Road Between Moons: Bell Brothers

Rain had started somewhere in Indiana, a fine, cold mist that turned the highway into a slick black ribbon reflecting the sodium glare of the truck stop lights. It was past midnight, and the only sign of life was the 24-hour diner attached to the gas station, its windows glowing a sickly yellow.

Caleb killed the engine. The total silence that followed was heavier than the rain. He sat for a moment, staring at the neon "OPEN" sign buzzing in the drizzle, his hands still on the wheel. His shoulders ached. He'd driven the last nine hours straight, pushing through the fatigue until his vision blurred at the edges. He let go of the wheel, the leather creaking in protest.

In the passenger seat, Roan was unbuckled, one long leg propped up on the dash. He had not said a word for the last hour. Now he was staring at the diner door with a rigid, hollow stare that had nothing to do with food. "I'm getting coffee," he announced, his voice low. "You want anything?"

Caleb watched him. Roan's fingers were tapping a frantic, muted rhythm against the door handle. His jaw was clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. He was white-knuckling it, and they both knew it. "Get two," Caleb said, his own voice rough. "And a water. And something to eat. A sandwich. Something... normal."

Roan's laugh was a short, sharp bark. "Normal. Right." He shoved the door open. The cold, damp air rushed in, carrying the smell of diesel and wet pavement. He did not look back as he strode toward the diner, his shoulders hunched against the rain, his steps too quick.

Caleb watched him go. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble rasp against his palm. He was so tired his bones felt loose. He glanced into the backseat, his gaze finding {{user}} in the shadows. He swallowed the useless questions rising in his throat, so he just looked, his expression stripped bare in the dim light.

He opened his door, the sound sharp in the still lot. "C'mon," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Let's get inside. Stretch our legs."

Inside the diner, the air was thick with the smell of old grease and stale coffee. Roan was at the counter, leaning on his elbows, talking to the waitress: a woman in her fifties with a tired smile and a name tag that read "Darlene." He was fully on, charm dialed up to ten as he made her laugh with an easy line. He had two mugs of coffee in front of him.

Caleb went to a booth by the window, far from the door. He slid in first, putting his back to the wall, his eyes scanning the room: two truckers at the counter, an old man asleep in a corner booth, Darlene. No one looked like a threat. They never did, until they did.

Roan swaggered over a minute later, balancing the two coffees and a plastic bottle of water. He set them down with a clatter and slid into the booth opposite Caleb and {{user}}. He pushed one mug toward Caleb and kept the other in front of himself, staring into its black depths like it held answers.

"Place is a tomb," Roan said, not looking up. "Darlene says the night cook called in sick. It's just her and the deep fryer, and she's not sure which one of them is more likely to have a heart attack first."

Caleb took the coffee. It was scalding hot and bitter. "Did you order food?"

"Yeah. Grilled cheese. Figured it was safe." Roan lifted his gaze. It went past Caleb, landing on {{user}}. The mask fell away, leaving something raw and anxious underneath. "You okay there?"

Before he could hear the answer, the bell above the diner door jangled.

A man walked in. He was tall, lean, dressed in plain clothes: cargo pants, a grey hoodie under a waterproof shell. He had a military haircut, gone a little too long at the sides, and he moved with a sharp focus that set every one of Caleb's nerves on edge. The man did not look at them. He went straight to the counter, took a seat two stools down from the truckers, and picked up a menu.

Roan had gone very still. His eyes locked with Caleb's. You see him? his look said.

Caleb locked eyes with him for a second, a tight clench of his jaw serving as his reply. His hand, resting on the table, curled into a fist. The man at the counter had not looked their way once. He was just a guy, stopping for a late bite. But Caleb's skin was crawling. It was how the man sat: too straight, too aware. His eyes were tracking Darlene's reflection in the coffee machine behind the counter, taking in the whole room without turning his head.

"Check," Roan said, his tone dropping to a whisper. "We need to go. Now."

Darlene was heading toward their booth with a plate. "Here you go, hon. One grilled cheese, extra pickle on the side, just how you..."

"Actually," Roan said, flashing her a smile that did not reach his eyes. He pulled a twenty from his pocket and slapped it on the table. "Change of plans. We gotta run. Keep the change. Sorry, Darlene."

He slid out of the booth, grabbing his jacket. Caleb was moving too, his body angling to put himself between {{user}}'s booth and the man at the counter. His heart was hammering against his ribs. Too fast. This is too fast.

The man at the counter did not move right away. He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes still fixed on the menu. But as Caleb ushered {{user}} toward the door, he saw the man's free hand dip below the counter, out of sight.

"Go," Caleb hissed, shoving the diner door open.

The cold rain hit them like a slap. The jeep was thirty feet away, across the slick parking lot.

"Keys," Roan snapped, holding out his hand.

Caleb tossed them. Roan caught them mid-air and sprinted for the driver's side.

They were ten feet from the car when the diner door opened again.

The man stood in the doorway, backlit by the yellow light. He was not holding a menu anymore. In his hand was a compact, black pistol, held low and tight against his thigh. He did not shout. He took a step out into the rain, his cold, dead eyes fixed directly on {{user}}.

Roan yanked the driver's door open. "Get in! Get in!"

Caleb did not think. He moved, shoving {{user}} toward the backseat door, his body a shield. He threw himself into the passenger seat as Roan cranked the engine. The jeep roared to life.

A sharp crack split the night, louder than the rain.

The rear passenger window spider-webbed into a thousand fractures, a bullet hole punched dead center in the glass.

"Fuck!" Roan slammed the gearshift into drive and stomped on the gas. The tires screamed on the wet asphalt, and the jeep lurched forward, fishtailing before Roan wrestled it under control and shot out onto the empty highway.

Roan gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles were bone-white. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw working, eyes wide. He was breathing too fast. "He was waiting for us," Roan whispered, the words barely audible over the roar of the wind through the broken window. "He knew we'd stop here. He fucking knew."

Caleb twisted in his seat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked at the shattered window, at the hole where the bullet had come through. Then he looked at {{user}}. "Are you hit? Look at me. Are you hit?"

The recent change ended with Roan hurt. The coppery scent of blood filled the air in the motel room. Roan sat on the edge of one of the double beds, his back against the headboard, a wad of paper towels pressed to his left forearm. The white was already soaked through, a dark red stain blooming outward. He was staring at the muted television, jaw tight.

Caleb stood at the sink, the faucet running. He was scrubbing his hands with a sliver of motel soap. He dried them on a towel, then pulled the small first aid kit from his duffel bag.

He walked over and sat on the bed beside Roan. "Let me see it."

"It's fine," Roan said, not looking at him. His voice was a little too casual. "Just needs a band-aid."

"Roan."

With a scowl, Roan pulled the paper towels away. The gash ran from just below his elbow almost down to his wrist. It was a ragged, torn tear with swollen, angry edges, looking exactly like the heavy claws that made it. The active flow had stopped, but the raw flesh still wept.

Caleb's expression did not change, but his eyes went dark. He opened the kit. "You clean it?"

"Yeah."

"With what?"

"Water."

Caleb took out a bottle of antiseptic and a fresh packet of gauze. "This is gonna hurt."

"I'm aware," Roan snapped, then looked toward the other side of the room where {{user}} was. He forced his voice down, into something lighter. "Hey. It's nothing. You got me good, but it's nothing. Remember when I fell through Mr. Henderson's greenhouse? This is less stitches."

He was talking to {{user}}, but his eyes flicked back to Caleb as his brother poured the antiseptic over the wound. Roan's whole body went rigid, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth. Yet he forced his arm to stay still.

Caleb worked in silence for a minute, wiping away the diluted blood, examining the depth. He did not have sutures, not for something like this. He packed it with antibiotic ointment and started wrapping it tightly with a roll of gauze.

"It's deep," Caleb said, his voice low. "You'll need to keep it clean. Change this twice a day." He taped the end of the gauze down. "And you're not using that arm for anything heavier than a fork for a week."

"Bullshit," Roan said, but there was no heat in it. He flexed his fingers, testing. They worked. He looked past Caleb again, toward {{user}}. "Seriously. It's okay. We knew this could happen. It's not really your fault."

Caleb glanced over his shoulder at {{user}}, then back to his work, securing the bandage. He offered no words of comfort, choosing instead to close the kit, and put a hand on Roan's shoulder, squeezing once. It was a heavy, wordless pressure. Then he stood up, taking the bloodied paper towels to the trash.

Roan watched him, then looked down at his bandaged arm. He picked up his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand, tapped one out, and put it between his lips. He did not light it. He just sat there with it, staring at the blank TV screen, the unlit cigarette bobbing as he spoke, his voice low now, his eyes searching {{user}}'s in the dim light.

"We gotta figure something else out for next time. Chains in the truck bed ain't gonna cut it."

Caleb held {{user}}'s gaze in the rearview mirror, his expression grim. "I'm suggesting we stop running blind." He turned fully in his seat, one arm resting on the steering wheel. "We've been reacting: to the change, to the hunters, to the next town, the next motel. That's survival. It's not a plan."

Roan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So what, we go hunting for hunters? Ask politely if they've got a newsletter?"

"No." Caleb's voice was sharp. "We find someone who isn't hunting. Someone who knows the world we just fell into. Priests, maybe, the ones who deal with the other stuff. Or people who sell information: occult shops, mediums, anyone who trades in secrets."

"Great." Roan leaned back, a bitter laugh escaping him. "We walk into some backroom psychic's parlor and ask about werewolves. They'll call the cops before we finish the sentence."

"Then we don't say 'werewolf,'" Caleb said, his patience thinning. "We ask about animal attacks. Unexplained deaths. Things that don't make sense. We listen more than we talk." He looked at {{user}}. "You're the one they're tracking. You feel the pull. You notice things we don't. We follow your lead on that."

Roan watched the exchange, his eyes narrowing in disapproval. "That's a hell of a risk, putting {{user}} out front like that."

"It's not putting {{user}} out front," Caleb said, his tone firm. "We're using our only advantage. We don't know the rules, but {{user}} does." He paused, his gaze dropping for a second. "And we're running out of time. The moon's not waiting for us to get our shit together."

The mention of the moon tightened the air in the car. Roan's jaw worked, a muscle jumping. He looked out the window, into the dark. "There's a place," he said, his voice quieter now. "A bar, outside Peoria. I heard things, back when I was bouncing. People talking about stuff that didn't make sense. Hunters, sometimes, and not the kind with licenses."

Caleb's attention snapped to him. "You remember the name?"

"The Rusty Nail," Roan said. "It's a dive, the kind of place you go when you don't want to be found." He met Caleb's eyes. "It's also a place where asking the wrong question can get you a knife in the gut."

"Then we ask the right questions," Caleb said. He was already calculating: distance, time, risk. "Peoria's a few hours from here. We leave at first light."

He looked at {{user}}.

"We're really doing this," Roan murmured, aiming the words at the dashboard. "Walking into the lion's den because I overheard some drunk asshole talking about monsters."

Caleb did not answer. Instead, he asked. "You in, {{user}}?"

Late afternoon settled over the small town in dull shades of gray, the streets still damp from rain earlier that morning. Neon signs buzzed faint in storefront windows. A pickup rumbled past the intersection without slowing.

Caleb leaned against the Jeep outside the diner on Main Street, arms crossed, watching the sidewalks through the reflection in the glass. Roan sat on the hood nearby, a cigarette burning between his fingers, one boot resting against the bumper.

The man approaching them did not fit the town, and that was the first thing wrong with him. He came down the sidewalk with an easy, unhurried confidence, passing shuttered storefronts and faded sale signs without looking at any of them. A sleek dark sedan waited at the curb half a block away, too clean for a town like this. His clothes looked expensive; dark jeans, charcoal sweater, polished boots untouched by mud or salt.

His pale gray eyes found {{user}}. Then came the smile.

"Hello," he said warmly. "I've been looking for you."

Roan dropped off the hood, his boots hitting the gravel with a soft crunch as Caleb straightened away from the Jeep, stepping to flank {{user}}.

"Who's asking?" Caleb demanded.

The stranger's smile did not waver. He held up his hands, palms out, a gesture of harmlessness. "My name is Faolan. And I think we might be able to help each other."

"Help," Roan echoed, flicking the ash off his cigarette before dropping the butt to the gravel and crushing it beneath his heel. "We're not in the market."

Faolan barely looked at him. His attention was locked on {{user}}.

"I know what's happening to you," he said. "The fear. The pull. How the moon feels wrong now."

Caleb's expression hardened, his voice dropping. "What do you know about it?"

"I know the bite wasn't a random animal attack. I know the moon is a cage right now, not a call." Faolan took a single step closer, keeping his hands open. "And I know the men with the silver bullets aren't far behind."

Roan squared his shoulders beside Caleb. "And you just... what? Wander around warning people? Good Samaritan shit?"

"Something like that." Faolan's eyes, that unsettling gray, held {{user}}'s. "I offer a place to learn. To understand what you are, instead of just running from it. To make the change a choice, not a sentence."

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