Chapter Text
The first time Pete killed someone, he felt all-consuming dread.
He was hungry that night. The moon was red and ominous, crawling up the sky as the sun set. Pete prowled across the streets with shaky, uncoordinated steps—being out in a blood moon was bringing out his non-human instincts, even though he tried to deny them. His whole body was sore, and he felt like he was being torn from the seams. A distant thought rang out in his mind. I'm one of them now, Pete thought, with heavy self-deprecation. I should just end it now before my family finds out and does it for me.
Suddenly, Pete fell to his knees, his skin making a disgusting stretching sound, his bones deciding they were too big for his own body. He let out a pathetic cry, dragging himself into a nearby dark alley. Pete writhed and screamed as his skin struggled to grow around his growing bones, blood spattering across the floor as his body tried to keep up with the growing and the tearing of his skin. He convulsed on the floor as his face extended into a snout, every part of his skeleton breaking into small pieces and reforming. Pete's teeth grew to fit into that snout, his canines sharpening and growing, being pushed up from his gums. His mouth opened in a weak, small cry, fur bursting from his skin while it expanded. His clothes lie ripped and bloodsoaked on the ground. When the transformation was finished, the werewolf was lying weak on the ground, covered in his own blood, still recovering from his first shift.
When he finally recovered from the strain of transforming, Pete sat up on his haunches. All of his senses were heightened, and with the increase of body mass came the increase of hunger. He stalked out the shadows of the alley, searching for something, or someone to devour.
He kept himself fairly hidden, though his body was shaking with hunger. Pete could barely control himself, and the faintest whiff of blood had his head whipping around. His jaw fell slightly as he lifted his nose to catch the scent, and he prowled towards it, a bit too quickly to be subtle. Crossing the empty road, he went back to walking below the trees, as he would be the most hidden under the dark shadows.
As the smell of blood grew stronger, Pete's restraint grew weaker, and he was practically sprinting to keep on the trail of blood. He followed the scent trail to the trunk of a car, a few hundred feet ahead of him. In some distant corner of his mind, he found that weird. Was it the spoils of a wildlife hunter? He slowed his steps, pressing himself into the bushes. Pete watched as a bearded man came out of a nearby store, carrying a shovel and a pack of plastic bags. He got placed the items into the back seat, then sat down in the drivers seat, and peeled off suspiciously fast. Pete tailed the car as they drove out of the city, still hungry. He was starving for whatever was in that trunk.
The car turned onto a two-lane road that was bumpy and probably hadn't been repaved in a few years. On either side of the road was trees, helping Pete stay hidden as he pursued his prey on all fours. Pete was under the power of the blood moon, his endurance not weakening slightly, even as he sprinted at his new body's capacity. He was lagging behind, though, and the car turned right on a dirt road. When he finally caught up, the man was opening the trunk. Pete kept himself out of sight, though he approached curiously, waiting to see inside. The man popped it open, and Pete's eyes widened, having to actively stop himself from pouncing on the man immediately with threads of restraint.
And from the trunk, the man pulled out the body of a girl.
Well, shit.
His starving, primal side was telling him to take out the man and eat them both, but his humane side was going whatthefuckwhatthefuckISTHATGIRLOKAY?! over and over again.
Pete decided to give into them both.
He pounced on the man, pinning him against the car, crushing him against the metal and glass. The back tires popped loudly, but it was only a muffled sound to Pete, who only heard the wild, erratic beat of his heart in his ears. The man dropped the girl, and she fell on her back, screaming in terror, muffled by the fabric stuffed in her mouth. She was unable to run away, as both her arms and legs were bound together. The abuser and the abused were united in fear over one being, and it was Pete. Before the man attempted to run, Pete pounced on him, tearing his throat out with his mouth. It was warm, wet, and Pete's hunger grew at the spray of blood. The werewolf watched cruelly as blood squirted out of his jugular veins, covering his gray coat in it. The man was choking in fear, and when he tried to scream, more of that red, thick liquid gushed out of his throat. Satisfied, Pete ducked his head, feasting on his kill. His muzzle was covered in gore as he devoured him, disgusting squelching noises being made with each bite, each tear of the skin.
The girl watched in horror, wholly convinced she was next. She tried to get as far as she could, to no avail. As soon as Pete was done feasting, he let out a satisfied growl, standing above the mangled corpse of what was a human man. Half of the flesh of the man's face was gone, consumed. His eyes, permanently open with shock, looked past Pete. The guilt was crippling—Pete had never killed something that wasn't a nonhuman, but the wild part of him believed it was moral. If he did not, then worse would have happened to the girl. He just felt the guilt that he would after a successful hunt wih his brothers—the guilt of killing, the guilt of doing what you had to do.
Pete turned to the girl, who looked at him with a horrified expression. He could sense that her heart rate was raised and her breathing was increased. Pete tentatively stepped towards her, trying to keep his movements predictable and unthreatening. A bit of his humanity came back with the meal; his hunger was sated, he felt no need to feed on the young girl. She tried to move away from him again, her screaming muffled from the makeshift gag over her mouth, but the bonds on her limbs restricted her. Pete stopped, sitting next to her. He didn't move towards her yet, he knew from years of hunting that she was probably terrified of the nonhuman.
So he just sat there until she stopped screaming… until she stopped struggling…
The moon was beginning to make its descent when her breathing slowed—not completely calm, but enough for Pete to know that she didn't consider him as much as a threat as she did a while ago.
Tentatively, Pete brought a claw up to the girl's face. Her panic kicked in again, and she thrashed again, but it stopped as soon as Pete freed her mouth from the gag.
She gasped for breath, staring right back into the wolf's eyes. "Are you going to kill me?" She asked, in a panic.
Pete pulled back slightly, sitting straight on his haunches. He was mildly offended, but he did understand that after seeing a werewolf devour someone and not leave the kill site, she would rightly be fearing for her life. Pete let out a soft sound, much like a whine, shaking his head left and right. No.
"You're… still conscious?" She leaned towards him, curious.
Pete nodded up and down.
"…So if you're not gonna kill me, what are you going to do?"
Pete poked her bonds with his claw.
"Free me?"
Pete nodded, again. He let out another whine, tilting his head back to the general direction of the city.
Finally understanding, the girl nodded, but hesitant. Pete helped her sit up, and he tore the rope on her hands with the swipe of a claw, same with the bonds on her legs.
As soon as the last rope was snapped, she got up to her feet, stumbling and tripping over herself as she tried to gain more distance from the werewolf. Pete only sat confusedly. Why was she running away? He had helped her.
The girl tripped, landing on her face. When she looked back, she expected to see the wolf looming over her, ready to brutally consume her as he did her captor. But all she saw was a very confused Pete, sitting much like a dog, where she left him. She stepped back towards him.
Pete let out a whine, shaking his coat.
"Why are you just sitting there?" She limped back, slowly, still ready to flee if needed.
The werewolf licked his lips, not hostile, as he contemplated on her question. Pete wanted to take off and find somewhere to rest, but he didn't want to risk leaving an unarmed girl alone on a blood moon where there would definitely be other predators in the area. The smell of blood spilled had probably attracted other nonhumans, but Pete's presence was probably made known—plus, Pete knew from his hunter's knowledge that nonhumans tended to avoid fights with others until brought to a breaking point.
Pete stood up slowly, gesturing the girl to come forward with a nod of his head. She hesitantly stepped towards him, angling her body away from him. He lowered his head as a sign of docility, only flinching a bit when she extended her hand to touch the fur on his head. After she took her hand away, Pete raised his head, gesturing to his back with a nod.
"You want me to get on?" She asked, confusedly trying to decipher what that motion could have meant.
Pete nodded simply.
The girl hesitantly looked around. She was reasoning in her mind—if she declined the offer, she would be stuck alone in a dark forest with a mangled corpse and a car that could no longer drive. Even worse, he may kill her for saying no. If she accepted, there was always the risk of being kidnapped by the werewolf.
But what had the wolf done to make himself untrustworthy? He had quickly disarmed her kidnapper, and tried to be gentle when freeing her from the bonds.
She put both her arms on the werewolf's shoulders, feeling him tense up at the contact. One of her legs swung over Pete's back, and she sat on him like she was getting a piggyback ride. Pete rose from his spot, stretching his legs as he familiarized himself with the added weight and shift in balance. He turned his head to make eye contact.
Better hold on.
With a powerful launch of his hind legs, the werewolf took off through the trees on all fours. He felt the girl's grip on his fur tighten, and he was at least relieved at the fact that she had the strength to hold on. When they neared the road to the city, he followed it, but stayed hidden in the trees. As they approached the more urban areas, Pete kept low to the ground. He stopped where the thick trees became more spread out, unable to cover his large form. He stopped somewhere safe enough where the girl would be able to walk to the police station.
When she released the grip on his fur and got off his back, Pete shifted his legs, ready to take off. Dawn was coming soon, and he knew that the de-transformation would be as, if not even more, disgusting than the first shift. However, she stopped him with a poke to the side.
"Wait!" She blurted.
Pete turned, tipping his head curiously.
"Thank you… for saving me. Really. He was going to kill me."
The memory of how he had mercilessly executed the man came back to the front of Pete's mind. As the power of the moon faded, he felt a sinking, wide, gaping void in his stomach. Saved her? Pete was just hungry, and she was just lucky enough for her captor to be sighted by him. He had killed a man, and worse, he didn't regret it as much as he wanted to. Pete nodded with a grunt, turning away, ready to leave.
"I don't know much about who you are as a person," she said softly, "but I'm sure you're a good one."
…I'm not. Pete wanted to say. He was a hunter. He slayed nonhumans, which was a rough word for 'people who have some nonhuman traits.' And now Pete was a person—if he even could call himself that anymore—that his hunter family would kill with no remorse if they ever knew.
Not wanting to cause a scene, Pete accepted the compliment with a huff and nod and padded off into the trees, feeling the gaze of the girl linger on his retreating form. Just forget about it, Pete thought. Forget and tell no one.
Finding the same alley where he had shifted earlier, Pete curled up in the very back, hiding himself behind the dumpster bin and trash bags. Now that he was laying down and resting, the wait to dawn was feeling excruciatingly slow, and he was feeling excruciatingly sore. Pete was left alone with the pain and his thoughts, his breathing calm but his thoughts a mess.
Being born in a family who specialized in hunting werewolves, Pete knew that there was a lot of work he had to do once he shifted back. He had already decided to not tell Joe or Sam, as they would definitely turn on him without giving him a chance to speak a word of explanation. A nonhuman was a danger, and having one infiltrate their group was an unpredicted liability, and Pete knew that. He began thinking on what he would do after shifting back to hide the evidence, but Pete found that trying to think in this form was like trying to grab a fish with one hand.
So, he dumbed down his thoughts to lists of facts. Physical traits of a werewolf in its human form: Excessive amount of body hair, sharp/stronger nails, longer/pointier canines, etc. Pete knew those were the main three, so he would have to get to shaving and clipping his nails. For his teeth? He would have to search that up. The sun was almost up, and his thoughts were getting more and more muddy. Still, he focused. General traits of a werewolf in its human form: heightened senses, craving for raw meats, increased aggression, faster healing, animalistic type growls, eye shine, territorial instincts, and the tendency to disappear once a month. Pete could work around that. He had spent most of his life trying to be normal in his family, his band, and the music scene. What was a little more?
He saw a sliver of the sun rising from where he was laying, and almost immediately, the feeling of his bones shifting became a little more obvious. The snapping began in his face, the bone of his snout breaking into small shards and reforming into a regular human skull, scratching uncomfortably against his skin. His ribs came next, a sharp, almost thunderous cracking sound reverberating in his chest as it lost its nonhuman broadness. The bones of Pete's digitigrade hind legs ground together, muscle and marrow shifting as they reordered themselves into their normal, human spots. His skin ripped apart with the movement, and Pete cried out once again as his body struggled to regenerate as fast as it was tearing itself apart. He thought blood was coming out of every possible place on his body—and it certainly looked like it, as nearly every spot of his pale skin was either an open wound or covered in a thick coat of his own blood. Pete's teeth retracted back into their gums, but his canines kept that obvious, lupine edge to them.
Pete groaned, lying supine on the dirty pavement. He was naked, weak, bloody, and most of all, in some real fucking pain. His breathing was slow and his eyes heavy-lidded, but he survived his first transformation…!
He wished he could allow himself to be proud at that. But what was there to be proud of? That he was a disgrace to the Loeffler family legacy? That he lost his control and not only killed, but ate a man? Pete held up his bloodstained hands, looking at the way his unnaturally sharp nails gleamed in the morning light. He was a monster. Pete could almost hear his dad speaking—"I didn't raise you to be taken down by a little bit of dirty dog blood in a wound! Even your younger brother is better than you! You should have learned a thing when you were still a fucking person!" He pressed his palms to his face, rubbing his eyes. No matter which form he was in, wolf or human, he would never be able to escape the hunt.
Pete sat up, feeling disgustingly sticky as his blood clotted and dried on his skin. His external wounds had healed for the most parts, the tears from the shifting that had caused him so much anguish minutes ago basically invisible, healed like nothing had happened. He pushed himself up, leaning his weight on the dumpster. His limbs protested in pain, a persistent ache lingering in his muscles.
Pete looked himself up and down. He was a hairy mess, and he really needed some clothes and a bath before he went back to the tour bus and faced his brothers. He grabbed his torn black T-shirt, covered in dried blood from when he had shifted earlier in the night. Holding the tattered fabric, Pete began searching for a faucet with a hose on the buildings either side of him. Finding one, he turned it on, soaking himself in the ice-cold water. He inhaled sharply through his teeth, but the cold was a strange relief from the ache, almost numbing. He rinsed his hair off, then used his T-shirt as a makeshift rag to scrub the dried blood off his limbs. When he finished, he wrung his shirt off, and put it on. It had a big rip across the front, but if he wore it backwards, it looked more like a trashy, soggy fashion statement. He pulled on his ripped pants, which were torn down the center. Luckily, he had worn a belt, so it held the fabric together. His shoes were the most intact out of all his clothing; he had kicked them off while writhing during the earlier shift.
I definitely look like a werewolf who just shifted back. Pete thought to himself, already imagining how much of a mess he looked like. He walked in the shadows as he exited the alley—although he wasn't in the wolf form anymore, it had definitely rubbed off on him. The ache in Pete's muscles spiked with every step, but it wasn't unbearable. Spotting a thrift store on the next block, Pete had an idea. The shop wasn't open yet, the sky wasn't even fully lit yet, but the drop-off box in the back accepted donations 24/7. He came around the back of the store, spotting the box. Pete quickly glanced around to make sure there were no witnesses. Satisfied, he began digging in the box. Pete pulled out three pieces of clothing: a white, long sleeved undershirt, a plain black shirt, and baggy black pants. He began pulling on the clothes. This was probably stealing, but it wasn't like the clothes had been priced inside the store yet. The undershirt was a bit too big, and the pants pooled around his ankles, but at least he looked like a normal person instead of someone who had just been through the roughest night of their life yet.
Pete gathered his things from his torn pair of pants, putting his belt on and reattaching the sheathe of his silver dagger to his new pair of pants. His hand lingered on the sheathe. Since he was a werewolf now, what effect would the silver have on him? He unsheathed it, gently, treating the weapon with a sort of reverence. The blade gleamed in the light of the rising sun, taunting him. Pete raised his left pointer finger, his hand shaking as he touched the flat side of the blade. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Nothing.
Pete took his finger away, confused. That wasn't how werewolves reacted to silver. He placed the whole flat side of the blade against the palm of his hand. After a while, it started tingling. Then a bit more, it started getting hot. After about three minutes of waiting, it started burning, like it was supposed to. Pete hissed, drawing his hand back. He assumed that since he had been turned so late in his life, the side effects were weakened slightly. He put the dagger back in its sheathe, and retreated from the back of the thrift shop. It was a bit of a walk from where Pete was to the tour bus, but he was certain he would make it back before Sam and Joe did. (On the night prior, Pete had bluffed, saying he was sick. Of course, it was a blood moon, and his brothers wanted to patrol and hunt to keep the area safe and in control. When they left, Pete snuck out of the bus, and shifted.)
Pete did need to make it back to the bus before his brothers did, though. If they encountered him in his disheveled, post-shift state, they wouldn't even need to do the silver test before executing him where he stood.
When he arrived at the bus, Pete grabbed a change of clothes, handful of shaver cartridges, a nail clipper, and a nail file. He speed-walked towards the backstage of the venue they were at, sighing in relief as he found no one was in the backstage bathroom. He slipped in, stripping quickly and getting into the shower while the water was still cold. Pete let out a hiss as the water hit him, but he quickly began shaving his limbs down.
There was a lot of shaving to be done. It was a good call on his part to bring extra cartridges, because after shaving one limb, the razor would go dull. He shaved his facial hair too—without a mirror in the shower, he could only pray he wasn't missing any spots. After scrubbing and rinsing, Pete toweled off and threw some new clothes on. He grabbed the nail clipper, beginning to clip the remnants of his claws. It was a bit of a struggle—his nails had grown stronger and thicker—but he eventually managed to get it done. He filed them down too, not wanting his sloppy nail job to make him accidentally hit a string while he performed.
Pete looked in the bathroom mirror, baring his teeth. And holy shit, they were sharp. He didn't know how to take care of this problem, until his eyes landed back onto the nail file.
…This was going to hurt.
Pete spent about thirty minutes filing his canines down, having to take a break every other minute because of the pain. In the end, he got them to be a normal length, albeit still a bit pointy, it wasn't anything noticeable or out of the norm. As he walked out of the venue bathroom, there was a very pissed off member from another band waiting to use it. He shoved Pete aside with his shoulders. A flash of that lupine anger took over Pete for a split second, before he sent it below. He continued walking, his belongings in hand. What the fuck got into me? He mentally chastised himself.
When he came back into the Chevelle tour bus, Joe and Sam had seemingly just arrived before him, cleaning off their weapons. At the sound of the door opening, Sam pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one hand, placing his shotgun down with the other.
"Feeling better, Pete?" Sam asked, in a brotherly, caring way. But to Pete, it felt like he was already suspicious of him.
"Yeah. Took a bath." Pete tossed his used clothes into the corner of the bus, where all the dirty laundry went. He sat back onto his bed, his sore muscles relieved that they finally got a moment where they weren't moving.
Joe's eyes narrowed in suspicion, looking Pete up and down. "You're looking a bit fresh for someone who was allegedly sick." He continued cleaning his gun, not breaking eye contact with Pete.
Pete hated Joe's attitude towards him. He had always been a paranoid person, but on the road, it seemed like it had gotten even worse. He didn't even know what his brother was accusing him of. "I told you, it wasn't too bad," Pete sighed. "Just the throat thing and the soreness."
"He's right, Joe." Sam chimed in, beginning to change out of his hunter's attire. "It's 8:30 in the morning. Let's not start off with… this again."
Joe huffed, placing his shotgun back in the case. He slammed the case shut, making Pete jump slightly. "Fine."
As Sam and Joe got out of their hunter's uniforms and began winding down, Pete cleared his throat.
"How- how'd the hunt go?" His voice seemed a little weak.
"We found a pack," Sam began. Pete grimaced. Packs were hard to deal with—werewolves were dangerous enough on their own, but together? They'd actually have to form a battle plan.
"And?" Pete inquired, leaning forward.
"They ran," Joe hissed, his hand clenching. "Should have shot a few…"
"With you, we could have eliminated them," Sam said simply, crossing his arms. "It's hard to work as a duo when you've been trained as three."
"I get that. I'm sorry," Pete sighed, fiddling with his thumbs. The hunt was required, especially on a full moon. But Pete could never do full moon hunts with them anymore. "You guys didn't get hurt or anything?"
"We kept our distance." Joe grabbed a water bottle from the minifridge, chugging half of it. "Blood moon."
"Right. The blood moon." Pete nodded, remembering how out of control he felt in his own body when he fed on that man earlier in the night. Keeping distance was a good call on their part.
"We'll get them next time." Sam said, with an easy air of confidence. Pete admired that about his older brother. "Anyways, I'm fucking hungry." Sam stood up, looking at his brothers. "Pete, you feeling good enough to eat breakfast?"
Hell no! Pete was mentally and physically exhausted, and truthfully, he just wanted to go to bed… but maybe some sweet pastries and a coffee could do him well, especially after all the running he had done earlier.
"Um, sure," Pete nodded. "Just somewhere close, yeah?"
"Of course, princess." Joe said sarcastically, putting his water bottle down. "I know a good place, short walk. Come on, let's go before it starts filling up!"
Pete sighed, rolling his eyes as he got off his bunk to follow his brothers. As they walked, Joe and Sam exchanged playful banter, and Pete tried his best to participate as well. But inside, his mind was racing. How long would he have to keep this secret for? Even if his brothers spared his life upon finding out, which they definitely wouldn't, he would have to face his parents. Pete bore the Loeffler family name like it was a heavy cross. Even from birth, his life was determined for him. He was to be a hunter. But the line between hunter and monster blurred easily, especially when Pete was the one crossing it.