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Scott tracks them down eventually. Pyro’s up as soon as Scott lands, but then he hesitates, so Owen calls, “Did they catch you?”
Scott gives him a dull-eyed look. “I got away.” He pulls something out of the depths of his cloak and tosses it at them. It lands heavily by Owen’s crossed legs.
“Why are you carrying silver on you?”
“The humans were carrying silver.”
“Did you— eat them?” Pyro asks. “Are they…”
Scott’s lips thin, but his expression is thoughtful. “Owen,” he says sweetly. “I was thinking. We should find out what this stuff does to vampires. It didn’t hurt me much, but what about ones that have eaten recently? Ones that have some extra power to play with. We should check that.”
“That might be helpful,” Owen says, which is not disagreement to any reasonable person. “Figuring out its limits.” He might not know Scott terribly well, but he knows the sound and look of someone on the hunt for a scapegoat. It is coldly familiar.
Pyro, having perhaps developed a greater sense of self-preservation over the past few days, says nothing.
Still, Scott calls his name with a voice like honey.
“Yes?” Pyro wavers, takes a step closer to Scott, as if drawn in by a length of rope. “Sire?”
“Hands out.” Scott scoops the silver off the ground and deposits it neatly into Pyro’s outstretched hands. “Hold onto that for me.”
Pyro’s hands are bare. Owen watches them clutch the silver. When they sink to their knees, he says, “So? What does it feel like?”
Their hands are terribly pale. But then, they have been for hours now.
“Like it’s burning,” Pyro murmurs, voice shaky. “Like picking up a pot you thought had cooled off— ow— Scott, sire, can I—?”
Pyro probably doesn’t notice how slowly Scott sits. Owen moves closer to complete their little triangle and Pyro whimpers from behind gritted teeth. For a long moment no one moves. Then Scott says, “Drop it and let me see.”
Pyro does immediately, presents their palms as if seeking absolution. Owen blinks, and the world brightens, clarifies. Pyro’s skin is a tender pink.
Scott grabs them by the wrist and presses hard on the meat of their palm. Pyro yelps, flinching full-body. When Owen puts his hand on their knee, their eyes dart to him, seeking, and Owen tilts his head just slightly.
Humour him.
The expression that flashes across Pyro’s face is absurdly grateful.
Pretending not to notice, Owen says to Scott, “Learning anything?”
Scott drags his nails down Pyro’s palm. “It burns if we hold it for too long?” There’s something faintly unhappy to his cadence, but he is tracking how Pyro folds over as soon as he’s released, how he makes an almost-inaudible sound. Scott huffs. “You see what happens if you don’t listen to me, Pyro?”
“I see,” Pyro says, the syllables stuttered. “I understand, I promise, I’ll listen next time, sire—”
“You’ll listen right now,” Scott interrupts. “Hold.”
And the silver goes back into Pyro’s burned hands. He yelps this time, ducks his head as if to hide from the pain. When Owen glances over, the corner of Scott’s mouth twitches.
“Please,” Pyro says, though he doesn’t specify what he’s asking for.
“You should help him, Owen. We don’t want him to drop it.”
Owen is not unaware that getting closer, clasping Pyro’s trembling hands so they stay closed over the silver piece, puts him between them and Scott.
Pyro breathes out sharp, nearly a hiss, and Owen feels a distant twinge of pity. “Don’t threaten your elders,” he tells Pyro.
Hunched like this, Pyro looks nearly like they’re praying. No doubt they haven’t registered what Owen said. Owen presses on their hands and they shake as if relieved or terrified.
“That means no hissing and no mumbling, Pyro.” The name is nearly purred. At least one of them’s feeling better.
Pyro’s breathing goes forcefully even.
“That’s better,” Scott says.
Scott keeps them there, like that, until Pyro is sobbing. Begging with incoherent noise. Listening to his pleas, Owen nearly misses the sound of grit underfoot: Scott’s standing.
Owen turns his head as the smell of burning flesh gets stronger. Pyro’s trying so hard; his attempts at escape seem pure instinct. “He won’t have hands by the end of this.”
Scott flicks his hand. “Testing his endurance.” To Pyro: “Look at me.”
Pyro lifts his head, still human enough to cry, to choke. His fingers spasm in Owen’s grip, a message from the flesh that won’t reach his brain.
Scott reaches down and strokes Pyro’s hair.
Owen counts silently to ten, watching Pyro’s lashes flutter, then lets him go. There is a beat, fleeting, where Pyro doesn’t seem to notice. He clutches the silver white-knuckled, cheeks shining.
Then the silver is on the stony ground, clean and bright as if nothing happened, and Pyro is a tight ball up against the wall, scrambling uselessly back from Scott’s outstretched hand.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please—”
“Let me see.”
Pyro makes a sound like a bleeding animal. But he offers up his hands. Charred flesh, red and black and swollen. Owen shuts his eyes, briefly dizzy.
“You’ll heal,” Scott decides.
“Thank you, sire,” Pyro gasps, which is nonsensical and no less genuine for it.
Owen wants, inexplicably, to laugh. He opens his eyes and does not breathe.
“They’re all busy swarming around the castle,” Scott murmurs, touching the top of Pyro’s head. “Now wouldn’t be a bad time to desecrate a few of the other beacons.”
“Keep moving,” Owen agrees, understanding this is directed at him. Scott has a knack for it: this wordless conducting. “They’ll be on the hunt now. Pyro and I have been missing for too long.”
“I got one of the beacons,” Pyro offers, voice wobbly. “It’s— Did you feel it?” A silence filled by the call of a crow, somewhere in the trees outside. “Sire?”
“That was you,” Scott says, fingertips still buried in Pyro’s hair. They have their hands poised carefully in their lap. Scott taps the crown of their head, almost playful in its quickness, and Pyro startles. “Right, I’m going to get some food, then deal with some of their beacons.”
His cloak sweeps darkly behind him, and then he’s gone. Pyro stares at the cave entrance with such naked longing Owen feels it twist like screws in his stomach.
Owen collects a parcel of raw pork from his bag. He scarfs most of it down, aware of fledgeling eyes darting to peer at him, but it seems Pyro knows better than to ask.
“He’s right,” Owen says, stopping at the last mouthful. “The burns will heal.” He lifts the morsel of lukewarm flesh to Pyro’s lips. “It’ll go faster if you eat.”
Pyro, obedient, plucks the meat from Owen’s fingers with their teeth. Chews twice, swallows quick. Their shoulders drop. “I’m hungry again,” Pyro whispers.
Owen touches their knee, sympathetic, and they wince. So it goes for things like them.
Then, Owen takes gloves from his bag, finds the pocket of Pyro’s coat, and stuffs them in. “You’ll be needing those.”
“You got gloves?” Pyro asks, an unsteady edge to their voice.
“I found them in a crypt and figured a dead man wasn’t using them. I hope you’re not squeamish about that sort of thing.”
“Owen,” they murmur. That edge in their voice has gone dangerously soft. They rock forward, and Owen halts them with a hand in their hair. “What— What do I do now?”
They stare at him as if waiting for something terrible to happen. Or hoping. Owen lets go.
“I’ll be heading out now. It’ll arouse less suspicion if we aren’t seen together.” Owen, distracted by nothing in the present, taps Pyro on the cheek. “You keep your head down. Past that, I’m sure you can find something useful to do with yourself.”
Owen leaves Pyro in the cave, their expression stricken as if he hit them.