| Title: Silver and Garlic
| Rating: PG-13 for violence
| Disclaimer: My boys. Before Bad Things happened...
| Warnings: Violence and blood are present... Yeah.
| Feedback: Please! Email me at [email protected]
| Summary: The story of how Konah lost his left eye... Come on... You
| know you love the boy with the patch!
|
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Silver and Garlic

He stood leaning against the rough brick wall, a boy of fifteen years with a body sculpted like someone five or ten years older. Hair somewhere between honey and peanut butter in shade flopped into his olive eyes in soft waves, like the trail a water snake leaves in the mirror-surface of a lake. The wall behind him was in burnt ochre, the regular pattern of bricks and mortar broken up by bright-colored murals. The music from the club escaped out to the street just around the corner. He chewed on a clove of garlic while he waited for his friend to return. It was a standing joke between them, boy and werewolf, and they both knew the garlic wasn't going to do more than at most make Jake flinch.

Steps echoed in the narrow stone alleyway, and he looked up. He didn't think it would be Jake, he could make out at least three pairs of shoes over the club noise, and Jake had left alone. However, it was possible, and wouldn't be the first time his well-meaning adoptive brother had taken it upon himself to find them both a lady-friend.

The steps entered the circle of light from the single lantern on the street corner, and he watched the cool blue reflect off the features of four stringy-looking, greasy-haired young adults, and the silvery spikes that decorated the newcomers' jewelry. Something about them seemed familiar. One of them stepped forward, and he raised a disinterested eyebrow.

"Hello, Konah," the black-clad figure purred, and he rolled his eyes. "Don't have your bodyguard around? What're you going to do if a demon shows up?"

"There's a club around the corner," he pointed out, brushing hair out of his eyes. "Any demon with any kind of self-respect will seek out large gatherings of people rather than hunt lone strays. Too much work, otherwise."

"Our club."

"Making this a spat about territory? I don't want any trouble, Jake and I will leave as soon as he comes back."

"I don't think so."

From the hand of one of the other strangers dangled a pendant, a small unicorn's horn sculpture on a silver chain. Konah didn't have to take a second look to know who it belonged to, and that the owner would not have given it over voluntarily.

"What did you do to Jake?" he growled, standing up straight and rolling his shoulders, no longer looking even remotely indifferent. "Give that back!"

The boy sprang for the stranger with the curious pendant, and hardly felt the blow to his side as he passed their speaker, reaching out and seizing the glimmering white on the end of that rough silver chain. He was used to wrestling with a werewolf. Very little that these people could do would affect him. It did worry him that they had managed to hurt his friend bad enough to get the pendant off him. It worried him even more that by the time Jake recovered from whatever they had done, to say the werewolf would be pissed off would be an understatement. If there was one thing his parents had taught him, it was that enraged werewolves were no laughing matter.

Konah, more than used to the cursed strength of his lycantrophic friend, was fully capable of holding his own against four would-be goths for a while, and hardly took notice when they did hit him with anything. Especially four would-be goths that hadn't had much practice in working together, and because of that got in each others' way as much as they got in his. There was no reason he should have had a problem at least defending himself, even if having to keep track of four of them made him too cautious to be able to do much harm, either.

The fight was nothing but an elaborate dance to him, a dance the others fumbled through while he flowed from step to step with a minimum of skinned knuckles. Konah might not fight often, there was little point to fighting, after all, but when he did, he could brawl with the best of them. As long as it was a matter of fists and feet, he would be fine.

A hand clutching something that gleamed of silver moved at the edge of his vision. With a curse he ducked under the knife-weilding arm, and then more silver came rushing towards his face, the spikes on somebody's bracelet. He twisted to the right to avoid getting his face torn up, but wasn't quick enough. With a scream that probably startled a few of the more sober guests in the club on the other side of the wall, he clutched at his face. A boot hit his side and sent him sprawling forward on the pavement, hands still covering up his left eye, cheek and most of his nose.

He no longer felt the pointed toes of the leather boots biting into his sides and back, no longer noticed when he was spit on and cursed at. All he was aware of was the pain that filled his head like bad wine and the fuzzy voices of instinct that told him to pull his knees up to his chest. If he hadn't known better he'd have said someone had just inserted a horde of tiny demons or fire ants into his eye socket.

After what seemed like weeks of searing pain, a howl liberally spiced with primal fury cut through even the haze of his pain, and he fought to stay at least coherent. Pain was ignorable, he'd always been taught, and he found his teachings correct, if hard to follow. The four crowded around him paused for a moment. Then they disappeared, and he felt a much larger presence, hunched over him, hot, wet breath on what of his face was still exposed to the night air.

He forced his right eye open, saw a familiar shape of black fur and heavy muscle, growling with the tail end of a long coat between its teeth. The owner of the coat had not yet had the presence of mind to take it off.

Konah spit the mixture of blood, saliva and garlic in his mouth into the werewolf's face, making him flinch back and claw at the stinging wetness on his muzzle for a few moments, long enough to allow the last of his tormentors to escape. A slightly more human expression returned to the lupine face, though it still was far from sane.

"What'd you do that for?" Jake growled, shaking his head like a wet dog.

Konah didn't answer, just reached out with his right hand, the hand that held the little pendant he had managed to reclaim, and grabbed a generous handful of shaggy fur, dragging himself up to a sitting position. Slowly, he took hi left hand from his face, and flinched when he saw the mess of blood on his palm.

"Bastards," the werewolf growled, and gently freed himself from the hand clutching at his coat, then reclaimed the blood-stained necklace. "Are you alright? They bloody surprised me and I..."

"Do I bloody look like it?" Konah asked, feeling scarlet tears drawing a trail down his left cheek from his injured eye and a gash across his nose. "Hurts like no tomorrow, too."

"I'd offer to bite you, but..."

"But we both know it would be no good. Just call emergency, please?"

Konah leaned forward into the werewolf's chest, staining his night-black coat and losing consciousness before Jake had time to answer.


┬ęCopyright 2004 Alexandra Herakai, all rights reserved. No stealing and no reproducing without permission. Rough draft so far, suggestions are welcome.