for some mob or another, accessible on either side only by two narrow alleyways collectively known as The Drainpipe. It's a frequent meeting place for parleys between rival werewolf packs, vampire clans, mages infringing on each other's work, and even the occasional fae squabble. Perfect neutral ground.
Chris still doesn't see tonight's meeting ending in anything other than bloodshed, though.
Vampires and werewolves don't get along. That's one of the first things you learn after you've been Turned and found a clan or a pack, respectively. The number one rule of all business in the shadow world is that vampires and werewolves don't mix—so if you've got one of each in the same room, come armed with silver bullets and stakes. There's a concept known as the 'Forbitten List' among the werewolf packs Chris has known over the years, which as near as he's been able to figure is a list of all the things werewolves are expressly forbidden to do by general consensus among the denizens of the supernatural shadow world, and at the top of that list is that vampires and werewolves are not allowed to fall in love with each other.
It's always seemed a reasonable rule to Chris, given the sheer level of animosity between the two species.
That same level of animosity is what makes tonight's parley so dangerous. One of the local vampire clans has been slowly but steadily infringing on Chris's pack's territory, and rather than just sending some wolves out to the slowly-shifting border to re-bury some undead bodies as a warning, Chris's alpha opted to try the diplomatic approach. It took a little convincing and one very frustrated go-between mage messenger, but somehow a meet was arranged—five representatives of each party, to meet near midnight in the Gutter one week from the night of the last message.
And so here Chris is, trudging through back alleys with his packmates behind him, heading for a meeting he can't help but feel is going to go horribly wrong.
His packmates finally quiet as they approach the dark entrance to the Drainpipe, and Chris can sense the change come over them as they all shift from playful packmates to the predators their monsters have made them into. Chris's wolf perks up its ears as Chris catches the faint scent of the vampires on the wind; so they're already here.
Chris fights the urge for his hand to stray to the stake on his belt. All five werewolves are equipped with one, in case this gets messy, just as he's sure the vampires have some sort of silver weapons to bring to bear against the werewolves if it comes to that. Chris glances back once at his pack; all of them are alert now, eyes glowing the strange, vivid yellow of all werewolves preparing for transformation.
Okay. Here goes nothing.
Chris leads the way out of the Drainpipe and into the Gutter.
The Gutter truly is a miserable little place, all cracked concrete and crumbling brick walls on all sides. A half-full Dumpster rests against one wall, and the smell makes Chris want to wrinkle his extra-sensitive nose. His pack files into the Gutter behind him, fanning out in a protective stance. Justin, new to the pack but incredibly loyal, is on Chris's right; Ryan, who's been here longer than Chris has been a werewolf, is on his left. Chris doesn't know the other two quite as well, but they're his packmates; he'd trust them with his life.
And he might have to, Chris thinks, as he catches sight of the vampires.
He's not had much cause to deal with vampires before, and has only the vaguest notion of what they're supposed to look like. And, truth be told, they're about what he expected—death-pale and bloodless, eyes shimmering blood-red in the moonlight, a few with fangs bared in snarls. None of them are overly remarkable—
Until his eyes land on the leader, and Chris's breath catches in his throat.
He's heard vampires are possessed of an ethereal beauty, but even still he's not sure he's ever seen anything quite as beautiful as the man standing before him. His hair is long and black, elegantly framing a rather round face with subtle but well-defined cheekbones. His eyes are rimmed in black eyeshadow, which Chris thinks is just a little dramatic, and currently the same blood-red as the other vampires; he wonders what color they are normally. He has a lip piercing—some black metal, of course, nothing silver—and what Chris can see of his throat and arms is covered in tattoos, much like Chris himself. He wears a formal white button-up with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms and incongruous black jeans that Chris cannot detect a single hole or patch in.
Chris can't stop staring.
At least until he meets the vampire's eyes, and briefly sees his own startled expression reflected back at him before the vampire's walls come slamming down and he strides a few paces forward into the Gutter.
Justin nudges Chris, and Chris gives himself a mental shake, grudgingly allowing his wolf's senses to sharpen a bit and ground him back in the situation at hand.
"You are Chris Motionless of the Green Ridge Street Werewolves, correct?" says the vampire, and God, even his voice is beautiful. Chris shakes himself again.
"I am," Chris says, searching his memory for this guy's name. The last communication either of their leaders had had before tonight was to confirm with the other side who they could be sending as representative. "And you are Ricky Horror of Riskel Corbett's clan, are you not?"
"I am," confirms the vampire—Ricky. "So, to business. I'm told you're here about a territory issue?"
"You bloodsuckers are trying to edge your way into my pack's territory," Chris says bluntly. "You're trying to suck our prey away—literally."
"Please," snorts the vampire. Chris marvels privately that he even manages to look beautiful while being utterly derisive. "We have no shortage of 'prey', as you put it. We try not to harm humans, and there's two hospitals with blood banks within our own territory. Why would we need to invade yours?"
"There must be some reason, otherwise we wouldn't be here," Chris says, shoving aside his instant and undeniable attraction to this man by indulging in his annoyance that he's playing dumb about the territory infringement. "The border between my pack's territory and your clan's needs to remain at Keyster Avenue. You have everything North of Keyster and we don't need you bloodsuckers poking around Leggetts Creek or any of our interests in our sector."
"And what's so important about Leggetts Creek, hmm?" asks Ricky smoothly.
Chris isn't having it. "None of your damn business." This is kind of fun, and they haven't even really started negotiating yet. Chris might be in trouble. "The point is, keep your fangs out of it."
"Our clan is growing," Ricky attempts. "As such, we need a bigger slice of territory."
"Please, you vamps live in a commune or something, don't you?" Chris says. "I don't know why your territory's so big to begin with."
"Calm, Chris," Ryan mutters under his breath. "Don't start a fight."
It doesn't seem like Ricky's all that ruffled by the comment, though. "Our business is our business," he says, and Chris is about to ask what that has to do with anything when he continues. "The space we need to conduct it will not be disregarded because some dogs want a bigger yard to play in."
There is a general growling and raising of hackles from the werewolves at Chris's back, and Chris feels his own spine stiffen at the insult. "Now who's starting the fight?" he mutters to Ryan out of the corner of his mouth, and holds up a hand to still the wolves. The growling ceases, but teeth are bared in barely restrained anger now.
"Our territory stays the size it is," Chris says firmly. "If you need to expand, take it up with someone who won't send border guards to tear any stray vampire we find to pieces. Just because we're trying diplomacy first doesn't mean we won't defend ourselves if you don't take your vampires right back to the holes they crawled out of on your side of Keyster."
"And what if the holes my vampires crawled out of are on your side of the line, hm?" Ricky asks, and Chris is simultaneously infuriated by the man and incredibly attracted to him. This, he thinks soberly, is a dangerous combination, especially given what he is.
"I find that unlikely, given that vampire turnings in werewolf territory are forbidden," Chris says pointedly.
Ricky shrugs. "You can't blame a man for trying."
"Pack your vampires up and have them firmly back in your own territory before sunrise tomorrow, and make sure they stay there," Chris says. "Otherwise things are going to get bloody, and that is a promise."
Ricky shrugs again, and Chris's eyes track the movement. "I will consult with Corbett about the matter."
Chris rolls his eyes, but he can't say he was expecting any other outcome. From what little he knows about Corbett's clan, they're not ones to push the matter when they're in the wrong—though of course this is contingent on them knowing they're in the wrong. Chris is going to count this night as a win in his book, especially because nobody's lunged at each other yet.
Chris deems the meeting over and turns back to his packmates, intending to start the long trek back to his messy little apartment, only to pause when Ricky calls after him. "Motionless, a moment?"
Chris raises an eyebrow at his packmates. Justin shrugs at him, and Ryan nods, communicating more effectively in those simple gestures than words ever could. Chris nods back and turns to face the vampire again, hearing Justin and Ryan corral the other two wolves back down the Drainpipe and out into the rest of the city.
He finds Ricky doing something similar, conversing in low tones with another vampire who seems to be his second, a man with short brown hair bearing two bright red streaks at the front. The other vampire seems to be protesting, but eventually turns and beckons the other vampires after him, and within a few seconds they're gone.
Chris studies Ricky again. He really is incredibly hot. All the warnings and rules about not interacting with vampires seem to have left his brain in the face of such beauty.
"So, why did you want me, bloodsucker?" Chris asks.
Ricky appraises him for a moment, and Chris is briefly self-conscious about his own appearance—he's wearing his favorite red leather jacket and ripped jeans, and his short black hair is well out of the way. He looks fine. And what does this vampire care, anyway?
"You are perhaps the prettiest man I've ever seen," Ricky says, and Chris's heart stops for a second. "And I have seen a lot of men in my time."
"I'm sorry, what?" Chris asks, hardly believing his ears.
"You heard me," says Ricky, with absolutely no trace of regret for the words. Chris decides he respects him just for that.
Well, two can play at that game. "You know, I was gonna say the same thing about you," Chris says. "I heard vampires are hot, but you're something else."
Ricky's eyes flick away from Chris's for a moment and Chris wonders if he'd be blushing if his blood flowed. Then they're back, that same steady resolve and almost taunting glint that he's been training on Chris for the last thirty minutes turned on full force.
"I suppose I'm meant to hate you for the way you handled that parley," Ricky says, hand dropping idly to his belt, where Chris just now notices a knife is sheathed—he's willing to bet his own tail that it's silver. Strangely, the sight doesn't make him fear for his life; he gets the sense that's not Ricky's intent here.
"I think you're supposed to hate me for being a werewolf," Chris points out, and Ricky actually laughs.
"Fair enough. As you're supposed to hate me for being a vampire." He nods at the stake hanging from Chris's belt. "You came prepared for a fight."
"So did you. What's your point?"
Ricky's gaze seems to be searching his face. "Just that I don't think you're going to use that." He draws the knife, and the silver blade reflects the moonlight, sending a shimmering pattern across the nearest wall.
Chris swallows, but does not budge. He draws the stake. "Like you're not going to use that?"
Ricky considers him for a moment, then sticks the knife point-down in the soft earth that's spilled into a crack in the concrete. "Indeed."
Chris shrugs, hardly able to believe what's happening but decidedly not wanting to walk away and break the spell. He sticks the stake in the ground beside the knife, the crossed weapons forming a small X where they rest. "I gotta say," Chris muses, "for a vampire you sure are interesting."
"And that's supposed to mean...?" Ricky says, with a pointedly raised eyebrow that Chris thinks is incredibly hot.
"That you're a lot calmer and more patient than the stories my packmates tell," Chris says. "And certainly prettier."
"Oh, my dear werewolf," Ricky says. "I'm far from calm."
And in a fraction of a heartbeat Ricky's kissing him.
Well, that was fast, Chris thinks somewhat nonsensically even as he returns the vampire's kiss. Hey, who is he to turn down a pretty guy kissing the moonlights out of him, even if that pretty guy is supposed to be his mortal enemy?
He's not really sure who bites who, but there's blood on his lip when he finally pulls away because he still needs to breathe, thank you. He stares at Ricky, whose fangs are peeking out, and decides the blood is probably his.
This is confirmed a moment later when Ricky licks his lips and says thoughtfully, "Hm. You're my favorite blood type."
Chris raises an eyebrow. "You have a favorite blood type?"
"Most vampires do," Ricky shrugs. "They all taste slightly different, you know."
"I wouldn't." His wolf might, but Chris tries to avoid calling up his wolf's memory.
They stare at each other in silence for a minute. Chris breaks it. "So what now?" He's asking himself as much as Ricky. He doesn't really want this to be a one-off thing, but he's not exactly supposed to start dating vampires just because one of them is incredibly hot. And a good kisser, Chris has to give him that.
Ricky considers. "Same time next week?" he offers. "There's a half-decent restaurant on Ferdinand that caters to both worlds, and it's not in either of our territories."
Chris is mildly surprised. "You want to do this again?"
"Don't you?"
Well, yes, but this is a really bad idea. Chris knows that, and yet...
And yet.
"Alright then, bloodsucker," Chris says, and impulsively pulls out one of the various crumpled bits of paper he carries on him in case of lyrical inspiration. He scrawls his phone number and hands it to Ricky. "Just text me the address."
Ricky pockets the phone number and picks up his knife, resheathing it in one smooth movement. "I'll see you then, moonlighter."
And he turns and heads out his side of the Drainpipe.
Chris stares at the spot where he disappeared for a long few moments, processing everything that's happened tonight. He's not sure, but he thinks he might be in love with that wily little vampire. Which is likely not a good sign for him, but he's frankly interested to see where this goes.
He gathers his stake and turns to head for home, an idea for a song already forming in his mind. He's never fallen in love at first bite before, and he's certainly had one of the weirdest nights since his turning in the last hour, but he'll give this thing with Ricky a shot.
He might be fucked as all hell, but at least it'll be fun.