Glancing out the window before he left, Kit noticed that the moon was rising, white-blue and round, and shivered. A chill raced up his spine and he did not know why.

Lately he had been feeling strange at the full moon. But that was impossible. 

No-one felt strange at the full moon.

The reason emergency rooms and holding cells filled up on these nights was that people used it as an excuse, or were superstitious enough to imagine things. Or just because it was brighter out, so they could see better.

It wasn't real.

"It's not real", Kit told his trembling limbs, the faint cold sweat forming on the back of his neck.

I'm not going crazy. It's not real.

Willing the goosebumps on his arms to go down, he zipped up his hoodie.

Get it together.

The last thing he needed right now was more problems.

"Hey little miss, you're too young to - " 

Kit pushed his hood back and faced the bouncer, feet planted.

"Not a girl, not a kid, not here to drink - just picking up my uncle, like you guys called me too."

He slapped up his fake ID - well, it was real, but not a great likeness - and stepped around the big man before he could do more than blink in surprise. 

It was a surprise that there was a bouncer on a week night, in a low-key place like this. Maybe he was more of a lookout? Cops had like to razzia gay bars, at least in his old town.

Shuffling in, Kit paused as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Monday meant that the bar was fairly empty. Straight away, he spotted a blond head slumped over the mostly empty bar and skirted around a few dark, polished tables and clambered up on the barstool next to his uncle, slinging his battered old bag down with a clunk on the bartop. It was smooth dark granite, polished to a shine.

"Get lost, kid," the bartender shot at him, busy restocking glasses. "How'd you get in here?"

"You called me," Kit said as he flipped open his bag on the bartop, pushing coasters, menus, and bowls of peanuts to the side. 

He saw the young man startle at the sound of his voice - husky, its melody turned raspy around the edges from smoking. 

First, he took Charlie's face in his hands, looking to see that he was awake and breathing normally.

Then he pulled out a small metal flashlight and stethoscope, shoving it down Charlie's back and listening to his breaths, small, strong fingers curling around his wrist to take his pulse. The older man made no protest, only mumbling something faint when he felt the cold steel on his bare skin.

"And I'm not a kid," Kit continued, looking up from under his black hoodie and meeting the bartender's eyes.

In some respects they resembled each other, Kit noticed - he was handsome, with full lips and high cheekbones, but older and more masculine, with a slightly darker colouring and a square jaw. 

A black T-shirt hugged his shoulders - he was of average height, but his shoulders were wide, tapering into a narrow waist that gave his torso a distinctly triangular shape. He was muscled, but not in a bulky way like Tyson, more like...a fighter. One of those martial artists on TV. 

And he moved behind the bar in that sure way, as if the knew what he was doing with his body, as if he was comfortable in it. Was he a student? He looked pretty young.

"Ah," the guy managed, dark eyebrows shooting up. "Kit Callaghan."

His eyes flew down to the objects Kit was spreading over the counter. 

Kit checked Charlie's pupils with the flashlight (they contracted and dilated, but barely followed his finger, looking glazed and unseeing), and tried to speak to him, without success.

"Are you a doctor or something?"

"Do I look like a doctor?"

"Nope. Probably never saw anyone who looked less like one, to be honest."

Kit looked at Charlie - slumped forward, half-collapsed, untouched glass of water in front of him, damp coasters all around where empty glasses must have stood.

"How many has he had?"

"How should I know? I'm not his babysitter."

"No, but he's a regular, right?"

Kit looked at him until he inclined his head, confirming it. 

"So you should look after him. Now what if I have to call an ambulance, have them rush in here and disturb everyone, just because you couldn't be bothered to do your job, huh?"

The guy glanced over into a far corner, reflexively, and Kit followed his gaze, meeting a pair of dark eyes over a laptop screen. A man in that looked to be in his mid to late thirties, well-dressed, darkly handsome, was watching them.

Especially Charlie.

Whoever he was - maybe a manager? - the man did not move, and Kit decided to ignore him. There were more pressing matters at hand.

He took up a small, rectangular portable breathalyser, wiping the mouthpiece with disinfectant and giving it a once over before turning it on to boot up. 

"Charlie," he said, turning his attention back to his uncle.

Still no response.

He looked pale, with a sheen of sweat over him, way too drunk.

Alcohol overdose, maybe, even if he has built up a high tolerance...

"Charlie!"

He righted him, turned his chin, forced him to look up. His eyes were unfocused.

"Blow on this."

Kit held up the breathalyser.

"I need to know whether to bring you to the hospital or not."

Charlie stared at it, swaying slightly. All at once, his nephew lost the last of his patience.

"And you call yourself a gay man," he hissed, shoving the mouthpiece in between his parted lips.

"Blow!"

Slapping him hard between his shoulder blades, he pinched his lips closed around the plastic mouthpiece as Charlie puffed out a startled breath, pitching forward.

Kit snatched the little device bak and steadied him, while the bartender stared at them. He had stopped stocking the glasses. 

Ignoring him, Kit waited for the numbers to come up on the small display, squinting at them.

"Where is your nearest hospital?"

"Is he that bad?"

"No, but next time he might be," he said, picking up Charlie's half-empty glass and draining it. 

"His blood alcohol content is over 0.3 - you should have cut him off ages ago."

He shrugged. Kit narrowed his eyes. It should not be enough to kill Charlie, just make him massively intoxicated and give him a black-out and a killer hangover - but it was still dangerous. 

Kit shouldn't care...

It's only because I need him. That's why.

"Next time, put him on water and call me earlier." He scratched his number down on a coaster and slid it over the bar.

"Stick that behind there. I'm sure you've got a pile of them."

The bartender leaned forward, towards Kit, smiling placidly.

"Why would I?"

"Are you this polite to all customers, or is it just because you like me?"

Mirroring his actions, Kit leaned forward too, not backing down, staring at him with a small smile curving his own plump lips.

"Take care of him and he'll come back and spend more money. Easy."

He held his gaze until the other man took the coaster and huffed, then smiled back at him, eyes watching him appraisingly. 

"Whatever you say, doc."

"What are the good taxi companies around here?"

"New to town?"

"I am. He's not."

"He's your..."

"Uncle."

"You don't look alike."

"I take after my dad - I think."

"Think?"

"Never met him."

"Ah. Well, you're not missing anything. My dad's a piece of shit."

"What a relief."

He laughed, giving Kit a number for a taxi company. 

"How old are you, doc?"

Kit considered lying, but in the end, he couldn't be arsed.

"Sixteen. You?"

He frowned. "Eighteen. Just started college. You look younger."

"You look older. Thought you had to be 21 to work in a bar?"

"I won't tell if you won't. In some states you can be 18. I know the owner, and you're not the only one with a fake ID." 

"Fair enough."

"I'm Zach, by the way," he said, helping Kit half-carry Charlie's limp form out to the curb.

Something was wrong. 

Kit had felt it even in the taxi, Charlie slumped against his shoulder, bright neon lights flashing by outside the window. 

Shivers had started wrecking his body, even though it was a warm night, even though he was sober. 

Little cramps gripped his limbs, his abdomen. His knees trembled, gums aching. 

Had there been something in Charlie's drink, the one that he had finished?

What is happening to me? 

He barely got his uncle to the couch, letting him fall and gasping as another cramp gripped him. Kit wrenched Charlie onto his side, pulling up one leg, placing his hand underneath his chin, arranging him so that he could breathe freely. 

The other man was already near-unconscious, barely stirring. Kit should keep an eye on him. His eyes were drawn, like magnets, to his uncle's fine-boned, angelic face, it's anxious expression smoothed out in sleep. 

Just like her.

Charlie's face was like an imperfect copy of his sister's, and every time Kit looked at him, pain and guilt stabbed through him like a physical blow.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice cracking. No-one could hear him now. 

"I'm so sorry..." 

A vision of her face suddenly blocked his vision as another cramp gripped Kit's body, her lips pale and cracked, turning up in a cruel smile to whisper,

There is a curse on our family.

Kit staggered back, stumbling through the door to his room and collapsing on the floor, shaking uncontrollably. Through the open blinds, moonlight streamed down on to him as he rolled onto his back, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Gah...fuh..."

He tried to breathe, but it was painful now, the bright cold light stinging his eyes, the smell of floor polish suddenly so strong he scrunched up his nose, skin itching terribly.

I must be tripping. There must have been something - No...

"No..." 

He had avoided drugs. Whatever else he'd done, he had avoided that. And still...

"No..." 

The next cramp made him bite the back of his hand and it stung, blood dripping from puncture marks when he pulled away, and that was impossible, because human teeth were blunt and did not puncture, they tore. 

Seeing double - head throbbing - he reached over and pulled a throw off the edge of the bed, stuffing the thick fabric into his mouth. 

Then he let his eyes close, whimpering, back arching as spasms tore through him and his skin itched something crazy and then it felt as if something snapped and he was melting, bones popping, sliding over one another, grating with a sick, wet sound. 

It felt like hours before Kit came to, vision clearing, finding himself in a trembling heap on the floor. The moonlight looked the same - no, greyer than before, slightly more monochromatic. 

Pushing himself up, he drew a breath - and his head was cleaved in half with the onslaught of scents. 

It was impossible to tell them apart - sharp, sweet, sour, bitter, strong, pungent - overwhelming to the point of pain, making him choke and gasp. 

He heard a high whine and got on all fours, shaking his head. Tongue lolling, he looked down at his paws.

What the...

Kit tried to stand up and it dawned on him that he was already standing, on four paws, and that the pitiful whine came from his own throat, because he was no longer capable of forming words. 

Because his body was no longer human. 

Fuck.