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There was something wrong with him.
Montague wasn’t sure what, exactly, it was. But he knew that something was wrong, something big, and it was eating him up not to know what. Ever since that day in Montana, he had felt different, somehow. Not like himself.
It wasn’t Allison that was the problem. He knew that much. She’d been great, all sleeves and smiles and strange Montanan ways. He was perfectly settled in his decision to quit his job and move to Idaho with her. Gerard was great too, for that matter, quickly having stepped into his new role as Montague and Allison’s mentor/counselor/friend despite not really having known either of them prior. No, it wasn’t the people in Montague’s life that were causing him problems. It was Montague himself.
Ever since Montana, his body had felt… different. He didn’t seem to feel the cold anymore, even when it made Allison and Gerard shiver in their jackets. He didn’t seem to get hungry anymore, either. Or, well… he did feel hungry, but the thought of eating food turned his stomach more often than not, and he just couldn’t figure out what in the world he was actually hungry for . His sleep at night was restless, tossing and turning through all hours of the night, and his senses always seemed to be on high alert.
He’d tried going to a doctor after the first couple of days, but he’d just been given some pepto-bismol and told that he’d be fine in a few days. That, obviously, hadn’t happened. It had been almost three weeks now and he was just as ill as he’d been at the beginning. Even more ill, really, since his restlessness and that strange hunger seemed to grow stronger and stronger by the day.
Allison and Gerard had both been trying to convince him to go to the emergency room, but he’d been resistant to the idea. He’d used the entirety of his trust fund on the down payment for the new house, and Allison had used all of her savings as well, which meant that he’d need to ask his parents for the money. And that meant he’d have to explain to them why he was in Idaho. And that meant telling them he’d fallen in love with and essentially eloped with a Capulet, which would probably get him disowned. Or at least be an incredibly uncomfortable conversation, if nothing else.
But… it had been three weeks, and he wasn’t getting any better. Maybe it was time to give his parents a call.
***
“You’re sick ?” his father asked. “With what? Did you not get your flu vaccine this year?”
“It’s not even flu season,” Montague defended himself, “and no. It’s not the flu. I don’t know what it is, which is why I need to go to the doctor.”
“Do you need one of us to drive you?” his mother offered. “I can swing by the penthouse in an hour to pick you up. If we make it two hours, I can even bring you some of my famous chicken noodle soup.”
Her chicken noodle soup really was famous, at least among the family. It had always been one of Montague’s favorite meals growing up, even if it was usually reserved for when someone was sick or sad. Even so, today the thought of soup just made him nauseous.
He sighed. “No, mom, I don’t need a ride. Or soup. Thank you for offering, though."
There was a moment of silence, and then, “What do you need, then? You said that you had a favor to ask us.”
Montague took a deep breath. Here goes nothing , he thought wryly, and then he started to talk. “I need money for the co-pay. And to pay for any scans or tests or anything that they need to do.”
“Son, you have a well-paying internship, don’t you?” His father sounded confused. “At that fashion magazine place. You were so excited to tell us about it before. Are they not paying you enough? If they’re not, just use what’s in your trust fund, it should be more than enough.”
Montague winced. “I quit my internship at the magazine,” he admitted. “And I used my trust fund to buy a house in Idaho. With my girlfriend, who also moved to Idaho with me.”
Between the two of them, he and Allison had managed to scrape together enough to put a down payment on a single-story, two-bedroom house on the outskirts of Boise. Most of the money had come from him, sure, but Allison had contributed several thousand as well from her own savings. The house was a bit small, especially with Gerard currently renting the second bedroom, and the floorboards were creaky in places, and the screen door in the back made a horrible squealing noise every time someone opened it. It was all they could afford, and it was beautiful. And 100% not haunted– he’d double checked with both the realtor and the previous owners to make sure.
On the other end of the phone line, he could hear his parents’ frantic confusion.
“You bought a house?”
“You quit your job?”
“In Idaho?”
“You have a girlfriend?”
“You moved to another state without telling us?”
“Why have we never heard about her before?”
“You’re in Idaho?”
Their voices were overlapping, questions half drowned out under the sound of each other’s voice. Montague waited several seconds for the noise to die down before speaking.
“This was a very well thought-out and reasonable life decision,” he lied, “which has only been derailed due to the unforeseen circumstances of my illness. But, yes. I moved to Idaho.”
“When?” his mother burst out. “We just saw you at my birthday dinner last month, and you didn’t say anything then!”
“It was a very spur-of-the-moment thing,” Montague admitted, “about three weeks ago. But it was a very well thought-out and reasonable spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“Why Idaho?” his father asked. “Why not tell us right away?”
Montague really didn’t want to get into the whole Capulet thing right now. “So, I haven’t been feeling well since around the time of the move,” he told them, hoping that the subject change would distract them enough to forget their questions, “and it’s been getting worse. That’s why I need to go to the doctor. So if you could send me some money, I’d really appreciate it, and once I get a job around here I can pay you back.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his mother told him. “Of course we will pay for your treatment, and of course you don’t need to pay us back for it. But what on earth are you sick with? It’s not cancer, is it? Because you know that runs in my family—“
“It’s not cancer, mom,” Montague cut her off. Then he paused to consider it. “Well, I don’t think it’s cancer. I’m not a doctor. But no, I’m just weirdly hungry, but I can’t really eat. And really tired, but I can’t get a good night’s sleep. And it’s like all my senses have gone into overdrive, but I can’t shut them off.”
This time, the silence on the other end of the line felt loaded.
“...Mom?” Montague asked. “Dad?”
His father’s sigh filtered through the phone speakers, sounding both apprehensive and resigned. “Have you, by any chance, stopped being sensitive to temperature?”
Montague nearly dropped the phone. How had he known? “How did you know that?”
“Is there a weird taste in the back of your throat, a taste that just won’t go away?”
“...Yes,” Montague said slowly. “It tastes kind of like lavender. And blood.”
“This is just like what happened to your grandfather,” his father told him. “Well, minus the lavender. I’m not sure what that’s about.”
“Probably the essential oils I chugged,” Montague admitted. Looking back, that probably hadn’t been the smartest decision he’d ever made.
“What?” his mother asked, sounding highly concerned.
“Nothing,” Montague denied quickly. “Uh, what was that about my grandfather?”
His father took a deep breath. “Dear boy, I think you’re turning into a vampire. That does run in my family, you know. Have you, by any chance, had a near-death experience lately?”
Montague froze. What the fuck? “Vampires are real? And no, I haven’t had–”
He cut himself short, a sudden realization in his mind. The essential oils. The persistent taste of lavender. He and Allison had both drunk the oil, but even though she’d drunk more than him, he’d been unconscious for longer. Was it possible that he had… that the oils had…?
“So I was going to die,” he said slowly, trying to wrap his head around the concept, “And instead, I… turned into a vampire? How did I not know this was a possibility?”
“Drink some blood,” his father told him, “Or eat a raw steak, or something like that. That should help with the hunger and the exhaustion. And send us your new address. This is a conversation better had in person.”
With that, his father hung up, leaving Montague alone in his house with a phone in his hand and a million questions running through his mind.