Jack was running.

He had no idea why or where, but he was running, endlessly running as if in search of something…

Perhaps a way to end this pain.

Normally, his senses were so good, and when he ran in this form he could easily do so without hazard, but now he could not sense much of anything and consistently collided with trees and crushed little squirrels and other woodland creatures with his heavy, clawed paws.

He couldn’t feel concern for them, not when everything inside of him hurt.

His thick layer of fur, which had always kept him warm against the arctic temperatures of winter, now offered him no protection. He was aware of being very, very cold; what felt like ice but at the same time fire flowing through his veins.

He didn’t know what to do to make this agony, this hurt, this pain stop – nothing but what his instincts told him, and so he obeyed their commands.

He ran.

All of a sudden, he was impeded; something a bit smaller than his current lycan body stopping him dead in his tracks within the space of a heartbeat.

Before he could ponder on what could have done it (as normally, he’d easily crash through whole trees and houses, so this smaller figure should have been like tissue paper), a different kind of pain echoed through his body, a weakening one that, by nature, he was trained to fear.

Feeling his bones shrinking rapidly and his fur disappearing, he whined and panted helplessly, clinging desperately to the figure he could now somewhat recognize as he pleaded, “Take it away, take it away…!”

The weakening pain disappeared as the small ball of silver was replaced in its lead carrying case, but Jack seemed to have enough control now to maintain his human form without its presence and now clung tightly to his master, breathing heavily and shaking as pain still wracked his body.

“You know I do not like it when you run from me, pet,” a stern voice stated.

Jack whined, trying to get closer to the warmth his instincts told him this male body would provide; he didn’t have the capacity of mind to recall that this body was dead and had died years ago, naturally making it as cold as the surroundings. “M’sorry,” he whimpered, entirely out of his right mind and in pain, “I didn’t mean…I…I never meant to…oh, god, it hurts, Chase, it hurts!”

Strong arms curled gently around his aching body, and at the very least, they protected him from the wind-chill factor. “I know, Spicer,” the bloodsucker cooed almost sympathetically, “I know it hurts…It hurt when I was first turned, as well, and I was human, a blank slate, then. I cannot imagine how much agony it is causing you, who was a werewolf when this began.”

He made a soft, keening noise of pathetic beseeching, a cry for help from his alpha-male. “Make it stop,” he begged pitifully, “please make it stop…!”

“I cannot,” Chase apologized, attempting to soothe his poor puppy with gentle petting and a calming tone.  “The transformation will run its course, and you must survive it.” He refused to even allow himself to consider the chance that Jack would be killed by this.

“Why?” the wolf mewled. “Why did you…?”

“I had to,” the vampire firmly answered, baring his fangs in a scowl. “If I hadn’t, I would’ve lost you!”

Jack could no longer process any of this, feeling too tired and cold and hurting to focus on words anymore.

He fainted.

Chase’s eyes went wide as the pale form he held slumped completely forward onto him, and he cursed loudly, quickly bringing the unconscious lycan back to their bedroom in his palace.

::-::-::-::

The pain had ended. The transformation was finished.

Jack was a hybrid, now.

Chase watched with soft eyes as his mate slept, nestled peacefully under what was practically a mountain of covers, but refrained from joining him just yet in favor of watching.

He regretted having to see Spicer in such pain, and under his own fangs, nonetheless, but it had been necessary.

As a vampire, one of the undead, he was immortal: he could never grow old, and he could never die (that stake through the heart nonsense was complete lunacy).

Jack was a werewolf: he was mortal, and he could grow old and die (and after all, silver wasn’t exactly in short supply, and with a great enough quantity or just a bit in his bloodstream, he could be killed).

He would not tolerate that. No, not his pet, not his puppy; he would not die.

Chase had known that it would cause terrible agony to the youth to bite him, to force him to undergo such a drastic hybridization, but there was no other way.

He honestly could not live without Jack.

So, he had turned Spicer; had changed his blood to be half-lycan, half-vampire.  These crossbreeds were rare, as interspecies procreation was impossible (completely besides the fact that the two races were meant to hate each other as deeply as sin and never become close enough to even want to procreate), and these ones, like his Jack, that were exposed to a vampiric infection when already a werewolf had an incredibly low rate of survival.

However, when they did survive, they survived: immortal, unchanging, and incapable of being killed like a vampire; strong, quick, and with bestial senses like a wolf. Chase nearly wanted to laugh at the idea that Spicer was impervious to silver now, and the only effect it would have on him would be to reverse his transformation: it wouldn’t pain him, and had lost all fatality the moment Jack had accepted his new DNA.

He was glad of it.

A soft, canine whimper caught his attention, and he looked to the bed to see his lover toss and turn restlessly under the covers, muttering, “Master…”

Chase at last joined the youth on the bed, seizing him firmly by the waist and lightly nipping the back of the albino’s neck to cow him in the manner one of his own would. As expected, Jack settled down immediately, spooning his alpha male and mate in obedience. Chase was thankful of the entirely windowless design of his castle that allowed him to sleep in any room he pleased instead of a coffin and took advantage of it now.

“Sleep well, pup,” the bloodsucker purred to his wolf. “Our nights are all you shall ever know…”