Enthralled - 25. Chapter 25

25

The regional Mid-Western Boy Scout Jamboree was a sprawling, chaotic metropolis of canvas tents, smoking fire pits, and the overwhelming, inescapable scent of cheap bug spray and roasting hot dogs. It was a temporary society built upon the foundations of knot-tying, wilderness survival, and hyper-competitive lanyard weaving, stretching across ten acres of state park land bordered by a massive, placid lake.

For the normal, mortal pre-teens of Troop 12 and Troop 50, it was the highlight of the summer. They were here to earn merit badges, trade patches, and tell ghost stories.

For Troop 442, it was a high-stakes, covert infiltration mission into hostile territory.

Andy Tyrell stood at the edge of Troop 442’s designated campsite, his posture rigidly perfect, his pale eyes hidden beneath the wide brim of his mandated khaki campaign hat. He was wearing the official scoutmaster uniform: a beige, short-sleeved button-down shirt tucked sharply into knee-length khaki shorts, pulled up with a woven green belt, and finished with knee-high woolen socks.

For an ancient, aristocratic vampire who had spent the last three centuries draped in tailored wool, silk, and expensive vintage leather, the uniform was an agonizing, tactile nightmare. It was stiff, it chafed, and it was the color of a mild digestive biscuit.

"Stand up straight, Troop!" Lucas Cooper shouted, pacing in front of the twelve werewolf pups, entirely in his element. He was wearing an identical khaki uniform, though he had rolled the sleeves up and left the top three buttons undone to project his 'Mac-Daddy' aura. "We are surrounded by normies! We must blend in! That means no glowing eyes, no growling if someone takes the last juice box, and absolutely no catching frisbees with your teeth!"

"Assistant Scoutmaster Lucas," Alvin Sanchez said, raising his hand, his voice entirely monotone. "What if the frisbee is approaching at a velocity that threatens a normie's cranial integrity? May we catch it with our teeth to prevent a concussion?"

"No!" Ronan Draven called out from where he was desperately trying to untangle a massive pile of nylon tent ropes. "Use your hands! Like humans! Just act like regular, boring, fragile humans who get tired after running for five minutes!"

"That sounds exhausting," Theodore Sanchez muttered, adjusting his neckerchief.

Andy let out a slow, deeply suppressed sigh, resigning himself to a weekend of absolute absurdity.

Before he could offer any tactical advice to his strike force, a loud, shrill whistle cut through the morning air.

"Incoming," Lucas hissed, grabbing a clipboard and pretending to look busy.

Marching across the grass with the aggressive, rolling gait of a man who spent entirely too much time at a suburban gym was Scoutmaster Chuck. Chuck was the leader of Troop 12. He was a man composed entirely of sunburned skin, excessive protein powder, and overcompensation. He wore wrap-around, mirrored Oakley sunglasses, a polo shirt stretched terrifyingly tight across his barrel chest, and khaki shorts that were significantly shorter than regulation protocol dictated.

"Andy, my man!" Chuck boomed, his voice aggressively loud. He closed the distance and swung a meaty hand down to slap Andy enthusiastically on the shoulder.

Chuck’s hand collided with Andy’s shoulder. It sounded like a slab of beef hitting a marble statue.

Andy did not move a single millimeter. He did not sway. He merely turned his head slowly, his pale grey eyes fixing on the mirrored Oakleys.

Chuck flinched, pulling his stinging hand back and subtly shaking it out, his boisterous smile faltering for a fraction of a second. "Solid. You’ve been lifting, bro? Working the delts?"

"I engage in routine physical maintenance," Andy said smoothly, his voice a quiet, freezing baritone that offered absolutely zero conversational leverage.

Chuck laughed loudly, entirely misreading Andy’s ancient, aristocratic restraint as modern, alpha-male stoicism. Chuck desperately wanted to bro-out. "I hear that! Gotta keep the chassis tight. Just put a new exhaust on my riding mower back home. Zero-turn radius. Thirty horsepower. Absolute beast. You a mower guy, Andy?"

"I do not mow," Andy replied.

"Right, right, you look like a landscaping service kind of guy," Chuck nodded, pointing a finger-gun at him. "Hey, just wanted to give you the heads-up. The archery competition starts in twenty. The kids from Troop 121 are already down there. Weird bunch. Very intense. But my boys in Troop 12 are ready to crush it."

Chuck blew his whistle again for absolutely no reason, gave Andy another finger-gun, and jogged away, his calves flexing aggressively with every step.

Andy closed his eyes, praying for the sweet, silent release of true death.

"I think he likes you," Lucas grinned, sidling up next to Andy and bumping his shoulder. "You two could go to the hardware store together. Talk about drywall anchors."

"If you do not return to setting up the campsite," Andy murmured, opening his eyes and looking down at his chaotic boyfriend, "I am going to throw you into the lake."

"Jokes on you, I look great wet," Lucas winked, before turning and shouting at the pups to secure the perimeter.

The archery range was situated at the edge of the woods, lined with five standard foam targets bearing brightly colored rings.

The boys of Troop 12 and Troop 50 were gathered around the racks of fiberglass bows, laughing, shoving each other, and generally treating the equipment with the careless enthusiasm of normal pre-teens. They were just trying to hit the foam without accidentally shooting a counselor.

Troop 121, however, was operating on an entirely different level.

Timmy stood by the wooden fence, his eyes narrowed into a fierce, calculating squint as he observed the rival troop. He had fully activated his Captain Kirk persona, treating the Jamboree as a hostile alien planet.

Troop 121 was led by a tense, hyper-vigilant twelve-year-old named Kyle. Kyle and his scouts were not laughing. They were wearing standard uniforms, but their utility belts were loaded with a suspicious number of small glass vials filled with clear liquid, and heavy pouches of what looked like crushed garlic.

"Captain," Alvin murmured, stepping up beside Timmy, his hands clasped behind his back. "I have analyzed their ballistic preparations. They are highly irregular."

"Report, Spock," Timmy whispered.

"The scouts of Troop 121 are modifying their ammunition," Alvin stated monotonously.

Timmy watched closely. Kyle was currently instructing his troop to unroll a massive sheet of aluminum foil. The scouts were methodically wrapping the shafts of their arrows in the foil. Then, one by one, they were dipping the rubber tips of the arrows into a plastic thermos labeled 'HOLY WATER' in black sharpie.

"They are wrapping their projectiles in silver," Timmy noted, his brow furrowing. "And baptizing them in tap water."

"They are amateur hunters," Simon concluded, joining them at the fence. "They are operating on deeply flawed mythological data. Aluminum foil does not possess the antimicrobial or supernatural properties of pure silver. And their holy water is heavily chlorinated."

"They are treating the targets as hostile entities," Timmy observed, his voice dropping into a dramatic rasp.

Out on the range, Kyle stepped up to the firing line. He didn't take a standard target stance. He dropped into a tactical, low-profile crouch, his eyes darting frantically toward the tree line before he drew the bowstring back to his cheek.

"Vampire in the open!" Kyle shouted at the top of his lungs.

He released the string. The foil-wrapped arrow flew across the range and embedded itself directly in the dead center of the red bullseye.

"Target neutralized!" the rest of Troop 121 screamed in unison, rapidly notching their own foil-wrapped arrows.

The normal scouts of Troop 12 stopped laughing. They stared at Kyle and his heavily armed zealots in utter bewilderment. Scoutmaster Chuck, standing behind the line with his Oakleys resting on his forehead, blew his whistle weakly, looking profoundly confused.

"We must maintain our cover," Timmy whispered to his crew, turning his back on the archery range. "The hunters are paranoid. They suspect our true nature. We will not engage."

"Logical," Alvin agreed. "We shall proceed to the mess hall pavilion for tactical observation of the other factions."

---

The mess hall pavilion was a massive, open-air structure filled with long, wooden picnic tables.

Troop 442 secured a table in the center, unpacking their highly regimented, high-protein rations. But Timmy’s attention was entirely focused on the table directly across from them, currently occupied by Troop 86.

Troop 86 was a nightmare of modern youth culture.

There were a dozen of them, and not a single one was speaking. They were all hunched over the wooden table, their faces bathed in the sickly, bluish glow of their smartphones. They were completely, utterly motionless, save for the rapid, mechanical swiping of their thumbs. They were eating sloppy joes, but they weren't looking at the food. They were just blindly shoving the messy, red meat into their mouths while maintaining unbroken eye contact with their screens.

"Fascinating," Timmy whispered, leaning forward over his turkey sandwich. "They are entirely unresponsive to external stimuli. They are a hive mind, controlled by the digital ether."

"No, Captain," Simon sighed, not looking up from his own phone. "They are just playing Monster Merge 3D. It’s a very engaging game. You have to match the gelatinous cubes to evolve the dragons. You can't break the combo streak, or you lose your daily login bonus."

"No, Simon, I swear to you," Timmy insisted, pointing a finger at a boy in the center of the Zombie table. "Look at him. He drools."

Simon glanced over. A thin, viscous string of saliva was currently dripping from the boy's chin directly onto his phone screen. The boy did not blink. He simply wiped the screen with his sloppy-joe-covered thumb and kept playing.

"And look at his consumption methods," Timmy added in horror, watching the boy gnaw on the edges of the sloppy joe bun like a starving animal trying to crack a bone. "He is attempting to devour the bread alive."

"Have you never watched Theodore play a mobile game?" Simon countered smoothly. "Theodore nearly ate his own phone case last week when he reached level forty. It is a natural biological response to high-stress digital environments."

Timmy stared hard at Troop 86. One of the scouts had dropped his sloppy joe entirely and was now mindlessly chewing on the corner of his rubber phone case, his eyes completely glassy, his jaw working with a slow, grinding rhythm.

"I swear to you, Spock," Timmy whispered, leaning closer to Alvin. "That one just dropped a finger."

"Negative, Captain," Alvin corrected clinically. "He dropped a french fry, which he then retrieved from the dirt and placed into his pocket for later caloric processing."

"I am going to need more evidence," Timmy muttered, narrowing his eyes. "They are hiding something. They are undead."

Theodore, who had been sitting quietly at the end of the table, stood up. He was currently holding his own smartphone, the bright colors of Monster Merge 3D reflecting in his golden eyes.

"I will infiltrate the hive," Theodore announced softly. "I am Uhura. I will establish communications."

Before Timmy could stop him, Theodore picked up his tray, walked across the aisle, and sat down directly in the middle of the Zombie troop.

None of them noticed him.

Theodore hunched his shoulders, lowered his head, and held his phone up to his face. He mirrored their posture perfectly. His thumbs began to fly across the screen.

For five minutes, nothing happened. The silence at the table was punctuated only by the wet smacking of sloppy joes and the frantic tapping of glass screens.

Then, the boy next to Theodore—the one chewing on his phone case—slowly turned his head. His eyes were milky, unfocused, and heavily bloodshot from lack of blinking. A line of drool connected his chin to his collar. He stared at Theodore for a long, heavy moment.

Theodore did not break character. He stared back, his face a perfect mask of digital apathy.

"...Game?" the zombie asked, his voice a low, guttural, dragging grumble that sounded like stones grinding together in the back of a cave.

"Game," Theodore confirmed softly, tilting his screen slightly to show the spinning dragons.

The zombie stared at the screen. He let out a low, appreciative groan, nodded slowly, and went back to scrolling.

Theodore let out a quiet breath. He was in. He had breached the inner circle of Troop 86. He was one of them now.

---

While Theodore was establishing diplomatic relations with the undead, the rest of the Jamboree was engaging in a massive, camp-wide game of hide-and-seek.

It was designed as a team-building exercise, spanning the entire ten acres of the park. Normal scouts were diving behind bushes, scrambling up low trees, and hiding under picnic tables.

Barty Junior did none of these things.

The baby gargoyle was currently sitting squarely in the middle of a wooden picnic table, directly out in the open, bathed in the afternoon sunlight. He was wearing his tiny, lopsided khaki uniform. He held a smooth, perfectly round river stone in his small, heavy hands, staring at it with profound, unblinking affection.

A group of normal scouts from Troop 50 ran directly past the table, counting loudly, scanning the bushes and the tree line.

They did not look at Barty Junior. Their eyes swept directly over him, their brains completely failing to register his existence. To the mortal mind, unable to process the magical density of awakened stone, Barty Junior simply did not compute. If they saw anything at all, they saw a particularly ugly, highly decorative lawn ornament.

"The perception filter is functioning optimally," Simon noted, standing ten feet away holding his clipboard, recording data with clinical precision. "He is completely invisible to the normies."

"The zombies, too," Alvin added, appearing silently beside his brother. He pointed across the grass.

A group of scouts from Troop 86 were currently shuffling past the picnic table, dragging their feet, their eyes locked on their phones. One of them actually bumped his hip against the corner of the table, causing Barty Junior to wobble slightly. The zombie didn't look up, merely grunting and altering his trajectory by three degrees.

"He is the ultimate tactical asset," Alvin stated. "He can observe without being observed. He is a ghost in the machine."

Barty Junior let out a small, grinding burble, hugging his round pebble tightly to his chest.

"The Ensign approves," Simon translated flawlessly.

"He always approves," Alvin agreed. "He is very easy to please, so long as his geological family remains intact."

Ten minutes later, the air horn blew, signaling the end of the round.

Scoutmaster Chuck came jogging out into the clearing, blowing his whistle. "Alright, bring it in! Bring it in! Great hiding, boys! Let's see who managed to stay undetected the longest!"

Barty Junior remained sitting on the picnic table.

As the scouts gathered around, Chuck began handing out participation ribbons. He walked right past the table, completely ignoring the small, heavy gargoyle.

Lucas, recognizing an opportunity for chaos, stepped forward.

"Excuse me, Scoutmaster Chuck," Lucas called out, gesturing grandly to the picnic table. "I believe you missed a scout. My boy right here was sitting in plain sight the entire time, and nobody found him. That’s elite-level camouflage. That’s special forces stuff."

Chuck stopped. He looked at the picnic table. He squinted hard, his mortal brain straining against the ancient magic, trying desperately to process the visual information. He saw the khaki uniform. He saw the neckerchief.

Chuck’s brain forcefully categorized the entity as a very small, very ugly, incredibly still child holding a rock.

"Well, I'll be," Chuck boomed, laughing loudly and slapping his thigh. "Kid’s like a chameleon! Didn't even see him there! That’s the kind of discipline I like to see!"

Chuck walked over, pulled a massive, oversized blue ribbon with gold trim from his pocket, and ceremoniously pinned it to Barty Junior’s tiny, stiff khaki shirt.

Barty Junior did not move. He just stared up at Chuck with glowing quartz eyes.

"He’s a quiet one," Chuck chuckled, ruffling the top of Barty Junior’s rock-hard head. Chuck flinched slightly, rubbing his hand as if he had just patted a boulder, but his macho facade remained firmly in place. "Wear that ribbon with pride, little man."

As Chuck jogged away, Barty Junior looked down at the massive blue ribbon resting against his chest. He let out a loud, grinding squeak of absolute joy, patting the ribbon with his stone claws.

"He’s a decorated veteran now," Lucas whispered to Simon, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "They grow up so fast."

---

If the archery range and the hide-and-seek tournament had been tests of stealth, the afternoon kickball tournament was a test of raw, agonizing suppression.

Troop 442 was currently fielding a team against the normal scouts of Troop 12.

Ronan stood on the sidelines, a clipboard clutched to his chest, his golden eyes wide with panic. The werewolf pups were a physical nightmare waiting to happen. They possessed the strength to kick the red rubber ball across the county line, and the reflexes to catch a bullet.

"Remember!" Ronan shouted desperately from the sidelines as the pitcher rolled the ball toward home plate. "Run slower! Humans do not blur when they sprint! You have to bounce! Jog! Put some effort into looking tired!"

Timmy stepped up to the plate. The red rubber ball bounced toward him.

Timmy did not kick the ball. He calculated the exact rotational velocity, the wind resistance, and the structural integrity of the rubber. He extended his leg with the stiff, mechanical precision of a hydraulic piston, tapping the ball with exactly three pounds of pressure.

The ball blooped softly over the pitcher's head.

Timmy then began to run to first base. He ran with a highly exaggerated, stiff-legged jog, his arms pumping wildly, panting loudly and artificially to simulate cardiovascular distress.

"Safe!" the umpire yelled.

"Excellent tactical deceleration," Alvin nodded from the dugout.

The real problem occurred when Troop 442 took the outfield.

A burly kid from Troop 12 stepped up to the plate and booted the ball high into the air toward left field.

Timmy was playing left field. As the ball arched through the sky, Timmy’s golden eyes tracked it perfectly. His predatory instincts flared. He tracked the ball like a falling bird.

He opened his mouth.

"NO!" Ronan screamed from the sidelines, dropping his clipboard and waving his arms frantically. "HANDS! TIMMY, USE YOUR HANDS! DO NOT CATCH IT WITH YOUR TEETH!"

Timmy snapped his jaw shut at the last possible second, raising his arms stiffly and letting the ball drop into his hands with a heavy smack. He looked over at Ronan, looking deeply apologetic.

"Good catch," Scoutmaster Chuck yelled from the pitcher's mound, blowing his whistle. "A little aggressive on the approach, but way to secure the out, son!"

They won the game by a landslide, not because they were athletic, but because Alvin had mathematically mapped out every single gap in the opposing team's outfield, and the pups were executing base hits with the terrifying, joyless precision of a firing squad.

---

While the pups dominated the physical arena, Gerald was establishing dominance in the cultural sector.

Ronan, exhausted from the stress of the kickball game, had retreated to the Arts and Crafts pavilion. He sat at the end of a long, glue-stained wooden table, his soul slowly leaving his body.

Standing on the table directly in front of him, wearing a scout uniform that had been aggressively, comprehensively bedazzled with hundreds of silver sequins, was Gerald. Gerald held a plastic bedazzler gun in his right hand like a loaded weapon. In his left hand, he held a piece of heavy cardboard.

"Behold!" Gerald declared loudly to the gathered crowd of normal scouts. He held up the cardboard. It was heavily encrusted in glitter, sequins, and a large, jagged chunk of quartz that Barty Junior had donated to the cause. "The ultimate craft project! The Tactical Light Deflector!"

Ronan blinked slowly, letting his head rest in his hands. "Gerald, that is a piece of cardboard with macaroni and glitter on it."

"It is a tactical shield, Eagle Scout Ronan," Gerald corrected smoothly, turning the cardboard so the sunlight caught the sequins, sending blinding reflections across the pavilion. "When the amateur hunters of Troop 121 attempt an ambush, I will deploy the shield. They will be blinded by the sparkle. Their aluminum foil arrows will be rendered useless. Scoutmaster Andy will be so proud of my defensive engineering."

Ronan opened his mouth to argue, to demand that Gerald get off the table and act like a normal child, but he stopped.

A small crowd of scouts from Troop 12 and Troop 50 were gathering around the table, watching Gerald with wide, fascinated, awestruck eyes. One of the mortal kids timidly raised his hand.

"Excuse me," the normal boy asked. "Can you... can you bedazzle my merit badge sash? So it’s tactical?"

Gerald’s grin was absolutely blinding, matching the glare of his uniform. "Of course, brother! We are all artists here! Step forward and embrace the sparkle!"

As Gerald began rapidly stapling sequins to a line of eager, normal pre-teens, Theodore wandered into the pavilion, trailed closely by a member of Troop 86.

The zombie scout was shuffling his feet, his eyes glassy, a thin line of drool drying on his chin. He was holding his phone, but he wasn't looking at it. He was looking at Gerald’s shield.

The zombie stopped in front of the table. He stared at the glittering cardboard. He let out a low, appreciative groan that sounded like a shifting tectonic plate.

"Sparkly," the zombie grumbled, reaching out a stiff, dirt-caked finger.

"It IS sparkly!" Gerald beamed, leaning down from the table. "Do you want one? I can make you a tactical deflector for your phone case!"

The zombie considered this slowly, his processor working overtime. He nodded his head with a jerky, unnatural motion. "Make... sparkly."

"This is the best day of my life!" Gerald shrieked, grabbing his bedazzler and going to work on the zombie's rubber phone case.

Theodore watched his troopmate actively bedazzle the undead. He looked at the normal scouts lining up for sequins. He looked at Ronan, who had fully laid his head down on the glue-stained table, accepting his fate.

"I need a very long nap," Theodore murmured to himself, pulling out his phone and returning to Monster Merge 3D.

---

The true horror of Troop 86 was fully realized an hour later during the final event of the afternoon: The "Dead Worms" Sleeping Bag Race.

The premise was simple. The scouts had to climb inside their sleeping bags, zip them up to their necks, and inchworm their way across a fifty-yard stretch of grass to the finish line.

The normal kids of Troop 12 and Troop 50 were hopping, falling over, giggling, and rolling sideways. It was chaotic, noisy, and wholesome.

The werewolf pups of Troop 442 were executing perfectly timed, highly rigid bunny-hops, mathematically calculated to maximize distance while minimizing the appearance of supernatural leg strength.

And then, there was Troop 86.

When Scoutmaster Chuck blew the whistle, the zombies did not hop. They did not roll.

They dropped flat onto their stomachs with a synchronized, heavy thud.

Then, using only their upper body strength, they dug their elbows into the grass through the fabric of the sleeping bags, and began to drag their lower halves forward. It was a terrifying, unnatural, dead-eyed crawl. They moved with the relentless, sweeping momentum of a horde of the undead dragging themselves across a battlefield toward fresh meat.

There was no giggling. There was no hopping. There was only the sound of heavy nylon scraping against the dirt, and the low, guttural grunting of twelve pre-teens executing an agonizingly fast infantry crawl.

They crossed the finish line in a solid, unbreakable line, obliterating the competition by thirty seconds.

Once they crossed the line, they didn't stand up. They simply unzipped the tops of their bags, pulled out their phones, and went back to scrolling while lying face-down in the dirt.

Scoutmaster Chuck stood at the finish line, his whistle hanging loosely from his lips, his mirrored Oakleys failing to hide his profound disturbance.

"Well," Chuck muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "That’s... that’s a very strong core workout, boys. Very... very intense."

Timmy, who had hopped across the line a minute later, stared at the line of prostrate, scrolling zombies. He looked over at Simon.

"I am telling you, Spock," Timmy whispered, shivering. "They are not of this earth."

---

While the terrestrial competitions waged on, Andy Tyrell was facing his own personal, inescapable hell down by the edge of the lake.

The final requirement for the troop's wilderness certification involved basic watercraft navigation. Andy was the Scoutmaster. He was required to be in the canoe.

Andy sat rigidly in the very front of the aluminum canoe, his knees pressed tightly together. He wore a heavy, neon-orange life jacket over his khaki uniform, which offended his aesthetic sensibilities almost as much as the water terrified him.

His pale, aristocratic knuckles were gripping the wooden paddle with the force of an industrial vice. The wood was actively groaning, splintering slightly beneath his preternatural strength.

The water was calm. The water was placid.

The water was moving.

"Scoutmaster Andy," Alvin Sanchez said calmly from the rear seat of the canoe, his voice perfectly monotone over the gentle lapping of the waves. "You are holding the paddle incorrectly. It is designed to displace water, not to be crushed into sawdust. You are also holding your breath. Vampires do not need to breathe."

"I am fully aware of my physiological state, Alvin," Andy replied, his voice a tight, strained hiss filtering through clenched teeth. He did not blink. His eyes were fixed with laser intensity on the gently rippling surface of the lake. "I am simply... conserving energy."

"You are afraid of the water," Alvin observed clinically, dipping his paddle and gently steering the canoe.

"I am not afraid of the water," Andy countered, his jaw locking. "I am... deeply suspicious of its intentions."

"The water is an inanimate body of fluid, Scoutmaster. It has no intentions."

"You do not know that."

Alvin was silent for a long moment, allowing the canoe to drift slightly. Then: "Scoutmaster Andy, I have conducted extensive research into supernatural lore. Are you afraid of moving water because you cannot see what is beneath the surface, or is the myth true?"

Andy’s grip on the paddle tightened. A loud crack echoed across the lake as the wooden shaft fractured slightly. "I am not having this conversation with a twelve-year-old in an aluminum tube."

"I have read that vampires cannot cross running water," Alvin continued, entirely unbothered by the scoutmaster's obvious distress. "Is that a real biological limitation, a magical threshold, or is it a deep-seated psychological aversion?"

"It is a tactical limitation," Andy said, the words forced out as if they were physically heavy. "I prefer to have solid ground beneath my feet. I prefer environments I can control. Moving water is unpredictable. It is a matter of... strategic preference."

"You are terrified," Alvin concluded.

"I am not terrified. I am concerned for the structural integrity of this vessel."

A small wake from a passing motorboat rolled across the lake. The canoe rocked gently from side to side.

Andy let out a sharp, high-pitched sound that he would spend the rest of his immortal life violently denying ever making. He dropped his center of gravity, gripping the aluminum gunwales so hard his fingertips left permanent dents in the metal.

Alvin blinked slowly, watching the ancient predator hyperventilate in a life jacket. "Noted. I will not share this information with the rest of the troop."

"See that you don't," Andy choked out.

"Theodore will find out anyway," Alvin added mildly. "He can smell fear."

Andy closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the humid summer air, wishing violently that Esca Tyrell was here so Andy could drown him in this miserable, moving abyss.

---

Unbeknownst to the terrified vampire, he was currently being observed.

Standing on the far shore, partially concealed by the dense reeds, was Kyle, the leader of Troop 121. Kyle was holding a pair of heavy, military-grade binoculars, his eyes locked entirely on Andy.

"Target acquired," Kyle whispered into a walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. "The suspect is exhibiting severe aversion to the aquatic environment. A classic sign of the vampiric curse. He cannot handle the purity of the lake."

Kyle lowered the binoculars, his face tight with paranoid determination. He reached into his utility belt, wrapping his hand around a plastic water gun that he had painstakingly filled with tap water from the mess hall sink.

"Prepare the holy water," Kyle muttered to himself. "I'm going to expose him."

---

Out in the canoe, Andy’s preternatural hearing picked up the faint, static click of the walkie-talkie. Despite the paralyzing fear of the water, centuries of combat instincts immediately overrode his panic.

Andy snapped his head to the side, his pale grey eyes locking onto the reeds fifty yards away. He saw the binoculars. He saw the twelve-year-old boy armed with a neon-green squirt gun.

Andy’s upper lip curled into a cold, terrifying sneer.

He slowly let go of the gunwales. He sat up perfectly straight, shedding the fear like a discarded cloak. He reached into the pocket of his khaki shorts and pulled out a heavy, stainless steel water bottle.

Kyle watched through the binoculars, holding his breath.

Andy unscrewed the cap. He stared directly across the lake, making unbroken, lethal eye contact with the amateur hunter. And then, with deliberate, terrifying slowness, Andy tipped the bottle back and took a long, heavy sip.

A thick, dark red liquid dribbled down his chin. It was a mixture of cherry juice and synthetic blood substitute, but from fifty yards away through binoculars, it looked like pure, fresh gore.

Andy lowered the bottle, wiped the red stain from his mouth with the back of his hand, and offered Kyle a slow, bloodstained, predatory smile.

On the shore, Kyle’s eyes went wide with absolute, bowel-loosening terror. He dropped the binoculars into the mud. He dropped the squirt gun.

"Confirmed!" Kyle screamed, turning and bolting blindly through the reeds back toward the safety of the mess hall. "Confirmed vampire! Code Red! Call for backup! He's drinking blood on a boat!"

Andy watched the boy flee, a deep, satisfied hum vibrating in his chest. He screwed the cap back onto the water bottle and set it down.

"That was unnecessary," Alvin observed quietly from the back of the canoe, dipping his paddle into the water.

"It was entirely necessary," Andy corrected, his voice regaining its usual, aristocratic authority. "They needed to know their place in the food chain."

"They are twelve years old, Scoutmaster."

"Twelve-year-old hunters are still hunters, Alvin," Andy said coldly, staring out at the shoreline. "They need to learn that some monsters bite back."

---

The sun finally began to set over the Jamboree, painting the sky in deep shades of bruised purple and violent orange.

Troop 442 gathered back at their campsite, exhausted, victorious, and covered in varying degrees of dirt, glitter, and sloppy joe residue.

Scoutmaster Chuck came jogging down the path one last time, blowing his whistle to signal the start of the evening campfire programs.

"Andy, my man!" Chuck boomed, throwing an arm around Andy’s stiff, unyielding shoulders. "Great day! Your boys really crushed the kickball tournament. A little stiff in the outfield, but solid fundamentals!"

"They are very disciplined," Andy said through gritted teeth, actively restraining the urge to throw Chuck into the fire pit.

"Hey, I’m breaking out the good steaks later," Chuck grinned, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You wanna come over to Troop 12’s camp? We can grill some meat, talk about property taxes, maybe do some arm wrestling? You look like you got a hell of a grip on you."

Before Andy could formulate a polite refusal that didn't involve threatening to sever Chuck’s arm, Lucas appeared from the shadows, carrying a stack of firewood.

"Sorry, Chucky-boy," Lucas chirped, bumping his hip against Andy’s side and grinning brightly. "Scoutmaster Andy is strictly vegetarian. Plus, he promised to teach me the advanced knot-tying curriculum in his tent tonight. It’s a very hands-on elective."

Chuck blinked, his macho processor stalling for a second as he looked between Lucas’s chaotic grin and Andy’s sudden, furious flush of color.

"Oh," Chuck said, coughing awkwardly and pulling his arm away from Andy. "Right. The... the knots. Sure thing. Well, keep it regulation, boys."

Chuck blew his whistle loudly and jogged away, moving slightly faster than usual.

Andy turned slowly to look at Lucas.

"Advanced knot-tying?" Andy asked, his voice a dangerous whisper.

"Hey, I saved you from a night of discussing property taxes with a guy wearing Oakleys in the dark," Lucas defended himself, dropping the firewood and wrapping his arms around Andy’s waist, entirely unbothered by the khaki uniform. "You owe me. And I happen to know a few knots that aren't in the official guidebook."

Andy looked down at his chaotic, fearless boyfriend. He looked at the pups, who were currently helping Gerald bedazzle the troop's flag. He looked at Barty Junior, who was sitting proudly on a stump, polishing his massive blue ribbon with a dirty cloth.

He was wearing khaki shorts. He was standing in the dirt. He was surrounded by absurdity.

And for the first time in three hundred years, Andy Tyrell let out a genuine, exhausted, quiet laugh, leaning down to press his forehead against Lucas’s.

"Fine," Andy murmured, a smile finally breaking through the Warlord's mask. "Show me your knots, Assistant Scoutmaster."