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George was ashamed to admit he didn’t realize Kipps was a vampire at first. To be fair, they’d been in the middle of a brawl with a bored demigod. It was supposed to be just a handful of fae causing trouble, but of course it turned out to be a full blown trickster which—the signs were all there, Lockwood. If George had simply been given more than an hour’s notice, maybe they would have come with a bit of godsteel or at least a dampening ritual. Of course all their iron was useless.
Luckily, Kipps and his team were there. George knew there was bad blood between Lockwood and Kipps, but he didn’t realize until much later why that was so funny.
…
The knock was loud, commanding, and George was whisking egg into stiff peaks.
“Come in!” He called, not losing a moment’s focus. The door rattled open, and unfamiliar steps came up the hallway.
“Did you have a fight with Carlyle’s boyfriend?” Kipps’ unimpressed voice rumbled, and George’s eyes darted up.
His head cocked to the side, and he said, “Lockwood?”
His pining roommates weren’t officially together, but everyone could see them dancing around each other like a witch coven on the Harvest Moon, except tragically less naked. Kipps set a file folder on the kitchen table, far away from the mess George had made. He was an excellent cook and an even better baker, but the kitchen usually paid the price for the scant few hours between cooking and cleanup. This time it was a dropped bag of flour.
“No, the ghost one,” Kipps said. He padded forward to peer into the various mixing bowls.
Ah, Skull. The flour. George snorted.
“Very funny. Why are you here?” With the eggs whisked to perfection, he gently folded them into his dry ingredients.
“Tony didn’t tell you?” Kipps was pacing around the table, arms folded, but he was being marginally polite about it. He wasn’t going behind George at the very least. That move would set off a couple dozen Forms, including George’s.
“He’s been busy today.”
It was Swimming Day. Running water wasn’t Lockwood’s favorite and Lucy preferred to avoid crowds, so they took a bus up to a selkie colony near Oxford that had their own lake. Lockwood mostly spent the day with thick sunglasses, fully clothed, under the protective shade of a gazebo, but he never missed a Swimming Day. George begged off this time in the hopes that one of the Muses would wander by and take pity on Lucy and Lockwood.
“You really shouldn’t just invite strangers into your home,” Kipps said. George’s eyes flickered up, catching Kipps’ calm gaze. George felt his pupils constrict, his vision sharpening as he looked for the threat in Kipps’ dark, careful tone.
“Fine then. Leave,” George said, and Kipps blinked.
“The cheque is in the envelope,” he said quickly even as his legs carried him towards the nearest exit—the backdoor to the kitchen. Before he could wrench it open and throw himself out, George landed a dough-flaked hand on his forearm.
“Stay,” George barked, and Kipps froze. George sighed, rubbing over his face, mussing his glasses, and he tried to remember the correct string of words. “You are welcome in this house until a member of the household says the words you are uninvited.”
His brother liked to tease their sister’s wife by uninviting her whenever she beat him at cards, but she was a good sport. She occasionally did it back, and Anton would get up, ranting and raving about being expelled from his own ancestral home. He dragged himself out of the house, pretending to be evicted. The kids loved it.
“Does Tony know you give blanket permissions to members of other covens?” Kipps asked, relaxing. His skin was cool under George’s fingers. George took back his hand.
“So that’s why Lockwood hates you,” George mumbled. He went back to his baking, his fingers rubbing together.
“He hates me for other reasons too,” Kipps said, tracing his way back to the folder. “Like I said, the cheque is in the envelope. The rest is the description of services rendered. I want it clear we’re not paying you for Tony’s bumbling, releasing that second djinn.”
George rolled his eyes. He’d already given Lockwood an earful for that too.
“We’re paying for your research expertise. It was a Phoenician djinn, not ancient Syrian like we assumed,” Kipps said. George smirked.
“Phoenician is easy to mistake if you’re an idiot,” he said innocently, blinking up at Kipps whose stoic expression shifted into something sly.
“We can’t all be genius linguistic scholars,” Kipps said, and he drifted forward. Towards George.
“Are you calling me a genius?” George realized he’d over kneaded the dough without thinking about it. Again.
“Doesn’t everybody?” Kipps shot back, sidling up to the edge of the table, close enough that if George leaned over—
“Yes,” George said, feeling something go gooey inside him. He usually didn’t mind his instincts, really, but sometimes they were very inconvenient. Like when confronted with a cute boy complimenting his intelligence. George cleared the purr from his throat, and he continued, “For the record, Mr. Kipps, if you please.”
Kipps leaned forward, dipping his chin as if he were talking into a microphone. “I think George Karim could be a genius.”
George’s temper flared, but years of diverting his own moods kept him from baring his teeth. Instead, he blew air out of his nose, eyes dropping from the handsome slant of Kipps’ mouth.
“That’s a lot of qualifiers,” George said. He didn’t scowl, but it was a near thing.
“Hm, I need more evidence,” Kipps replied.
“Saving everybody’s lives isn’t enough—”
George cut himself off with a grunt when he looked up to find the jam spoon hanging out of Kipps’ mouth.
Vampires.
They were such delicate creatures. Solid food was impossible to digest, but anything liquid or gelatin could get absorbed. Blood was nourishing, of course, but George’s homemade raspberry preserves were nigh irresistible—at least, that was what Lockwood said every time George threatened to stake him with his wooden spoon.
“Get out of my house,” George said, and Kipps grinned around the spoon. He slipped it out of his mouth, tongue peeking out to find any stray sugar on his lips.
“You don’t really want me gone,” Kipps said, flipping the dainty spoon between his fingers. Ugh, vampires and their dexterity. George squeezed his eyes shut, lest his incorrigible pupils give him away. His glasses tempered the effect, but this close, sometimes people noticed.
“You are uninvited,” George hissed, and Kipps was laughing as he was dragged by the magic that governed them all. He put up a token fight, but ultimately, he was shoved out the back door, spoon still in hand.
…
A coven. A whole coven. They’d expected the wizard to be trouble, but Lucy’s pelt was resistant to magic, and Kat had pretty quickly figured out the wizard was a Somatic. He couldn’t cast his wiggly little spells if he didn’t have any hands. George was in the process of collecting said hands, putting them in a stasis bag for reattachment later, when Bobby stumbled across a secret switch among the wizard’s books.
“No, don’t—!” The wizard cried, but it was too late. The bookshelf slid to the side, revealing another room next to this laboratory.
Wizards and their hubris. He hadn’t even chained them. He’d always used his magic to keep them at bay. A half dozen flat black eyes glittered in the dark, and Bobby yelped, flashing back, drawing his rapier.
“Ferals,” Bobby spat.
“What kind?” George demanded, moving closer to get a proper look. Any Form could go feral—deprive a selkie of their pelt, silence a siren. Make a vampire go without blood.
“Vampires!” The wizard said, waving his stump arms. “Reinstate the barrier, you stupid girl!”
Kat started murmuring a spell, fast like a hum under her breath. She was a Vocative. The edges of the doorframe glimmered. The ferals were faster.
One of them lunged at George, and it all went to chaos after that.
Teeth and strong, cold hands. Watching Lockwood and Kipps bare their fangs and fight like drowning men, like dying men. Savage, unskilled, pure instinct making them tear each other apart but none of it would be enough. They hadn’t brought any stakes. Why would they, for a stupid wizard? They didn’t need a living weapon to kill a mage, but vampires— George tried to dive for the wooden desk. One of the legs could make a decent stake, but a feral grabbed his ankle, sending him sprawling. He was about to be bitten when Kat’s booming voice filled the air.
George translated in his head. A spell of light, of life, aimed at their undead companions. The feral clutching his foot relaxed their hold, and George blinked at the face that was once a person. When a vampire was starved into going feral, their complexion was usually first. They turned absolutely ashen for their skin color. Then their skin dried, stretching like cheap leather over their bones. Then they lost all their hair. Then the eyes, flat black and animal. George wasn’t sure he would even recognize the person if he knew them before.
He let Lucy drag him to his feet and throw him towards the exit. She and Bobby went for Lockwood and Kipps, convulsing on the floor in a sea of their writhing brethren. Kat’s spell was not kind, and it didn’t have the time to be targeted. George wondered why she learned a spell like that, considering who her team lead was. He wondered if Fittes pressured her to learn it, in case of the worst, or if Kipps asked her to.
“Kat, come on!” Bobby called, ready to slam the door shut. The wizard was less enthusiastic.
“Don’t leave me! If you leave me, I’m dead—”
Kat walked backwards out of the room, still chanting her spell, until Bobby yanked her out, slamming the door.
Kat cut off immediately, crumpling to her knees.
The outside of the wizard’s lair was an innocuous mausoleum, one of many in the vast cemetery they’d been working in. The door was a gateway that either transported them to a secluded location where the physical rooms were, or if he was a very good wizard, he’d tucked them in a pocket dimension, completely out of the fabric of the world. George guessed the former.
“Can you break the gateway’s connection?” George asked. The door jumped, and Bobby threw himself against it.
“And just let them starve to death?” Lockwood demanded, shaking off Lucy’s worried hands. George reached for the calm in his chest, didn’t spit the first anger that rose to his tongue.
“We can come back with DEPRAC later and reestablish the connection. They might not be too far gone,” George said. The door jumped again, and Lucy helped Bobby brace it. Lockwood’s jaw clenched, his eyes turning down in deference. Going feral was Lockwood’s worst fear, and dying like that—out of your mind with thirst, not a shred of your soul left. It was said to be worse than death itself.
“Doesn't matter,” Kat wheezed. “Not strong enough.”
George felt their options dwindling. Fleeing through the cemetery in the dark, pursued by feral vampires felt a little too on the nose. There weren’t any fucking trees around to rip apart, and the full moon was not any time soon.
“Tony,” Kipps rasped, still on the ground. Why was he still on the ground?
George’s vision focused and unfocused, his pupils going a little haywire when he fully turned to assess Kipps.
His leg was broken. Shattered. Torn at the knee, his shin stuck out like a little white flag surrendering in the midst of a roiling red sea. He wasn’t bleeding out, of course. Vampire’s bodies were much better about utilizing their blood, but the exposed skin and muscle were red raw like the squishy inside of a strawberry.
“You know what you have to do,” Kipps said through his teeth, gripping Lockwood’s bicep when Lockwood came to kneel close. “You need a living weapon to kill undead.”
“No,” Kat said breathlessly, but she was in no state to be fighting anyone’s hail marys.
“You’ll go a bit feral,” Lockwood said. He was already moving, putting one hand on Kipps’ thigh.
“Better to deal with one than six,” Kipps replied, grimacing as Lockwood’s actions jarred his leg.
“Lucy, George. Help me. Hold him down,” Lockwood called, and Lucy swapped with Kat, the two Fittes underlings their only barricade against a quick, bloody death.
George’s mouth screwed in on itself, dread making its sickly way through his stomach. Because there was only one other way to turn a Form feral.
Massive amounts of pain. Usually some kind of torture or dismemberment.
“It’s fine. It’s fine,” Kipps panted, and George couldn’t tell if he was reassuring them or himself.
“Luce, get his other leg,” Lockwood said, and the rest was up to George. With a wry shrug, he slung himself over Kipps’ middle, straddling his chest. Kipps maneuvered his arms so that George could pin them to the soft, dewy ground above his head. George had better leverage like this, he realized. His weight was better distributed to hold Kipps at bay. Still. His face was awfully close to Kipps’. When the blood pooled in his cheeks, Kipps’ gaze snapped to it.
“Come here often?” Kipps joked, his lip pulling up into the farce of a smirk. His fangs had already descended.
“No,” George said. He wasn’t in a joking mood. He heard Lucy wretch, and the pain, the fear, crystallized on Kipps’ face. George glanced over his shoulder to see that Lockwood had stepped on Kipps’ ankle to stabilize him. Lockwood stooped to get a slippery grip on the bone that jutted out from Kipps’ leg.
George wished he hadn’t looked.
“Would you—would you like to?” Kipps said, voice shaking.
“Ready?” Lockwood said, and he didn’t wait for an answer.
Like cracking a wishbone, Lockwood ripped Kipps’ tibia out of his leg.
Bile rose into George’s throat as he listened to the wet snapping of Kipps’ ligaments. And Kipps screamed. His mouth parted, fangs glistening in the half moonlight, and he let loose an animalistic howl that on any other occasion, George might find impressive. His eyes cinched shut, and he thrashed in their arms. Lockwood’s footsteps sprinted away. Bobby and Kat were saying something then there was the snarling of the ferals, breaking free. Lockwood had his weapon now, and he would die before he let any of them get hurt. George only hoped it wouldn’t get that far.
All he could do was ride out Kipps’ writhing. George was viscerally aware of his heartbeat, pumping fast in his chest, the warm blood reinforcing all of his limbs. He reared back when Kipps tried to headbutt him, though it was more likely Kipps was going for the throat. When Kipps’ eyes slitted open, they were a deep, nauseating black, and it was more than unsettling; it was wrong. Kipps snarled at him, more beast than man.
Kat cursed, and then a small explosion tore up the ground behind them. George felt rocks and dirt spray his back in a stinging impact, but he held fast. Lucy made a wounded noise, then her body slumped to the side. George checked—just dazed—but that meant nobody was holding down Kipps’ legs.
All that Fittes training was still there somewhere because Kipps was on top of him in a second. George managed to brace a hand on Kipps’ clavicle and snarl one in his hair, barely keeping Kipps away from the warm column of his throat. Kipps’ eyes were wide, his fangs so close to their goal, and he growled into George’s jaw, spit and venom leaking out of his gnashing mouth. George’s strength was failing, and soon Kipps would remember that he had hands too and could easily knock George aside, and then George felt it.
Cool water trickling up from the grass. Over his neck. Like a shield, the weight of it built around him until he had a watery barrier from his chest to his chin. He glanced to the side, seeing Lucy with a new future scar bleeding down her temple and her hand pressed to the ground. George blessed whatever gods made selkies.
He let go of Kipps, and Kipps sank his eager fangs into the wet collar. His chest pushed against George’s as he drank deeply.
“Salt water,” Lucy said, although George had already guessed it. Saline worked for vampires the same as blood Forms. It helped.
Some of the frenetic energy drained out of Kipps like a dog soothed by its master. He was still tense on top of George. Still in pain. But George’s pulse didn’t beat quite so much like a funeral dirge anymore. George peered around Kipps to see at least two of the ferals lying on the ground, hearts pierced by Kipps’ splintered shin bone. George was bringing a stake on every fucking case from now on. Hell, he’d take on some undead with a toothpick if it meant they wouldn’t have to do this again.
Kipps unstuck his fangs from the water. His eyes weren’t back to their regular brilliant blue, but something other than bloodlust danced across his brow. He nosed up George’s cheek, dragging his face along the jut of George’s cheekbone, and George couldn’t help it. He blushed. Kipps inhaled quickly, and then he carefully dragged the sharp of his fangs over George’s cheek. Not puncturing, not even cutting. Lucy moved the barrier anyhow, cooling George’s blush with a protective coating of saltwater.
Kipps actually whined. High and despairing, the noise brushed past George’s ear as Kipps tried again on the other side. Lucy shifted to block him there too, the water feeling strange for how it flowed around inside itself.
George had an idea.
He fumbled at his belt for the stasis bag. He knew one wizard who didn’t need his hands anymore. As soon as he wriggled his fingers inside, Kipps could smell the blood, and he took over, wrenching the bag open. Kipps raised the disembodied hands to his mouth and bit deep into the palm. Recognition flooded back into his eyes, the flat black receding to a dull darkness. As soon as he was done with the first, he bit into the second, draining it dry.
“Kipps?” George asked. “Quill, are you with me?”
Kipps threw the wizard’s hands away, blood shining on his teeth, breathing like a racehorse, belly pressing against George. His eyes shut, his brow crumpling.
“I think it’s alright, Luce. You can go help Lockwood,” George said. The water receeded from him, Lucy climbing to her feet, but she stalled when Kipps buried his face in the crook of George’s neck.
Fangs didn’t pierce his jugular, so he waved her off.
Kipps’ weight collapsed into him, hips shifting so his injured leg wasn’t digging into the ground. George wrapped his arms around Kipps’ neck, brushing his fingers through the hairs at his nape.
“We’ll get you help,” George said, even though they both knew that.
One dead wizard and six dead feral vampires later, Kipps was watching him with a dark, slighty unfocused gaze. Jealous, George might guess.
Pleasure curled in George’s gut, familiar even though he hadn’t done it in a while. Lockwood’s bite was like a sunny afternoon. Warmth spreading through his bones after a long winter. It sharpened as Lockwood drank deeper, a campfire at his back, but the heat in his belly was from a different source. Kipps must not have realized—he usually was so subtle about his Form, but his fangs were still out, his mouth lolled open. His tongue started to trace his right fang, eyes fixed on where Lockwood pierced George’s shoulder.
Bloodsharing between vampires was generally uncommon. They couldn’t nourish each other, but in emergency situations, one vampire could glut themselves and the blood would be fresh enough in their body for the second to feed. Emergency situations like this. When one of them couldn’t control themselves if they started to drink.
“More,” George said, gripping Lockwood’s arm. “I can take it.”
Lockwood detached, and he spoke into George’s shoulder, “It should be enough.”
When Lockwood pulled back, his eyes were bright red, almost glowing. George was used to the muddy burgandy of a good meal, but he’d never seen Lockwood so stuffed before.
“Tony’d prefer me out of commission entirely anyways,” Kipps said, his head rolling back against the tombstone they’d propped him up on.
“Shut up, Kipps. God, you’re the only vampire I know who mouths off to the guy about to feed him,” Lockwood groused, and Kipps scoffed.
“Now that’s just a lie,” Kipps muttered. His teeth clicked together, muscle in his jaw jumping as Lockwood licked over the punctures he left. Standard procedure after a bite. Vampires had a regenerative property to their saliva. Not useful in medicine, of course—the enzyme converted into a useless goo shortly after being produced by the salviary glands. There was promising research on recreating it though.
Bobby was crouched with his head between his knees. Kat was flat passed out, and Lucy was staring blissfully off into space like she always did after Lockwood snacked on her. George felt a wave a dizziness pass over him. Lockwood did take a lot.
“Alright, stop slobbering over Karim. I can feel you absorbing my blood,” Kipps snapped.
“Don’t crack a fang.” Lockwood pulled George’s shirt back over, and George straightened it, trying to ignore the way Kipps’ eyes tracked him.
The way Kipps’ eyes still tracked him.
…
George left a jar of raspberry preserves on Kipps’ doorstep during his convalescence.
…
“I can’t believe you did that,” George scoffed.
It was a half-moon evening, the sun’s glow a fading friend in the horizon. Kipps walked next to him, streetside, as they took their leisurely stroll.
“Phillip is a rules-worshipping prick,” Kipps shot back. “Who had us frisked. I’m an esteemed Fittes supervisor, and he frisked us.”
“Kipps, you’re a rules-worshipping prick,” George said, and he watched Kipps’ lower lip puff out.
“Yeah, but like, in a cool way,” Kipps said. “Besides, this is like your third time stealing from the Fittes library. I know you’ll bring them back.”
“I’m not wild about the exclusionary policies at Fittes, but you do have an excellent conservation department,” George said. And besides, if he was in the habit of keeping his stolen historical artifacts, someone might notice eventually, and then he wouldn’t be able to steal them anymore.
They lapsed into silence on their way to the privacy of Kipps’ flat. After a few blocks of their shoes scraping the pavement, Kipps said, “I preferred it when you called me Quill.”
“You were half feral.”
“But I still liked it.”
George didn’t know why he went all the way up to Kipps’ flat. He could have waited in the lobby for Kipps to do his thing and get the relic back, but he went. All the way up.
It was a shitty flat.
“I can’t believe you swallowed the relic,” George said, kicking the threshold of Kipps front door. He didn’t linger. He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. Kipps flashed him a smarmy grin that made George understand why Lockwood wanted to hit him all the time, although George did not feel the same.
“It’s not like I can digest it. My stomach is basically an extra pocket,” Kipps replied.
“That’s disgusting,” George said without sounding very disgusted at all. Kipps shot him a wink as he walked backwards to his bathroom. He stumbled on some dirty clothes discarded on the floor, but he corrected, continuing backwards.
Not even the sound of retching could dampen the stupid, sunny feeling squirming in George’s stomach.
…
Kipps looked like shit. He was paler than usual, a gaunt look about his face and a leanness to his muscles that George did not like at all. George shifted the preserves in his fingers, squashing the urge to shove the jar into Kipps’ hands and run.
“You look like shit,” George blurted out, and Kipps’ face twitched in something more tired than amusement.
“Ah yes. My pity preserves. Come in. Kat keeps a loaf of bread in my cabinet,” Kipps said, angling his body so George could slip inside.
Kipps’ kitchen was a classic vampire build. It had a much smaller fridge than usual and was in fact itself much smaller than any food eating Form would find desirable. There was only one cabinet in it, and George quickly found the loaf.
“Any butter?” He asked, but Kipps shrugged.
“She doesn’t buy it for me anymore,” Kipps replied. George’s eyes narrowed, and Kipps’ jumped away, a sheepish lilt to his brow.
“You just eat it all, don’t you?” George accused, Kipps’ eyes going wide.
“It comes in sticks, George. It’s basically a lolly.” Kipps crossed his arms over his chest, more defined and less puffed since he was so dehydrated.
It had been a long time since Lockwood had demolished the rest of the butter on a simple craving, and George proudly attributed that to the nice soups he made for the household—tasty and completely vampire-friendly. He knew Lockwood didn’t taste the same flavor profile as the rest of them and often dumped a whole salt shaker in his, but Lockwood did swear by George’s spices, cajoling him with puppy eyes if it had been too long since the last soup night.
Why hadn’t he thought to bring soup?
George checked the date on the bread, finding it long past its best by. It was a skill he’d learned when he moved in with Lockwood. He popped the bag open and gave it a sniff. Only the faint metallic singe of magic. No mold spores.
“Kat refreshed it just a couple days ago. She still visits me in my exile,” Kipps said, and it was good enough for George. He plopped the bread into the toaster—another thing Kipps kept around just for his omnivore friends.
“They didn’t actually fire you,” George said, not really a question. There was no way Fittes fired a golden boy like Kipps, even if he was getting older.
“No,” Kipps said with a shake of his head. “I actually quit.”
“Wild.”
“Yeah.”
George’s toast popped up, and he pulled it out into the small proffered plate. He took the butter knife too when Kipps handed it to him while twirling something else silvery in his fingers.
“How are you doing in the DEPRAC program?” George asked carefully.
“You can call it the blood bank. Everybody does,” Kipps said, a sneer twitching at his lips. “I’m doing fine.”
“Well, you don’t exactly look like—”
“Well, I am,” Kipps snapped. He was irritable from thirst, but George felt the tone hit somewhere soft and squishy on the inside. He curled around it like a mother protecting its young.
“I’m just saying that it’s hard to lose a coven. Lockwood was barely hanging on when I joined, and if you wanted, we would…” George trailed off as he scraped a helping of preserves onto his toast.
“Kat’s already made the offer. And Bobby, separately, but DEPRAC’s portions are enough to keep me from going feral,” Kipps said, tucking his spoon into the jar. “Besides, Fittes does it best. It’s not healthy to rely on one person all the time.”
“Well, that’s bullshit.”
That was George’s dainty jam spoon. Kipps still had it.
George continued, steamrolling over the damp indignation on Kipps’ face, “Plenty of studies have shown that a single person produces more than enough blood, when properly hydrated and fed, to sustain the average vampire needs. More than the rations DEPRAC is handing out too. That anti-single-source thinking is an old wive’s tale perpetuated by agencies and governments to keep vampires under their thumb.”
Kipps blinked at him.
“Okay,” Kipps said.
“That’s it?” George said, his raised hackles soothing.
“Yeah.” Kipps slanted another one of those punchable smirks at him, stray jam glistening on his lip. “You’re a genius, right?”
“Damn right. So are you going to bite me now?”
Kipps almost choked on the spoon. His eyes went wide, lips turning down at the edges, and he withdrew the spoon with a clack.
“You want—now?” He stuttered, blinking owlishly.
“You look like shit,” George said again. “So yeah, now. Unless you’d prefer to just call up Kat. Or Bobby.”
He had perfectly good blood, thank you very much, and Kipps’ reticence was honestly getting a little insulting. George’s shoulders sagged forward as Kipps’ mouth fished open without managing to say anything. Even if this was just a top off and Kipps went elsewhere for his usual fix, he could just accept a damn vein when it was being offered to him.
“Yeah, um. No, sure, I mean if you’re willing,” Kipps said eventually. A ringing endorsement. A standing ovation. What a prick.
“Well, let’s get it over with,” he snapped, tugging aside the collar of his t-shirt. He didn’t wear this one on purpose or anything. One of his old comic book tees where the picture was washed out and the collar was stretched.
Kipps’ eyes snapped to his neck, and George wondered if he could see the drumbeat of his pulse jumping there.
“The first time can be pretty intense if you don’t know what to expect,” Kipps said, his fingers absently curling into a half-hearted beckoning motion.
“I’ve been fed on before,” George said as he followed Kipps into his cramped bedroom. His mattress was shoved into a corner to make room for a nightstand on one side. There was just enough space to walk between the bed and the wall with the closet door folded open. George saw a lot of empty space in the small closet. He wondered how much of it had been Fittes uniforms.
“By Tony, yeah?” Kipps asked, those idle fingers tightening into fists. George threw himself onto the bed, bouncing once before toeing off his shoes to get comfortable.
“Yeah pretty much just him. I was his only source for a while, but nowadays he mostly feeds from Luce,” George said. He watched carefully as Kipps’ face twitched, the malicious glee that hardly saw the cozy vampirelight. George didn’t want to call it mood lighting, but vampires did keep everything rather dim for themselves. It set a tone, certainly. The kind that had George’s insides squirming.
“That’s good,” Kipps murmured, and George couldn’t help the way his pupils blew wide at the satisfaction in his voice.
“Why’s that good?”
“It, ah. Means you haven’t been fed from lately. I don’t have to be careful. For that, obviously I’m going to be careful.” Kipps cleared his throat then ducked out, coming back with a small towel.
Lockwood was weird about it the first few times too. George didn’t know what it was like for the biter, but he’d always considered it an upgraded form of a hug. Some intense warm fuzzies, a little licking between lads, and everybody was better off.
“If you’ve only ever had Tony, then you don’t know how other bites can affect you,” Kipps said. He sat down carefully next to George. “I’ve heard mine in particular is… strong.”
“That’s fine,” George said. He knew some vampires who crowed about how powerful and pleasing their bites were, like they could get you blissed out from one nip. Kipps seemed almost ashamed of it.
“Okay.”
“Yeah, how do you want me?” George cocked his head, tilting away from Kipps so his neck stretched out a little. Kipps’ mouth sucked in on itself, and George could see the outline of his fangs, already drawn out.
“Best if you lay down,” Kipps said. He was much more pliable when distracted. When his gaze was fixed on the bob of George’s Adam’s apple. “Helps to not strain anything if you can just relax.”
“I am totally relaxed,” George said, melting back into the bedding. It smelled like Kipps and sweet laundry detergent.
Kipps moved to stretch out beside him, propped up on his elbows. He shuffled closer, the sheets rustling under his weight, and then he was pressing a hand next to George’s head, their chests nearly touching.
“Do you prefer your shoulder or…?”
“Neck,” George replied immediately. He refused to blush when Kipps’ tongue flicked out over his lip. Lockwood said it was bullshit, but George had read studies surveying vampires that swore the neck tasted best. Ranked behind the inner thigh, though. Of course. But George wasn’t about to offer to shuck his trousers on the first date.
“Alright. If you’re ready.” Kipps loomed over him, leaning in until his breath washed over George’s neck. George rolled his head to the side, presenting the most surface area. His hands kneaded into the bedding to quell that instinctual burst of fear adrenaline. Kipps could smell it on him because he hesitated, nose brushing George’s skin.
“Come here often?” George quipped, just to break the tension, and he felt Kipps’ amusement huff across his jaw.
Would you like to? went unspoken as Kipps sank his fangs into George’s neck.
Oh fuck.
This was not like a hug.
George felt it instantly. Where Lockwood’s bite built, warming up over time, Kipps’ burst into sparkling static as soon as his fangs hit flesh. It flared in George’s belly like the weightlessness of jumping from the high dive, like getting pinned to a wall and snogged until he couldn’t remember his own name, like the first touch of the full moon to his face. And then Kipps made this noise—low and wounded in the back of his throat. He pressed closer, his breath scattering the curly hairs at George’s nape as he started on his second pull. George tried not to move, but his hands squirmed in the sheets.
After a brief, blissful moment, Kipps wrenched himself back, panting wetly. George finally remembered to breathe, gasping, and Kipps smacked his lips together.
“Sorry,” Kipps mumbled into his ear, and George wondered what he was apologizing for.
Kipps laved over the punctures with slow, warm passes of his tongue, pausing to suck on one just a little bit before reverting to easy kitten licks. That worked on George just as well as the biting, and he wondered if it wasn’t Kipps’ venom that had that effect but rather the man himself.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” George said after Kipps pulled away entirely. He fixed his glasses with the edge of his hand, sitting up. “I didn’t feel anything. Maybe I’m just more resilient than your other meals.”
“Must be,” Kipps said with a chuckle, leaning back on one hand. He passed George the small towel, and George haphazardly patted over his neck. If he smelled a bit like Kipps when he left, it wouldn’t be a tragedy.
Kipps was already looking better. His eyes were a deep maroon, and he didn’t have that tired edge to his movements. He looked energized. Bright and teasing like George was familiar with.
“We’ll put something on the books in a few days. You’re still getting your strength back—” George tried to stand, but his vision went dark. Fuzzy. His tongue tangled in his mouth, and he sat back down heavily.
“Resilient,” Kipps said wryly. “Stay here.”
He got up to go putter around the kitchen, and George sighed, making himself comfortable again. He propped himself up on the headboard, stuffing an extra pillow behind him, and he stared at the glass of water on the nightstand. Lockwood had a similar one, salted all to hell in case he wanted something to wet his tongue in the night. Dust particles hung suspended in the thick liquid, light refracting through the glass from the small lamp. George tapped it, just to see the particles dance. He heard the whistle of a kettle, and he tapped it again, again.
Kipps returned just in time for George to refrain from tapping the glass off the table. It hung precariously over the edge, and George righted it with a flick.
“You never ate your toast,” Kipps said, juggling a plate, a mug, and the jar of preserves. He set the mug on the nightstand and the plate in George’s waiting hand.
“Seemed rude to eat in front of a starving man,” George said. Kipps climbed over him to sit on the inside of the bed, legs crossed and jam jar in his lap. His foot brushed George’s calf.
“Starving,” Kipps scoffed. “Is Tony rubbing off on you? Dramatic.”
“You didn’t see yourself—”
“You’re right,” Kipps said with a smirk, and then George rolled his eyes, barely keeping an answering smile at bay.
“Vampires,” George said, waving his hand. Despite not being able to see themselves in mirrors, all the vampires he knew were terribly vain. And pretty. Something about the venom addled their minds, no doubt.
Kipps popped open the lid of the preserves, digging George’s spoon into the sweet jelly. He ate a spoonful before looking up at George, brows furrowed. He said, “So what’s your true Form? I have a bet going with Kat, and Bobby refuses to tell us.”
Huh. Probably the only decent thing Bobby had ever done in his life.
“I can’t believe he didn’t tell you. Everyone knows,” George said. His face flattened, going blank. “I’m the fated Formless. This is it, right in front of you.”
“Shut up.” Kipps grinned, and he budged George’s shin with the back of his hand.
“No, can’t you tell I’m serious?” George cracked, snickering at Kipps shoving another spoonful into his mouth.
“What is it, honestly? You’re not a selkie like Luce. You’re not a wizard, or if you are, you’re the most unhelpful one I’ve seen. You handle iron just fine, so you’re not fae,” Kipps listed off.
A molten, possessive feeling curled up and made a home in George’s chest. Kipps noticed all those things. Kipps noticed him. His lips pursed into a smile, and he took a bite of his long-cold toast.
“What’s your bet?” George asked.
“Werewolf,” Kipps said, and that nice feeling immediately soured.
“Ew, no.” George took a pointed bite, nose wrinkling at the insinuation. A mutt. That was Kipps’ best guess. It was rude.
“Come on. Your sense of smell is excellent. Tony never takes jobs on the full moon, and you hate Bobby. Rival packs,” Kipps said as if it was intelligent.
George knew wolves were the most common shifters, but still.
“I hate Bobby because he’s a philistine who I’m pretty sure can’t read,” George said with an upturned nose. “And I am not a werewolf.”
“Hmm.” Kipps gave him a considering look with disbelief plain across his brow.
He left the spoon in the jar, clinking against the side, and he reached out. He had to lean, just a little, his face tilting forward. His fingers trailed George’s jaw, leaving heat in their wake. Kipps brushed up, around George’s ear, to bury his fingers in George’s hair. His nails scratched lightly over George’s scalp.
George wasn’t proud of it, but who needed pride when it felt so good. George’s spine melted like a candle lit by a flamethrower. His whole body shuddered, eyes sliding shut, and he pressed his head into Kipps’ scritches. A soft moan pulled free of his lips, and Kipps froze.
He whipped his hand back into his lap.
“I’m sorry. That was inappropriate,” Kipps said, and George could practically see the Fittes sensitivity trainings tickering through Kipps’ head.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s just that Bobby likes them, you know. After a hard case, he wants me and Kat to scratch his head for hours,” Kipps said, fingers twisting around the jar and spoon. “I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine. It’s good,” George insisted.
He’d prefer Kipps get back to it, in fact.
Kipps didn’t.
Kipps shoved another spoonful of preserves in his mouth, and George wished vampires could blush. That would probably be the only thing that could make Kipps’ stupid, sheepish face any more handsome than it was right now.
“Doesn’t convince me you’re not a werewolf, though,” Kipps garbled around his snack, and George polished off his toast, reaching for the mug on the side table.
“I don’t need to convince you,” George replied. He took a sip of his tea and almost spat it out. It was still pretty hot, but more than that, it was strong and it was bitter.
Kipps sighed. “I didn’t grab one of the iron supplement bags, did I?”
George shook his head, placing the mug back on the nightstand. He leaned forward to reach towards Kipps, and Kipps stayed stock still as George traced the rim of the preserves jar with his index finger. George took it back, scrubbing over his tongue to rid himself of the taste.
“Over steeped,” George said, and he cocked an eyebrow. “I ought to teach you to make a real cuppa.”
Slowly, a grin spread across Kipps’ face, showing his many teeth.
“Maybe you should.”
…
George was on Lockwood in a flash, wooden spoon digging into the soft place just under his ribs. Lockwood was lucky George hadn’t bitten his hand as it reached for the mulled wine.
“I told you not to try it,” Lucy said, eating a biscuit calmly at the kitchen table.
“Look, listen—ow, George,” Lockwood hissed as George bared his teeth. Lockwood was halfway onto the counter for how he flinched back from George’s weapon.
“This close to the moonrise. You know he’s feeling territorial,” Lucy said between bites.
“C’mon, Georgie,” Lockwood said, pasting on the same smile that usually got him out of trouble. “You’ve got a whole pot, and you know I love rabbit’s blood. Are you just going to give the whole thing to Kipps?”
Alcohol wasn’t much more than an interesting flavoring for vampires, but animal blood had a similar intoxicating effect. Any idiot could go round the butcher’s and get pigs’ blood or cows’ blood, but you needed something delicate for a mulled wine like this. George also had it on good authority that rabbit’s blood was a favorite of Kipps’, and if I wasn’t, George was going to find Bobby and rip his mangy face off.
“Out,” George said evenly, shifting so that Lockwood could slink closer to the door.
“One little cup—”
“Out!”
Lockwood scurried away, and George was placated by the sight of the door catching on his heels. George turned back to his concoction on the stove to stir it in careful, mesmerizing strokes.
“Just had to be Quill, didn’t it?” Lucy sighed, and George shot her a scowl over his shoulder. “Well, you know I can’t blame you. The allure of stupid, dramatic vampires…”
“I’ll give you a cup for Lockwood if you and him stay in the attic tonight,” George managed to say. He wasn’t a wordsmith like Lockwood, but he had a quippy wit about him. Unfortunately, when the beast purred under his skin, mere minutes from freedom, he found sentence structure cumbersome and nouns largely useless.
Lucy turned an unsurprising shade of blotchy, uneven red. George had started to dub it Lockwood red.
“Going to come back early?” She asked.
“Maybe,” George replied. “Stayed out all three last month. An’ always tomorrow.”
The moon was only truly full for one night, but they could transform for all three, if only they caught a stray bit of moonlight.
“You’ve been planning this for a while,” Lucy said, and she assessed him with calm, clever eyes. “You really like him.”
George shrugged. Sometimes he told himself they couldn’t all have sweeping, star-fated love like Lucy and Lockwood—if they would ever get their shit together. But then he remembered the way Kipps’ eyes burned over him in the graveyard, the way his smile never failed to stir a soft thing in George’s stomach. The way his stupid arguments with Lockwood drove George up the wall. Maybe they could have something similar. Maybe, maybe.
A knock echoed through the hall, and George’s shoulders shot up to his ears.
Lucy’s mouth puckered, her brow furrowing, before she nodded. She said, “Deal.”
George blinked. He hadn’t actually expected that. The front door creaked open, and George heard the condescending tone of Lockwood greeting the other vampire. Quickly, he ladled some of the spiced drink into a mug. Someone would need to get out there soon or things could get ugly. He shoved the cup at Lucy, and she took it, her face burning, without meeting his eyes. Had it really been this simple all along?
No time to think on his hopeless roommates.
George lingered in the door to the kitchen as Lucy marched forward, braving the thick stench of bravado in the front hall. George was stuck admiring the dark cut of Kipps’ thighs in his jeans, the way his black turtleneck clung to his chest. He looked like he was about to read an angsty slam poem, but George was so far gone, he wasn’t even going to make fun of him. Kipps did this thing when he was arguing with Lockwood where he would cross his arms over his chest, and it just made both more defined, easier to ogle, and actually, George should put those two in a room more often just so he could watch Kipps stand like that.
All Lucy had to do was wave the cup under Lockwood’s nose, and he was following her up the stairs, out of sight.
“What’s that?” Kipps asked, sniffing the air. “Smells good.”
George stepped back into the kitchen, letting the door swing shut, and by the time Kipps slouched into the room, George was at the stovetop. He stared at Kipps who shifted his weight three whole times before padding forward. George started pouring some of the drink into a much nicer glass.
“Do you just make blood wine on the regular?” Kipps asked, accepting the full glass that George shoved into his chest.
George watched, pupils slitted to catch the smallest twitching changes to Kipps’ face. Kipps raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. His brows hitched. His eyes snapped to George’s intense gaze, and he took a longer drink.
“That’s dangerous,” Kipps rumbled, his tongue sweeping in front of his bottom teeth. “That’s excellent. What did you put in it?”
George gave a half-shrug, preening, and he listed forward into Kipps’ space. The praise was exactly what he was hoping for, giddy and light headed with how it thrilled through his veins. Everything was so intense when he could practically feel the moon behind the trees. Waiting for him. It really wasn’t long, now.
“George,” Kipps said evenly.
George took off his glasses, throwing the world into sharp relief. His pupils were blown helplessly wide, enamored of the way Kipps took another drink. How he savored the wine in his mouth before swallowing. George put them nearly chest to chest, the glass the only thing separating them. Kipps’ knuckles brushed the worn graphic on George’s shirt.
“George,” Kipps breathed. Less evenly.
“Quill,” George replied.
Kipps tilted his head, and they met each other in a kiss.
First kiss with Quill Kipps, scent of mulled wine softening the edges of the world, high on the promise of moonlight—George sparkled. It was just a chaste press of lips, but when George pulled back, he was grinning. So was Kipps.
“You didn’t have to bribe me to get me to do that,” Kipps said softly, and he fidgeted with the glass between them.
George felt it on the back of his neck. Like a crisp, refreshing breeze that brought a storm’s static. His hair stood on end, and his blood sang in his veins. Kipps dipped his chin, eyes intent on George’s lips, but George set both hands on Kipps’ shoulders. Hesitation passed over his face, but George just smiled, angling his head to nod at the kitchen window. The moon peeked over the other houses to the back, the perfect angle to wash over his skin.
“Oh, I get it,” Kipps said, the edge of his mouth kicking up. “You’re not a werewolf, right?”
George grinned wider. His canines had already elongated, each of his molars sharpening into points. The surprise that whipped across Kipps’ face was comical, widening his eyes and dropping his jaw. George laughed, and he laughed, and the sound shifted as he did, deepening, darkening into a rumble wrapped in a purr. His hands exchanged for paws, big against Kipps’ shoulders, and he grew taller, taller. Fur sprouted out of his pores, and his spine reformed. Just to be rude, he leaned his new weight forward until Kipps stumbled backwards, falling on his arse and then flat on his back. His cup landed hard against the linoleum, sloshing onto the floor.
George kept him there with wide paws and loomed over him, showing off his sleek true Form. A midnight black panther. His tail swished behind them.
“I see. Definitely not a werewolf,” Kipps said.
George bared his teeth, but he couldn’t hold it for long. Kipps looked too good underneath him, gaze flicking around George’s new face. George dropped his head, resting his snout against Kipps’ chest and peering up at him with pupils blown completely wide, no enchanted glasses to smooth the effect. George lazily blinked at Kipps, and a rumble started deep in his body. Kipps raised a hand, flashing his palm in George’s periphery, and he twitched forward.
“Can I—?”
George cocked his head, mussing Kipps’ shirt for how his nose was buried there, inhaling Kipps’ scent. Kipps landed his hand softly on George’s head. He stroked his palm there, and then he dug his thumb into the soft skin and fur. George made sure to take a shower earlier, stealing the fancy conditioner from Lockwood and everything. The pesky ink stains and greasy back of his head always seemed to translate unappealingly into his true Form. His family used to make fun of him for it, even though Judy was the same way until she found herself an almost too-pretty mermaid.
Well, George thought, as Kipps’ eyes danced with an appreciative sort of glee. It wasn’t like he ended up that different from his sister.
Kipps turned up his fingers, raking his nails next to George’s ears, and George melted. His paws slid on the floor until he collapsed his weight onto Kipps. He pressed into the touch, and Kipps laughed, breathlessly for how he had to lift half a Pantera shifter with the motion.
“You and Bobby aren’t so different after all,” Kipps said with a grin, and George thumped him with his chin.
It was rude to mention mutts or philistines right now, in George’s opinion, but Kipps’ other hand had joined in, so he was scratching around both ears, and thus George found it in his heart to forgive him.
“Who would have thought,” Kipps said, stretching his arms around George’s neck, scratching pleasantly down his back. “George Karim, as prickly as he is talented, and his true Form is a big cuddle bug.”
Faster than a lightning’s flash, George whipped his head around, dislodging Kipps’ hand to put it in his mouth. Kipps gave him an unimpressed single-raised eyebrow as George gnawed on his hand. He could have been a little more intimidated. After all, George’s sharp teeth were exactly the kind of living weapon that could tear Kipps apart for good. But instead, George gave him a couple good dents just to set the record straight.
“You don’t want a boyfriend,” Kipps sighed. “You want a chew toy and a reliable source of skritches.”
George paused, Kipps hand hanging limply from his mouth, palm caught on his sharpest teeth. Kipps blinked.
“Not that we even said anything about boyfriends—”
George moved his paw to shove at Kipps’ face. Kipps went quiet, a fetching pout against his lips, and George chuffed out a breath. He scooted forward, unwilling to raise himself just yet, until he was breathing across Kipps’ neck. Kipps looked ridiculous, chin tucked to keep an eye on George, eyebrows wrinkling his forehead. George was sure he also looked unbearably silly, splayed out flat atop his maybe-boyfriend. George’s tongue flicked out to poke the edge of Kipps’ jaw.
“Is—Is that what you want?” Kipps asked, voice pitching up higher than usual.
George nudged Kipps’ chin with his nose, and then he did the courteous thing. He picked up his head and nodded like a normal person. It was worth it. Kipps smiled like the sky gained a new star. His hands came back to frame George’s head, fingers scratching lightly.
“I must inform my boyfriend that he’s very heavy like this,” Kipps said.
George wriggled petulantly before rolling off of Kipps onto his back. George’s eyes slitted, and he saw a stain against the ceiling that wasn’t there last month. No bigger than his pinkie fingernail, but George saw it. George tore himself away, refocusing when Kipps turned onto his side, popping up his head on his hand.
“So what are our evening plans?” Kipps asked. One hand drifted over George’s chest, petting through the cowlick where his fur all spun together and changed course.
George would be happy if this was the evening plan, but no, he’d already made one. There was just so much to do, so much to show Kipps. His favorite cafe that served shifter-friendly snacks. His favorite path to run through Hyde Park. His favorite tree. His favorite—oh, yes, that would be perfect.
George rose onto all fours, pacing towards the door while his slow vampire hoisted himself off the floor. He rumbled a growl in Kipps’ direction when he went rummaging in one of the cabinets.
“I’m just getting some refreshments to go,” Kipps said, producing a travel mug and going to ladle some of the blood wine into it.
George pawed at the air, releasing his claws in Kipps’ direction.
“Alright, alright. I’m coming,” Kipps said, and he smiled over his shoulder. “Anywhere you want to go, I’ll follow.”
George hoped that was true. That it would always be true.