Acquainted ⇒ Brett Talbot

VII. Peter Hale

Peter Hale lives in an urban apartment forty minutes from Devenford in a town called Beacon Hills. He's a handsome man considering his age and he wears a tight v-neck that clings to his broad shoulders.

"What do you want?" he asks as he stares me and Brett down.

"We're here for Peter Hale," Brett says.

Peter sighs. "It really is tough being a famous werewolf in Beacon Hills," he says. "What do you want? Autographs? Pictures?"

I realise that he's teasing us, a grin stretching the length of his face. "Okay, cut the jokes," I say. "I need help."

Peter huffs a loud breath that whistles through his front teeth. "God, teenagers are no fun these days, are they?"

He pulls open the door and gestures for us to go in. "Come in," he says. The apartment is a mix of industrial minimalism and modern accents. I'm surprised at how stylish it is, like it should be in one of those interior design magazines. That isn't what stuns me the most, though. It's the fact at how impractical the whole place is. It doesn't show much evidence of being lived in and there's little to no storage anywhere. There is a flight of stairs that doesn't seem to go anywhere in the corner of the room and one wall is splayed with windows looking out onto Beacon Hills.

Peter sits behind a big, grand desk made of dark mahogany and leans over onto the table. "What do you want?" he asks, propping his chin up on his hands.

Brett clears his throat to speak. It's strange - Brett seems a lot more nervous than I am. Then a thought passes over me. What if he knows something he isn't telling me?

"My alpha gave me your address," he says. "Satomi her name is. I gather that you know her?"

He nods. "Ah, yes, Satomi. I wouldn't call us friends. Allies, more like it." Peter smiles cunningly. "To what do I owe your acquaintance?"

A muscle feathers in Brett's jaw. He opens his mouth to speak but I conjure enough courage to speak up for myself. "I was involved in a car crash about a month ago," I begin. "Something happened on that night and here I am. I was turned into a vampire and now, because I've completed the transition by feeding on someone, I can do things that I didn't know possible. But that's not what I came here for. I came so that I could walk in daylight without feeling like I've been set on fire."

Peter raises his eyebrows. "You made a bad choice coming here, vampire," he says.

I barely have time to furrow my eyebrows when Peter's hand wraps around a pencil on the table and draws his arm back, the pencil set on finding its home in my chest. I shut my eyes, ready for the sharpened tip of the pencil to dive into my flesh, but it never happens.

I reopen my eyes and look down at his fist still clutching the pencil. Brett's hand is clamped down on top of his. Brett's eyes are golden and fangs jut out over his lip. "Put it down," he hisses through clenched teeth.

Peter purses his lips. "You keep your vampire in line and she doesn't get hurt. If she even so much as shows her fangs, she's dead. You hear me?"

Brett lets Peter's hand go and the older man calmly sets the weapon down. He holds up his palms in a gesture of peace. I bite my lip, thinking.

"She doesn't have control over her changing yet," Brett says. "Leave her alone."

"Calm down, lover boy," Peter says with a chuckle.

"Why the pencil?" I finally interject.

"What?" Peter asks, a crease appearing between his brows. "I didn't have a weapon."

"I mean, why would you use a pencil in particular? That paper weight over there could've smashed my skull open really good," I point out.