Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"From the dusty mesa,

her looming shadow grows.

Hidden in the branches

of the poison creosote..."

As the sun blisters hot and sweat beads down his back, the wind starts to kick up. It carries with it no promise of relief from the heat, just dust. The air is dry enough that each breath in feels like swallowing sand. Tears prick at Will's eyes as he blinks through each gale, tilting the brim of his cap down an inch to try and shield himself from the pellets of dirt assaulting his face, but if there is one thing he's learned in his short time on the run, it's this: you can't hide from the desert. In a place so empty and devoid of life beyond tiny towns with miles of land stretched between them, there is no one to protect you from the arid heat or the parched water wells. There is only night as respite, and just like many of life's blessings, she is short and quick to leave.

Cleric is a good horse and, somehow, an even better companion. He listens when Will speaks and asks for little in return, just a few bites of the apples knocking around in one of the sacks loaded on his back. Will thinks it cruel that Cleric is forced to carry the burden of his own reward, but as he runs a hand down the horses' spotted neck, he murmurs a soft promise of a better life. Somewhere far beyond the dust bowl they find themselves trapped in, there must be better. It's this hope for better that has Will urging Cleric on; well, the hope for better and the need for sleep.

His promise to Cleric gets carried away with the wind before it has the chance to reach him.

If the drunk he weaseled directions from a few saloons back is right, Hawkins should be only an hour's ride away. An hour in the desert feels more like five. Will settles low in his saddle, bracing for another wave of dust to crash overhead as he wades through a never ending sea of sand dunes and salt flats.

He loses track of time. Most days, Will tries to make the minutes pass by committing the curves and colors of the mesa to memory, but as the distance from Lenora grows, so does his longing for home. His heartache feels futile, knowing there's no place for him there anymore; all he has left to hold on to is the names, the faces. They're the same faces he sees in his few and far in-between dreams. With their lips curled in sneers, they point knowing fingers and pull the guilt from where it lies beating beside his heart. He can never make out what they whisper beneath their breaths, but he knows that they know, and that alone is enough to shake him awake in fear.

Despite it all, Will prefers the new shape his dreams have donned. The beast who used to haunt them has seemingly disappeared. Or, perhaps, it's taken a new form; whether it's morphed into the mob or himself, he's not quite sure.

Just as he begins to consider stopping for rest, the dust clouds clear. The outline of civilization emerges from the dirt as if it's growing before Will's eyes.

"There it is," Will breathes, smiling behind the yellow scarf that screens the lower half of his face. He runs a hand down Cleric's neck who whinnies with a little tut, likely as relieved as Will is to see such a sight. "We're nearly there, honey. Just a few more minutes."

Hawkins is the grandest settlement on this side of Broodmare's Back; considerably larger than the neighboring Pennhurst, Will's heard of the town's grandeur—mostly tall tales of sparkling blue streams and reigning rodeo queens. As he and Cleric get closer, he starts to question if the tales are all that tall. The line of buildings that crowd the horizon seem to go on for miles each way, and just behind them, Will can spot the rolling green hills the town is famous for. It's the first time Will's seen real grass in months; he wonders what it'll feel like beneath his feet.

There's a bulletin board right at the mouth of town. Will jerks Cleric to a halt, deciding to look over the many slips of paper nailed into the dust-worn wood; advertisements for a variety of businesses—from barbers to brothels and everything in between— and calls for work that pique his interest, sure, but only for a moment. The real eye-catcher is pinned right in the center; there lies poster so large that anyone perusing has no choice but to look at it.

So, Will looks at it. He takes in the same face that stares back at him whenever he glances out a window, or peers into the water he seldom sees, or shines the metal barrel of his pistol.

The flyer reads as follows:

"WANTED!

DEAD OR ALIVE.

WILLIAM JACOB BYERS.

REWARD: $5000.

Age, 20. Height, 5 foot 9 inches. Brown hair, green eyes.

Last seen in the town of LENORA. Armed and dangerous. Charged with—"

Due to its time basking in the sun, the ink has faded from the parchment. Will feels the knot in his stomach tighten. Before he has the chance to stop himself, he reaches out and tears the poster from the board, crumpling it in the palm of his hand. Here, hundreds of miles away from Lenora, he has the opportunity for repentance; his salvation rests on his anonymity and his ability to piece together the fragments that made up someone he is no longer allowed to be. He will not let something as minuscule as a piece of paper stain everything he's been working toward over these past few months—there is far too much at stake for that.

Will tosses the wad of parchment over his right shoulder. Much like the tumbleweeds that sway and sigh with the wind, it's swept from the shore, and in an instant, William Byers is lost to the desert. In his place, a sinner surfaces from the sandpits, clean.

The quaint shops that welcome Will are brilliantly painted, but it's not their vibrancy that gives Hawkins its spirit; it's the streets. Bustling with life, there are horse-drawn carriages trotting with wares strapped to their wagons, street stalls touting goods and services every few feet, and gaggles of children running amok. As Will stills to take in the town, he nearly misses a little hand reaching out to touch Cleric's legs. His companion startles at first, but after a moment, Cleric tilts down his nose for the little girl to pet.

"Hello, pony," she whispers, looking up toward the horse's rider. Her eyes, wide and green, fill with fear.

Will takes a survey of his surroundings before tugging the scarf from his face. He smiles, reaching into the satchel hanging from his hip. "He's pretty, isn't he?" Will hums just as his hand closes around the item he seeks.

The little girl nods. "I've always wanted a pony, but my Pa says they're too 'spensive."

"Well," Will holds out the wishbone, reaching down to place it in her tiny palm, "I heard that if you make a wish on one of these before you break it, it'll come true."

She cradles the wishbone in cupped hands, bringing it close to her heart. "Is that how you got your pony?"

No, he thinks. I snapped a man's neck while he slept. But bone is bone, and Will wishes he had someone when he was her age to shield him from the horrors human hands are capable of, so he lies. "Yes."

The smile that splits across the little girl's face is worth it. She turns on her heels and darts down the street, reuniting with her fellow children, holding the wishbone high into the air.

Hours of riding have left Will's loins aching, but he's sure Cleric is worse for wear. He slides off his poor horse's back and draws him to the nearest trough for a well deserved drink. It's only then that Will feels the force of his own fatigue, a bone deep exhaustion that makes his feet feel like lead in his boots; he needs rest. There should be an inn somewhere nearby—Hell, he'd even take a bed of hay. Anything is better than the solid ground of the desert.

As Will runs a hand through Cleric's matted mane, there's a soft twinkle of metal kissing metal; he nearly jumps out of his skin when he turns to look over his shoulder. There stands an elderly woman only a few inches away with a small bowl full of something he can't quite make out tucked beneath her arm.

"Don't think I've seen you round these parts before." The woman's eyes are trained on the scarf that veils the lower half of his face, her head tilted to the side curiously. "What brings you here, hm?"

Will has become practiced in the art of little white lies over these past few months. "Work," he replies. "Pennhurst's overrun with prospectors, and Old Indy is about as dead as a doornail. People say Hawkins is the closest thing to Heaven on earth."

"People say many things, boy," she muses, "but that doesn't make them true." Before he has the chance to question her, the old woman holds out her bowl, and Will can finally discern its contents; pendants, he thinks. Many of them. At the center of each is what appears to be moonstone, and woven around the circumference are strands of delicately shaped silver. "Lovely, aren't they?"

"They are—my apologies, ma'am, but I'm in no place to buy such fine jewelry."

"Oh, no, this is no fine jewelry." She reaches into the pile and pulls out a single pendant, flipping it over to reveal the back. There is a long needle and a clasp—some sort of pin. "Jewelry is for prancing; these, my dear, are for protecting."

Will raises a brow. "They're… charms?"

She nods. There is a certain look in her eyes that sets Will's nerves on edge. "The beast of night smells fresh blood; it's sweeter in its newness. You're young, hm? Spry." Suddenly, the old woman's hand juts out and wraps itself around his forearm. He can feel her nails stabbing into his flesh, stinging half-moons branding his skin. "Yes, tender meat. He likes that."

A few doors down, Will can spot the saloon. He starts to wonder if they've lost a loyal patron.

He pulls his arm from the woman's grasp, shoving his hand into his satchel. He fishes out one of the two coins he has left. Will, of course, does not believe a word she's saying, but if his purchase is the only thing that will send her off, it's a price he's willing to pay. "And this charm will—?"

The woman drops her gaze, zeroing in on the gold he holds between two finger tips. She's already slipping the pendant into his palm as she explains, "pin it to your pillow. The silver wards the beast away, and the moonstone seals you in your sleep. It'll be as if you aren't even there."

Will wishes he wasn't even here right now. But instead of sharing that sentiment, he minds his manners, smiling with his eyes and murmuring a soft thank you. She takes his coin with an eager hand.

"Protect yourself, dear boy," the elderly woman says just as she turns on her heels to walk away. "This place will ravage you, no matter how kindly you treat it."

As she disappears into the dust, Will runs his thumb along the gem inlaid within the silver of the pendant. It's cold to the touch. The sun glints off its surface, blinding white, like the sharp canine teeth of the dogs his father used to breed. Without another thought, he tosses the charm into his bag, the moonstone lost to the bottomless pit of his satchel.

All distractions successfully thwarted, Will finally faces the foe evading him for the past few weeks: sleep. His rest as of late has been anything but restful. When sleep does visit him, it's short and plagued, tainted with nightmares that leave him wondering if rest is truly worth it at all. He needs something that will leave him dead to the world and dreamless.

The image of an advertisement on the bulletin board flashes at the front of Will's mind. An apothecary, not far from the saloon; they ought to have a remedy strong enough to help him.

A little bell announces his arrival before Will speaks a single word. Who he assumes to be the shop owner pops out from the back, a bountiful head of brown curls bouncing with him; on the bridge of his nose rests the largest pair of goggles Will has ever seen. The glass lenses are so thick they make his blue eyes look five times bigger than humanly possible.

"Hello!" Calls the apothecary through a grin. "You're my first customer of the day! What a delight!"

"Hello," Will politely responds while taking his fill of the place. Behind the counter are three shelves made of dark wood, patterns and symbols carved meticulously into the surface; each self is packed to the brim with vials. Blue vials, yellow vials, green vials—they're color coded as well, descending in a ombré of hues that speak to the artistic sphere of Will's mind. Within them are held different herbs or liquids, each defined by a piece of parchment that bears the quick, almost unintelligible writing that apothecaries are known for. Resting against the bookcases is a ladder which Will assumes is to help the small shop owner reach the higher shelves. There are trails of smoke dancing through the air that carry with it the pungent scent of floral incense; rosemary and lavender wrap around his throat so tight he chokes behind his scarf.

The apothecary weasels his way to the counter. He drums his fingertips atop the wood, looking toward Will; it's rather unsettling, watching those magnified eyes blink at him expectantly. "Well… how can I help you?"

"Wo—"

"Oh, no, sir, I'm sorry," he cuts Will off before he can finish, to which Will immediately snaps his mouth shut. "We're all out of wolfsbane. You know, considering the circumstances. And with the heat, my supply has been trickling in rather slowly these days."

Wolfsbane? Where in the world did he get that idea from?

"No, no, I wasn't going to ask for that." The apothecary mouths a small oh, shrinking into himself. "Do you happen to have something for sleep?"

"Does a horse shit in the stable?" And when Will stares at him blankly, the apothecary clears his throat, nodding. "Why, yes, of course we do! What are you looking for specifically? Deeper sleep, lighter sleep…" He trails off before his voice drops to a whisper, leaning across the counter as if he's telling Will a secret. "Maybe even the… forever sleep? Thou shalt not judge, said the Lord, and thus I shalt not." He places one hand on his heart and the other in the air.

Will decides to ignore that last part. "Deep sleep. Dreamless sleep, preferably."

"Well, I have just the thing," he chimes, hopping onto the ladder with practiced ease. With a push of his palm, the apothecary slides across the wide expanse of his crowded bookshelves, humming along the way as he lands at the farthest end with a soft thud. "Dreamless sleep, dreamless sleep, dreamless sleep…" he repeats to himself as he runs his fingertips along a long row of vials, the soft clinking of glass soothing enough to make Will's eyes flutter. "A-ha!" The apothecary exclaims, holding up a dark blue bottle triumphantly. "This little rascal will knock you out quicker than a babbling bandit on bourbon."

Will sighs, relieved, before pulling out the lone coin from his satchel. "Is this enough?"

"More than enough," says the apothecary, his boggled eyes widening further behind his the lenses of his goggles. He hops from his ladder, nearly tripping over himself, but he leans against the counter like nothing of the sort ever happened. "I'll have to give you some change."

"Or," Will ponders, remembering the bulletin board at the entrance of town, "I could ask you for another favor—"

The apothecary's face goes bright white. He straightens up, grabbing the vial with a quick hand, moving to hide it behind his back. "Oh, um, I'm sorry, sir, but… uh… this is not that kind of establishment. Bertha and her Bull Riders are three doors down."

Will blinks, confused, before realization dawns on him. He has never been more thankful for the scarf hiding his face than he is now, considering how his cheeks are burning bright red and his mouth is hanging open. "N—No! That's not what—no." How often is this poor apothecary's shop mistaken for the town's brothel?

"Oh, thank Christ," the apothecary says with a huff, setting the vial back down on the counter just as he breaks into a fit of laughter. "My apologies, but you would not believe the amount of times I've been propositioned in such a way. Now, what favor, hm?"

Will flicks the coin into the air, the apothecary catching it with a pleased grin. "I'm looking for work. I saw the posters on my way in, but I wondered if there were any openings as of late that needed filling."

The apothecary hums, bringing the coin up to his nose, examining it closely. His eyes start to cross at the middle. "Well, as you now know, the Bull Riders are three doors down."

Will freezes, silent. The apothecary looks up from his intense examination.

"I'm messing with you."

"Yes!" Will sputters, somehow more flustered than before. "Of course! I was, um, thinking more along the lines of… farm work? I have some experience with horses. And cattle. I'm rather good with my hands."

At that, the apothecary snorts, but instead of poking fun at Will again, he decides to take his inquiry seriously. "Well," he begins, popping the cork from the vial, "you're in luck, sir. Seven Vales up on the green side just lost a stable hand. Debtors ran him out of town, I heard. That ranch breeds the finest race horses on this end of the dust bowl—I think they have around sixteen, now. I'm sure the Wheelers would appreciate the help, especially now that they're down to just one. Lord knows they can afford it."

Perfect, Will thinks to himself with a grin. An open position at a ranch that's likely desperate enough to fill the spot with no questions asked? Exactly what he needs. "What are they like? The Wheelers, I mean."

The apothecary pours a long stream of the sleeping draft into a smaller vial, his eyebrows pulled together as he thinks about Will's question. "They're… odd. Quiet. Rarely see them venture down this way, if ever. But, if I had land like that, I'd never leave, either." He pops a stopper into the new bottle, sliding it over to Will with a little shrug of his shoulders. "They own nearly every inch of this town now that the Creels are gone, so they'll pay you well."

Will takes the elixir, holding it up to the light streaming through the window. The liquid is pitch black, swirling around itself in a vortex, and Will prays it will be enough to chase away his nightmares, if only for tonight. "Thank you—" He pauses, noticing that he didn't catch the apothecary's name.

"Dustin," he replies, finally slipping off the goggles. Dustin's eyes are the regular size, and quite nice, and so is his smile. Toothy and warm. Will can't help but smile back. "Dustin Henderson. It's my pleasure…" Dustin swirls his wrist as if he could conjure Will's name from thin air.

"Will,"—it feels nice not to lie about that—"Will Maldonado." A half-truth, but it's better than nothing.

"Well, Will Maldonado," says Dustin, smoothing his hands down the front of his worn brown waistcoat, "go straight through downtown, past the racing tracks, and just up the river. You'll know Seven Vales when you see it. A ranch that grand is hard to miss."

Will thanks him again, committing the directions to memory. As he leaves the shop, Dustin bellows his goodbye, and for the first time in three months, Will laughs. The sound squeezes from his throat, the muscles weak from unuse, but he finds that the pain is worth it; he'll be sure to venture back to the apothecary, three doors down from Bertha and her Bull Riders, for each and every ailment, big or small.

Within Will, a warmth is growing. As he climbs atop Cleric again, there is no dread settling low in the pit of his stomach at the idea of another few days in the desert; as he bucks his reins and sets his companion into a leisurely trot, there is no sense of urgency or basal urge to run. The sun is moving across the sky, and Will takes a deep breath. The air here is clean, unstained, and as it dances across him in feather-light gusts, he feels the sacrilege still stuck to his skin get swept away with it.

Hawkins is the closest thing to Heaven on earth, they say. There's no better place for his path to repentance than this.

As instructed, Will makes his way through downtown, and in the near distance, he spots what he believes to be the racing tracks. A true testament to the prosperity of a wealthy desert town, the tracks are more like an amphitheater, rows and rows of seats circling well kept racing green that is so bright Will has to squint. He can only imagine the atmosphere of a race day; it's almost as if Will can feel how the stands must shake beneath the hungry crowds anxious feet and hear the roar of a cacophony of cheers, cries, and curses.

The river is sky blue and babbling. Water—real water. Will would be a fool to pass up the opportunity for a drink. He speeds up Cleric's trot, his mouth drier than the dust trampled beneath his horse's hooves, and nearly misses the sight of something swaying in the gentle breeze only a few paces ahead.

Will jerks Cleric to a halt. There is a fence that signifies the end of downtown, right before the dust side succumbs to the green, worn and old. The town's moniker is carved meticulously into a horizontal log that forms the top of rectangular arch, and wrapped around the space between Haw and kins is some rope. The wood bends and creaks beneath the weight of what hangs there; Will thinks of the wind chimes his mother used to whittle and the mournful little song they would sing as they knocked against one another. But this is no wind chime, and there is no song, just the low groaning sound of aged lumber holding more than it can handle.

Will stares up at the hanging man's boots. His eyes travel past the torn state of his trousers and the sun-blistered flesh of his arms, landing instead on his head. There is no world where Will knew this man, but even if he did, it would have been futile. His face is not human. Sewed upon his shoulders in a rough, uncaring hand is the head of a wolf. The rope is wrapped so tightly around the beasts' throat that it's eyes pop from their sockets. There are flies buzzing from it's open mouth, and Will can see flecks of blood staining the sharp, white teeth.

Finally, he glances at the man's chest. Carved into the skin there are five letters that, when strung together, spell out a name that Will has only heard in nursery tales and saloon fables alike.

L Y C A N.

Grass is colder than Will remembers.

It seems impossible—ice cold grass with the sun beating down overhead— and Will should be grateful for any relief from the heat, but all he can feel is the knot growing tighter in his stomach by the second. The smell of sweltering flesh lingers around his nose. Cleric, on the other hand, is one pleased pony, grinding down stalks of green between his teeth, tail flipping from side to side to bat away the flies.

Resting against a fence pole, Will runs his hand through the grass again. He closes his eyes in an attempt to calm the loud thump of his heart, but behind the blackness of his eyelids, he sees the monster still. He hears the creak of its' sway in the wind.

Will peels his eyes open. Lifting up his cap, he takes a peak at the sky, sticking out a few fingers to measure the distance between the sun and the horizon line. Four hours till dusk. His time for lounging is long gone.

Cleric is a bit perturbed when Will tugs him away from his meal, but like the good companion he is, he dips his neck down low for Will to hold as he finds his place on his back again, the practiced dance of a horse and his rider. You'll know Seven Vales when you see it, Dustin had said. A ranch that grand is hard to miss.

Hard to miss, it turns out, barely begins to describe Seven Vales Ranch.

Neatly nestled between the first of Hawkins' eight illustrious hills lies around two-hundred and fifty acres of fertile grassland. Even while standing behind the old cobblestone walls that shroud the ranch, onlookers can still spot the horse stables, a building larger than most homes on the left side of the lot; the wood is auburn, contrasting nicely with the green slats of the roof, and there are a few mares grazing on the sprawling lawn. If Will squints, he can make out the shape of what he believes to be the lone stable hand that the apothecary mentioned, pulling along a stallion into a proud trot.

To the right is another building, this one just as large as the stables. Enclosed in the fence that surrounds it is a sizable flock of sheep, most shaven down to the skin, enjoying the soft breeze that rolls off the valley. While the Wheelers may make a pretty penny from their race horses, Will is sure most of their wealth comes from a product many may find no use for in the desert: wool. If his estimations are correct, there is likely around five hundred sheep in total, not to mention however many may be seeking shelter in the barn, and with those numbers, the profit adds up quickly. One wool season would make the Wheelers more money than Will has ever see in his lifetime.

Finally, almost acting as the centerpiece of it all, is the ranch house. House is a humble word for it; mansion would be a bit more appropriate. Standing at three stories with wide, crystal clear windows, the building seems to be a feat of architecture, held up by alabaster pillars with bright green ivy dancing around their surface; a roofed porch wraps around the front of the building, a few rocking chairs swaying to their own accord and a cobblestone pathway leading to a set of stairs. The entire house is surrounded by well-groomed bushes and flower beds dotted with wildflowers. As Will walks along the path with Cleric in tow, he notices the white that clings to the wood exterior, some of the paint peeling away to reveal the rotted brown boards beneath.

Will has never felt smaller than he does now, standing at the mouth of this monstrous mansion, but he swallows his fear. He ties Cleric to one of the porch's slats and holds an apple to his lips. "Good boy," Will murmurs reverently, "thank you. Thank you."

The door knocker is shaped into the head of a sheep; it looks rather silly with a silver hoop hanging from its' mouth. After taking a grounding breath, Will knocks, and the noise is so loud that it seems to echo across the planes of the vale. He waits for a moment or two before the door creaks open. A single blue eye peers through the crack.

"Are you a gunslinger who's come to take all that I own?" Asks a voice so high it can belong only to a child. "Or maybe… a prince from a land far, far away?"

A land far, far away, sure, but Will is anything but a prince. "Oh, um—I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not either of those things."

"Oh," the little girl sighs, obviously disappointed. "Go away, then!" She cries, to which the door is promptly slammed in his face.

Will frowns, raising his hand to knock again, but he pauses at the sound of muffled voices behind the entryway. A loud whine and the stomping of spoiled feet precede the door opening once more, but this time, a quaint woman greets him. She looks flushed, her brown eyes wide with agitation that quickly sharpens into something more akin to fear at the sight of a disheveled bandit looming on her porch. "Forgive Miss Holly," she starts slowly, "she's rather upset that her prized pony is being sold off today. She can be quite the terror when she wants to be."

"I can tell," Will laughs, which appears to soften the woman's tense shoulders a bit. He slips off his scarf for good measure. "I'd be rather upset, too."

She glances over her shoulder before leaning her head beyond the threshold, murmuring in a low voice, "that girl has more prized ponies than I do hairs on my head. She'll be quelled in a day or two, believe me. Now, what can I do you for?"

Will shuffles his feet, moving to hold his cap in his hands. He runs a thumb along the worn brim. "I heard from someone in town that the Wheelers are down a stable hand, so I wanted to offer my services. I know my way around a horse, ma'am. I've worked with them all my life, so you wouldn't have to teach me a thing. I can carry my own. I can ride, and clean, and—"

"Oh, no, it's not me you have to convince, dear," she chuckles, pushing the door open a few inches wider. "I'm just the measly housekeeper. It's Mr. Wheeler that makes the decisions around here, you see."

"Oh," Will breathes, pressing his lips together. "Could I… request an audience with him?"

"He's all tied up with some company now, but I can go ask. You wait right here, okay?" (The door is shut with a bit more grace this time around.)

The housekeeper is only gone for a minute or so before Will is being ushered inside the ranch home. On the short walk to the drawing room, Will learns that her name is Jude, she's been working for the Wheelers for the past fifteen years, and she had just been appointed as head of the household staff a few months ago when the prior position holder 'retired suddenly.' He can't return her honesty with any of his own, so he tells her only that his name is Will and that he is from somewhere far from here.

"Well, Will," Jude hums, brushing some of the dust from his torn shirt. "I have some business to attend to, but Mr. Wheeler should be with you shortly. He's a hard one to read, but you seem like a kind boy—I'm sure he'll be very willing to accept your offer." The kind woman gives Will a soft squeeze on his shoulder before scurrying away; he can't imagine how long her list of tasks to do can be, or how much it grows as the day goes on.

Now alone outside of the drawing room, Will takes his moment of solitude to glance about the building's interior. The walls are painted a deep navy blue and covered head to toe in tribute to the ranch it calls home; ram and deer skulls bleached and polished clean, meticulously sewn horse saddles made of fine, genuine leather, coyote pelts and bear skins pinned near wood-carved crosses and epithets of the Lord. The wide windows are adorned with the finest drapery, blue velvet curtains flecked with silver that his hands itch to touch, but Will knows there is nothing he could do in this lifetime to be worthy of such a luxury, so he looks instead. He wants to wrap himself in those curtains and die there.

Hanging above the drawing room's entrance is a portrait. Recently done from what Will can tell, what with the quality of the paint and the specific strokes used to highlight the golden ringlets of Holly Wheeler's blonde hair. His first introduction to Mr. Wheeler is here, greeted by the cold stare of his hard eyes and the thin, tight line of his mouth, and Will wonders if it is merely how the artist perceived him rather than a true reflection of his countenance. Standing beside him is Mrs. Wheeler. She's smiling, and it looks out of place next to the grimace of her husband, but maybe the two balance one another out. Hard and soft, callous and kind. They say there is a beauty in balance, and everyone knows that stability is a precious commodity in a place as precarious as the desert.

As it turns out, the Wheelers are a family of five. The aforementioned Holly is positioned right in the middle, dressed well in a frilly light blue frock and pearls the size of grapes looped in a string around her neck. Her mother's hands rest on her shoulders and her face is alight with childhood naivety. Furthest to the left is who he assumes to be the eldest; another daughter, this one with darker features than the last. Sharper. She has the same eyes as her father, but at least she attempted a smile. Although, with the way the long neck of her dress is buttoned tight around her thin throat, it may be one of discomfort more than mirth. Her hair is umber brown and curled to perfection.

Then, there is the Wheeler's son, posed next to his father. A few inches taller, he's as pale as the pillars that hold the ranch house in place; his cheekbones are high enough that he may as well have been carved from the very same marble.

The starch white fabric of his linen shirt makes the pallor of his skin nearly blinding. He looks sickly, almost corpse-like, and the black vest hugging his chest only adds to his one-cough-away-from-an-open-casket appearance. His hair is so brown it's black, sheared short in the nouveau fashions of the west, and the color of his eyes are not much different; unlike his parents, the expression he wears is undecipherable. A strip of satin is wrapped around his neck alongside his father's hand that's cupped near the nape, Mr. Wheeler's fingertips tucked beneath the fabric ever so slightly—it's a detail only a keen eye would catch, much like the freckles that dot the bridge of Wheeler boy's nose.

Odd indeed. Will can find no warmth in their faces, even in the rose of Holly Wheeler's cheeks or her mother's honey-colored curls, but that is no fault of the artist. It is an impossible task to capture something that isn't there to begin with.

Will stares for a few moments more before he finally notices the low murmur of voices from behind the drawing room doors. There's a crack, too small to catch a glimpse of those within it, but large enough to eavesdrop.

"… an arrangement like this could be beneficial for the both of us, no?" Says the first voice, steady and calm. "The election is… when?"

There's a gruff laugh. "In two months, Ted," the second voice responds, amused. "But you know that."

"That Calvin Powell chap has a good chance to give you a run for your money. He's popular, Jim. He's new, and you know better than anyone how much we love a fresh face around here."

"Powell is one of my closest deputies," the man Will now knows as Jim responds. He starting to sound a bit more agitated. "He's a friend."

"A knife in the back is a knife in the back," Mr. Wheeler replies coolly. "No matter how well you know the wielder."

A soft ruffle of paper, the anxious clear of a throat, soon followed by the nervous shift of leather against fine upholstery. "I just… you can't blame me for my hesitation, can you? The only thing that I—or anyone in this godforsaken town—know about your son is his name. My daughter deserves more than just a name, Ted. She won't marry the mere idea of a man, nor should she have to."

"My son is…" Mr. Wheeler trails off and, for a moment, Will fears that he's been caught red-handed, but the tycoon continues, his next words pieced together carefully. "My son is vexed, Jim. He's ill. Yes, Doctor Brenner has worked with my family since Michael was still a babe at my wife's breast, but the nature of his condition remains a mystery. The only thing that grants my poor boy solace these days is the comfort of his bedchamber."

The truth settles over the two men in a thick silence.

Michael, Will thinks, a name to finally match the gaunt face that hangs just above his head. His name is Michael. It is the name of an archangel, a slayer of sin; it is a name held by a sword wielder, carried by a saint destined to cast the great deceiver back to the hell from which he spawned, but this boy, this Michael, is no slayer. He is sickly. The nature of his name does not grant him the strength of those who have borne it before him.

"You see," Mr. Wheeler continues on the end of a long sigh, "my Michael… I just want him to be happy. Brenner says he is declining, but I know that there is room for miracles. There is always room for miracles, Jim, but we have to make it—in our minds, in our hearts. We have to believe. And I believe that with patience, and with grace, my son will be cured."

There is a passion in Mr. Wheeler's voice that makes Will's eyes begin to water. He thinks back to the portrait and the cold look of the patriarch's painted face, but now, there is no doubt in Will's mind that Mr. Wheeler cares for his son. He clearly wants what's best for Michael, and what's best for Michael must lie in the hands of the colleague that sits across from him.

"Well, Jane… she's a good girl. She's kind. Patient. I know she'll understand whatever it is that vexes your son."

"Patience is a rarity these days," Mr. Wheeler muses. "She's valuable, your girl. I'm sure she'll fetch quite the pretty price, hm?"

A chair creaks as Jim lets out a huff, and Will jerks away from the door before the sound of approaching footsteps grows louder. "Talk of price will have to wait 'til next time, I'm afraid. I promised Eugene McCorkle I'd go and take a gander at his coops again. He swears up and down that Merrill Wright is sending those hunting dogs of his to pick a few chickens off every week or so."

At that, Mr. Wheeler laughs. "Doesn't good ol' Eugene know that chickens are prone to wander? They have wings, for God's sake. Wings, Jim!"

Finally, the two men push the drawing room doors open, and Will catches his first real glimpse of Jim. His heart sinks; Mr. Wheeler's colleague dons the tell-tale signs of the classic town sheriff, from the revolver snug tight in a holster slung around his hips to the gilded badge in the shape of a star studded with the title itself pinned to his chest. He looks as gruff as he sounds, scratching at the day-old stubble that lines his chin with a tired sigh; as the sheriff's eyes slip shut, Will molds his back with the wall, tilting the brim of his cap to shield himself.

"I don't know, Ted," Jim groans. "There's been more and more reports coming in of missing cattle, suspicious pools of blood here and there, the like. Now, I'm not saying there's some beast roaming about, but—"

"The only 'beast' is boredom." Mr. Wheeler claps a loud palm on the sheriff's shoulder as they slink past Will without a second thought and, finally, his racing pulse starts to slow. "You know what they say, Hop: bored minds conjure fantasies when life is lacking. It's been a while since we've had a race, hm? Give them something else to wag their tongues about and all of this talk about beasts will die down. Trust me."

The sheriff nods. "I'll bring it up to Kline," he says before shaking Mr. Wheeler's hand. They part ways after a few more words are shared, Hopper slipping from the Wheeler house as if he were never there in the first place.

Mr. Wheeler watches the sheriff leave, and once he's gone, his open, friendly posture recedes. He turns on his heels toward Will.

"Jude said you wished to speak with me?" The ranch owner adjusts his bolo tie, polishing off the ornamental slide with the sleeve of his shirt; much like the door knocker, it's in the shape of a sheep.

"Yes, sir," Will responds as he pulls himself away from the wall. For propriety, he removes his cap, but it's to no avail—Mr. Wheeler doesn't meet his eye, too focused on buffing out a scratch.

After a beat of silence, he stops. He looks up from his very important work and, yes, Will thinks, the portrait artist did a commendable job capturing his callousness. His mouth is pulled into that same thin line, clearly unimpressed by Will's quietness.

"Go on, then. Speak."

"I, um—" Will is fumbling now, entirely thrown off guard, but he has long learned how to face men like Mr. Wheeler; men who think that anyone below them isn't worth a cent of their precious time, men who answer solely to God, the one authority that can hold them accountable only in death while the consequences of their earthly transgressions live on. Men who feed on fear. Will is made up of half a man like Mr. Wheeler. He knows their ways, bone deep and basal, and in that familiarity he has gained the skill to withstand them.

Will straightens up his shoulders, looking Mr. Wheeler dead in those hard, careless eyes. "You're down a stable hand. You have sixteen race horses. About to be seventeen, actually, if the mare lounging outside is as far along as I think she is. One hand is far from enough to handle the size of your herd."

Mr. Wheeler raises an eyebrow. "You think a ranch owner isn't aware of the state of things on his own land, boy?"

"Of course not, sir," Will replies in a practiced attempt to placate. "I'd just like to offer my services. I'm well versed in all things equine, Mr. Wheeler. I grew up on a farm, so I know everything there is to know about horses. I can ride them, groom them, train them, switch out horseshoes—oh, and I can patch up any saddles or bridles that need fixing. I've studied them for years, sir. I know what ails them and how to treat it. I know—"

Before Will can continue, Mr. Wheeler holds up a hand, and so Will stops. The rancher takes a good glance at him, from the frayed brim of his cap to the scuffed toes of his boots, and hums curiously. "What's your name, son?"

"It's Will. Will Maldonado."

"Maldonado…" Mr. Wheeler takes his time with it, like he's testing how each vowel fits in his mouth to see if it's a name worthy of speaking. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"Not nearly, sir."

Mr. Wheeler falls silent and, for a second, Will starts to think he's about to shoo him away. Instead, the man shrugs his shoulders, shoving his hands in the pockets of his nicely ironed pants. "We'll start at $10 a week. You'll take half of the workload, so eight horses, including the expecting mare. Carmilla is a delicate one, so I expect you to treat her with the upmost care. Wyatt will show you the ropes. Understood?"

After Will processes the large amount of information just thrown his way, he blinks, nodding frantically. "Understood, sir, yes. Thank you Mr. Wheeler, really, you don't know how much this opportunity means to—"

"The room is still a bit of a mess from the last stable hand, so it'll have to be cleaned up. Shouldn't take more than an hour or so. You can move your belongings in once it's ready." Mr. Wheeler pulls a watch from the breast of his waistcoat. "I'll be off, then. If you need me, ask Jude, but for God's sake, try not to need me. My time needs to be spent elsewhere."

And just like that, Mr. Wheeler is gone.

Will stands alone at the center of this cathedral of a home, stuck in a beam of setting sun that shines through a stain glass window above the door; even with the warm yellow rays stretching across his skin, he feels a chill. Whether it's from the apathy of his new employer or the mystifying emptiness of a house covered head to toe in gaudy relics of ranch life, he doesn't know quite yet.

Ought to get used to it, Will thinks. This is your home now.

Whether you like it or not.

As the sun drifts below the horizon and day dissolves to dusk, Will pulls Cleric along the path that leads toward the stables.

"We'll never go hungry again, honey," Will says just as the barn comes into view, large and looming over the land that surrounds it. "Not with the company we're about to keep."

Cleric tuts. To Will's sleep deprived mind, it sounds almost like a chuckle of disbelief, and he finds himself laughing, too. Despite the strain—three months across the desert, those endless stretches of parched days and starved nights—and everything that they've been through, tonight, there will be rest. Cleric will sleep on a fresh bed of hay, Will atop a mattress of fluffed feathers, both beneath roofs instead of an inky black sky; it's a luxury worth all of the lies. It's more than Will deserves.

Once they're past the confines of the fence, Will frees Cleric from his lead. "I'll be back," Will mutters, running a hand through his companion's hair, blonde as straw. "Go roam around for a bit, hm?"

Cleric runs off in a quick trot with his nose stuck high in the air, and Will realizes he's never seen that horse happier.

With an anxious sigh, Will pushes one of the barn doors open. His welcome party consists solely of curious eyes and the stench of horse; he greets both the same way he'd greet an old friend—with a pleased little smile.

There is a sense of familiarity here. Bits of memories from a life no longer his own lie under each pile of straw. As the sunlight licks up the barn's wood walls, Will feels five years old again, like he's back on his family's farm. He remembers spending hours in the measly stables with their little herd, brushing through Chester's tail or changing out Clarke's horseshoes. More than once, his mother had found him there the next morning, sleeping soundly next to the two stallions; those were some of the most precious nights of his childhood, for they were the few unmarked by shouting matches and shattered booze bottles.

Will is ripped from relishing in his nostalgia by the sound of someone singing.

"From the dusty mesa, her looming shadow grows…" The voice is deep and mellow, rumbling through the barn with the strength of its vibrato.

"Hidden in the branches…" Will, curious, takes a few steps forward, wondering where it's coming from. Further toward the back of the stables, he can spot the head of a standing stallion. The other horses are resting, unbothered by the invasion of their privacy, even as he walks by them in pursuit of the singing. "…Of the poison creosote."

"She twines her spines up slowly…" It sounds haunting, almost. Whoever is singing knows the lyrics by heart as his voice never wavers, drifting through the song beat by steady beat, "towards the boiling sun…"

Will rounds the corner, peering into the stable. There stands the stallion from before; he's a behemoth of an equine, his coat as white as snow with a splatter of gray dots dusting the skin of his legs and flank. He glances over when Will approaches, blinking his eyes before shaking his muzzle with a little whinny. Will isn't sure that he's ever seen a more beautiful horse than this one. Whatever doubt he carried about Seven Vales breeding the finest race horses available is swept away at the mere sight of this unnervingly perfect creature.

Crouched next to the behemoth of a horse is a behemoth of a man.

Dressed in a dust-stained cotton shirt with the sleeves torn off and well-worn denim pants, the source of the singing—who Will assumes to be the lone stable hand he saw outside the barn earlier—hums while he works, combing through the stallion's shiny coat with a wood brush. Will can't make out his face thanks to the cap shielding it from view, but his skin is sun-kissed and freckled, warm like the tone of his voice.

"And when I touched her skin…" The stable hand continues, "my fingers ran wi—" Just as Will leans forward to snoop out his technique more closely, he runs into a bucket of feed teetering on the wood of the stall, sending it flying into the hay bed with a loud clatter.

The man shoots straight up, his hand jumping to land on the gun resting low against his hip. "Jesus Christ!"

"Shit," Will hisses, stepping back from his snooping place with a start, a flush of embarrassment beginning to creep up his cheeks. "God, I'm sorry—shit—I didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry—"

Now, Will can see his face. His eyes are bright blue, wide in surprise, but his fearful expression quickly shifts into something kinder once he realizes he's not in any immediate danger. The man pulls his hand from his gun and instead places it over his heart, sighing in relief.

"I'm sorry—"

"No, no, it's alright, chére," he tuts, slipping off his cap to fan himself. "Quit saying sorry, now, it's alright. Just startled me, is all." Then, the man glances up towards the stallion, raising a light eyebrow. "Ain't nothing in this damn world could scare you, huh, Horace? Didn't move a muscle. Shit, don't I wish I had your nerve, buddy."

"He's a beautiful horse," Will says, nodding his head towards Horace. "He's clearly in good hands."

"Aw, shit, you hear that, baby?" The stable hand pats Horace on the rear, to which the stallion swats at his arm with his tail. "He thinks you're mighty handsome. That's high praise, you know, comin' from a pretty face like that." His eyes are on Will again; they're a bit droopy, pulled at the edges in a way that reminds Will of those sad bloodhounds his father loved so much. "Is there a pretty name to match a pretty face?"

Will can feel his blush grow deeper, but he decides to ignore it. "It's Will."

"Well, ain't that somethin'," he grins, leaning against Horace with practiced eased before sticking out a gloved hand. "Wyatt Fitzroy. Fitz-wah, if you're feelin' fancy, but I don't blame you if you're not. S'hard to feel fancy with all the horse shit."

Will accepts the handshake, laughing; it seems the help are the only residents of Seven Vales who like to show some character.

"And what brings you stumblin' in here, hm? Came to gawk at some horses? Or is scaring lonely men shitless a strange little hobby of yours?"

"Not really, no," Will admits, though he considers entertaining the idea, just to see him squirm. "Mr. Wheeler hired me—I'm the new stable hand."

"Oh, praise the Lord, hallelujah." Wyatt throws up his arms in solace. "You just don't know how hard it's been since Newby was let go. Sixteen horses, one man—now, I ain't no genius or nothin', but that don't shake out very nicely, now does it?"

"Not at all," Will hums. "I can't promise I'll live up to Newby, but you won't have to teach me much. I know what I need to know."

"No one on God's green earth could live up to Newby, chére, so don't worry too much about all of that." In the handful of minutes that Will has known Wyatt Fitzroy, he's seemed about as happy as a clam, but the mention of the former stable hand saddens something in his smile. "He was a saint of a man. Took me under his wing when Mr. Wheeler kicked me to the stables as soon as I knew my letters… it's been somber without him. Some company ought to lighten it all up again."

They chat for a little while as Wyatt finishes up brushing through Horace's coat. His new companion, it turns out, is well versed in the ways of all things equine; he knows each horse from head to hoof, their age, their riders, what pleases them and what plagues them—though, Will didn't expect anything different. Not when Wyatt has worked all day, every day since he was five in the confines of this ranch's cobblestone walls.

"That song you were singing," Will starts, patching up some frayed thread on a fine leather saddle. "It was—"

"Oh—" Wyatt huffs, flushed, waving off Will's unspoken compliments with his hand, "that's nothin'. Just a song my Mamie used to sing to me."

"I liked it. What's it about?"

Shrugging, Wyatt presses the eye of a needle between his lips as he unwinds a spool of string, working on a saddle of his own. His words come from the corner of his mouth. "S'about a cactus. The nelumbo, some folks call it. Legend has it that it blooms these real pretty flowers, and if you eat one, you're granted some… magic powers or somethin', spooky shit like that."

Will raises an eyebrow. "And this cactus… it's real?"

At that, Wyatt laughs, shaking his head with a little snicker. "Heaven's no, chére. Just a myth. And let me tell ya', there's plenty more folk tales where that came from, especially with all of this lycan mess goin' on nowadays."

Will's hand stills its working. In an instant, he's back at the mouth of town, staring up at the soles of brown leather boots as a man morphed into a beast hangs above his head. The smell of horse shifts to that of rotting meat. Those five letters are burned into the black behind his eyes, and hearing the word spoken aloud only makes them feel more real. A voice beyond his own confirms what he feared the most; the scene was no hallucination spurred on by long desert days—it was reality, a stain on the well-woven cloth that tied towns like Hawkins together.

Wyatt reads Will's face with ease. "You saw that sad excuse of a spectacle, I suppose?" He takes Will's quietness as the answer that it is. "Shit. I'm sorry, doll—no one should have to see somethin' like that. It's a damn disgrace. They took that poor man's life just to scare a monster that lives nowhere but in their minds ." He scoffs, stabbing the leather in his hand with a bit more force than necessary. "A few chickens die and all of a sudden it's lycan this, demon that. It's a bunch of hogwash, is all."

"All of that for a few chickens?" Will shudders, remembering the grotesque way the thread snagged the man's sunburned skin, or how the wolf's eyes bulged from it's skull. It was outlandish, far too extreme for a handful of birds picked off; the sheriff didn't seem too concerned, Mr. Wheeler even less so.

"And a cow or two, I guess. Y'know, some lofty ranch owner throws a fit and all of a sudden it's the end of the world—but the moment us normal folk raise a problem, it's silent." With the twinge of anger in his tone, Will can tell that Wyatt is speaking from experience. After all, he may be the only person in Seven Vales to know what it's like to be normal. "There's no damn beast, there's just distraction. Anything to turn their eyes away from the hungry and the poor."

Will glances towards his satchel that rests on the work table, just a few inches away. He reaches in to pull out the charm he purchased from the old woman only a few hours ago, but at this point, it feels more akin to days. "The beast of night smells fresh blood…"

"Hm?"

"That's what the woman who sold me this said," Will says, tossing the charm into the air towards Wyatt. He catches it in cupped hands and examines the moonstone at the center closely. "I'm supposed to pin it to my pillow. Silver wards the beast away."

Wyatt rolls his eyes before throwing the charm back to Will. "Like I said. Hogwash. But, if it makes you feel any safer here, there ain't no harm in that, hm? Don't pay any mind to me about this sorta stuff, chére—my Pa always said I was the worst believer out there."'

"Well, that may not be such a bad thing," Will retorts, glancing down at the pendant. He runs his thumb over the moonstone again. Protect yourself, dear boy. This place will ravage you, no matter how kindly you treat it. "Blind faith can lead you astray."

There's a loud sigh as Wyatt's shoulders fall, his soft, sweet face taking on a glimpse of pain. "Hah. Don't I know it."

About an hour passes before a servant comes staggering in to the stables. It's nearly pitch black outside and, by now, Wyatt has introduced Will to all sixteen horses. Twelve stallions, four mares, including the pregnant Carmilla Mr. Wheeler has charged Will with; by the time he's called for, Will is growing well acquainted with her in her stall. It's the furthest stable from the door, good for keeping her away from the other horses in her delicate state, and well cleaned. Wyatt's been keeping this place afloat rather nicely despite his heavy workload.

"You're a sweet girl, aren't you?" Will murmurs to Carmilla. She's a fine Thoroughbred mare with a dark bay coat, so dark she looks nearly black in the faint glow of the barn's oil lamps. Her belly is noticeably swelled—Will estimates that she's at most two weeks out from giving birth. A mighty stallion, if the size of her stomach is a sign of anything. "It's alright, now. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Carmilla whinnies, tilting her muzzle towards Will's gentle hand. She's more skittish than most mares Will's seen. Something awful frightening must have spooked her.

He glances down at her legs. She's favoring her weight on one side of her body as she lays, almost tilting towards the far wall of the stable, and the moment Will's eyes land on the space between her hoof and her left knee, he can see why.

There is a gash a few inches across in length and two sizeable puncture wounds hiding beneath some hair, the strands clumped together with dried blood. Unmistakebly, it's a bite, but Will can't quite tell from what.

"Oh, you poor thing," Will breathes out, running light fingertips along the wound. Even the faintest pressure is enough to cause her to stir uncomfortably. "This needs attending to—"

Before Will gets the chance to wrack his mind for every remedy he knows, someone behind him clears their throat. He whips his head around to find a maid dressed rather similarly to Jude standing beyond the stall, her hands folded neatly in front of her.

"Your room is ready, Mr. Maldonado," she says quietly. "I would suggest you make your way before it gets too dark."

Will nods, making a mental note to address Carmilla's wound tomorrow. The mention of his room has a sudden fatigue crashing over him, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him far too quickly; it's a struggle to peel himself from the floor, and as he follows the maid from the barn, his feet feel heavier than lead.

"I'll set up Cleric for you real nice," Wyatt chimes while they pass. He's leaning against Horace's stall, a lit cigarette hanging from the long smile on his lips. "Sleep in as late as you want, ya' hear? I don't wanna see you 'til long after lunch time."

Using the rest of his energy to muster up a laugh, Will waves tiredly. "Don't have to tell me twice. Goodnight, Wyatt."

"G'night, chére."

On the way out, Will spots Cleric; his horse is nose deep in the grass, chomping away. The moonlight gleams off his back while he enjoys the first bit of rest he's gotten in months, and Will can't help but grin like an idiot at the sight—maybe, just maybe, he can keep his promise after all.

His room is quaint. It's on the bottom floor, not far from the kitchens, and there's only a little window that offers him a glimpse of what lies outside; he can see the stables from here, and as he takes the room in, he watches the lights flicker off one by one. Wyatt must be shutting down for the night, too.

A small feather bed is shoved in the corner. Will throws his satchel to the side and unceremoniously flops atop the feather mattress, shoving his face into the lone pillow, his eyes drifting shut. If Hawkins is Heaven on earth, this bed—the frame that creaks each time he moves, the pillow that feels as hard as a rock, the blanket so thin it could pass for one of his work shirts—is the Throne of God. It holds his aching bones and lulls him into the deepest sleep he's had in months.

His satchel slumps over.

From its brown leather mouth, a vial rolls across the floor. The soft twinkling of glass can barely be heard over the tired sighs leaving Will's nose.