Incoming message from the Author…

Hey there, and welcome to my first Danny Phantom fic: "The Bird of Hermes."

"The Bird of Hermes"is a dark re-imagining of the Danny Phantom universe, mixed with plenty of horror, mystery, and mangled meat to go 'round.

Enjoy!

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Title: The Bird of Hermes

Rating: M

Pairing: Danny/Vlad (Pompous Pep)

Summary: Vlad moves into a new house for college; little does he know something was already living there…

Chapter 1:

Slings and Arrows

"The Bird of Hermes is my name,

Eating my wings to make me tame."

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Vlad stared, unblinking, at the flicker of candle fire in front of him; the ghostly pale light bouncing off his face and casting his tired eyes in sinister glow.

He was exhausted. Not from physical labor, but from the slings and arrows of society that had so wounded him that day.

Vlad had endured the usual: The frequent judgments from peers, the name-calling, and the uncomfortable distance from which they retreated when he was near.

Then there were the "Family talks." The ones about college, and how Theoretical Quantum Physics wasn't a viable source of income—that he was destined for destitution—and those practical trades like Law, or Medicine were more financially secure.

Vlad sighed.

Secure.

He always wanted secure. However, life played a cruel game, and the cards he was dealt left little to gamble.

He was a socially awkward, 18-year old science geek; with a body that was as clumsy as it was gangly. He was terrible at sports, save chess—a game he frequently dominated—but won him no praise. Not from his school, nor the friendship of fellow enthusiasts. Sore losers made poor friends, he'd discovered.

He stuttered… a lot—while Asthma stole the breath from his lungs, causing him to grab the inhaler every time he tried talking to girls. Girls didn't like geeks with inhalers… or those who couldn't speak without one.

Then finally, there were the glasses.

At the thought of his boxy, black binoculars, Vlad pushed the rim of the frame up his nose. He wasn't the most… handsome man his age—Vlad knew, but is sense of style was rather unique, he thought. Classy, but simple, comfortable, yet affordable—sure his threads might not have been the latest trend off the rack—but he tried!Didn't that count for anything?

Vlad fingered the locks of his raven hair, remembering that his home–attempt at a mullet needed another "touch-up."

Still, the labels came. Names like, "Skunk-Stripe," or "Geek Freak," really hurt, and the acidity when spoken never missed its mark either; burning his esteem like flesh from the bone.

Slings and Arrows, he reminded himself. More dismal thoughts to fuel the aftermath of a depressing day.

Vlad lowered his gaze from the only light source in the small room. At the base of the candle was the frosted topping of a small cupcake.

Vlad sighed again.

Today was his Birthday.

A birthday he was spending alone.

After their last heated argument, Vlad couldn't stomach the close–minded authority of his parents any longer. So on the eve of the final day of school—the same day as his 18th Birthday —Vlad devised a plan.

Gathering a suitcase of clothes and a small bag of personal belongings, Vlad packed them away in the back of his Volkswagen. He'd attend his graduation, then drive out to college that same evening. He planned on sharing a birthday with his family, but their condescending words had burned a pit within his heart. So Vlad fled to the only place he ever found peace: The Science Lab.

The lab was dark and silent, save the sound of his cautious breathing. The chemical aroma of iodine tickled Vlad's senses, leaving the wisp of a smile in its wake. The room held four years of memories to the teen, and regardless of the torment he endured daily outside its sterile walls, Vlad wanted to celebrate the remainder of his birthday within the nostalgia of its embrace.

"Well, Happy Birthday to me."

Vlad blew out the candle, a hush falling across the room.

Now enslaved by darkness—alone, isolated from any heartbeat save his own—the teen made a wish.

The wish was always the same. He'd spoken it—begged, when his bullied body was too sore to rise from a sweat-soaked bed; when tears had long since dried, and left stained scars across his face; when any attempt at comfort left him cold and shivering, regardless of how tightly he held himself.

Friends, Companions, Love.

On the last hour of his 18th Birthday, Vlad had wished for security.

[]

The roads to Wisconsin University were bare at 6am. No sleep having come for Vlad the previous night, so an early start had been the logical decision.

The open air and woody smells did much to clear the remaining cobwebs clouding his mind. He needed a fresh start, and Vlad knew––hoped, that college would be it.

A low rumble disturbed the teen's inner musings, and Vlad looked around in concern.

He hadn't eaten that morning, so it could have been his stomach… but no. This sound was not organic—but mechanical, like the slowly seeping air of a tire mixed with the jarring tumbling of rocks.

Vlad looked at the Hatchback's spirometer. Oh no.

An exit sign swept passed his vision, and the teen torqued the wheel hard, pulling the car into the appropriate lane, and leading off the interstate into the heavily wooded area beyond.

Vlad pulled up to a gas station, easing off the petal and breaking his ol' gal next to an even older pump. The teen cut the ignition, stepped out of the car, and walked around to the machine. He pulled a wallet from the back pocket, and sequentially a credit card. The boy had intended to pay in plastic, but when searching he noticed there was no interface from which to pay. Huffing to himself, Vlad re-pocketed the card, and made his way to the small STOP 'n' SHOP behind the pumps.

The teen opened the door and heard a bell chime. Crossing the threshold, his attention was immediately seized by the strange look of the shop.

Instead of typical commercial fair, the store held shelves of fishing bait, hunting gear, and wilderness garb. Vlad passed signs advertising home remedies and homemade wards––plenty of dried roots and crushed substances tied up in pretty little bags, and topped with pretty little warning labels. Mounted to a back wall, Vlad noticed, were jars of … things—Vlad could only guess at. Only he did not… for fear the answers were correct.

There was a particular corner of the room that caught Vlad's eye: A giant stuffed bear standing on its hind legs was holding a rifle, and wearing a John Deer cap upon its head. Vlad would have smiled, had he not noticed the sign nailed above it.

In loud red lettering, it read: "YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS!"

Vlad didn't laugh at the cruel attempt at pun, either.

"Can I help yer, boy?"

The teen turned to see an old, disgruntled man behind a glass counter. Vlad was surprised by the man's sudden appearance; he hadn't noticed another body occupying the small space. The man repeated himself.

"I said… Can I help yer, boy?"

"Um yes," Vlad stuttered, walking up to the counter. "Its my car—"

"Yer not from 'round here, are yer boy?" The man interrupted.

Vlad swallowed his words and amended, "Yes, I'm from out of town."

The man nodded, causing the braids in his thick, sooty beard to swing by the many beads, sticks, and bird feathers that hung from it.

The teen was slightly appalled by the man's strange appearance. He didn't look like a typically dressed shopkeeper, but rather something out of a B-Horror movie; the campy verity—with plenty of haunted forests, shady gas stations, and creepy old men attending them.

The man's skin was deeply wrinkled, his head balding—save the greasy, grey hair halfway hidden under a faded bandana, and the thick bush of sooty–scruff that resembled a briar in Vlad's opinion, rather than a beard.

Several inked designs crawled up the man's arms and under the old, stained, wife–beater he wore. The tattoos were… beautiful, in Vlad's opinion. Intricate tribal designs mixed with harsh geometric lines, depicting images of aliens, machines, and things Vlad only guessed were… pagan in origin. Although he could only make those designs not hidden by cloth or body hair, Vlad realized that the inked drawings were none-the-less, nothing short of breathtaking.

Vlad noticed the man was blind in one eye. The working eye, a milky–white—the other, an empty socket sewn closed in haphazard stitching. Though handicapped he was, he bore into Vlad, regardless. Through that same hollow intensity, it was practically electrifying. The kind you recognize in war veterans, people who had seen far too much horror in their lifetime.

"S'not polite to stare, kid."

Vlad snapped out of his trance, and caught the man's waning glare. He snorted, and wiping his nose with the back of a hairy arm, he opened his mouth to speak—flashing a glance of gold from within.

"I wonder… what a scrawny thing like yer, doin' so far away from home?"

Vlad ignored the insult. "That's what I was trying to say ! I was driving down the interstate when I lost track of my fuel gage and—"

"—Yer ran outta gas." The man finished, smiling. "Am I wrong?"

Vlad shook his head.

"I get a lot of yer types comin' 'round here," The man continued. "Children—all of them. Little kids runnin' 'way from home and drivin' off into the nether. They talk about brighter futures, yessir—but that's the problem with yer kids, yer neva' look ahead of yer-selves. Ya'll get the hunger for it, an' drive head first into the void an'er neva' seen again."

The man raised an eyebrow. "Yer know what I mean, boy?"

"Not really," Vlad answered.

The man laughed. "Well, the Babylonians know what I mean."

Vlad's brow knitted, fiddling with his back pocket. Grabbing his wallet and pulling out a 20-dollar bill, he offered the bill to the older man.

"Look, this is all I have on me. Can I please get some gas?"

The man stared at the green paper––dumbfounded.

"Yer want gas?"

"Yes! Look—I'm kind of in a hurry." Vlad said, then added under his breath, he added, "Sort of…"

The man gave the teen another long, hard look before accepting the bill and pocketing it. No register transaction, no receipt—no nothing. Vlad would have thought that suspicious, but everything this man is and does was suspicious. Vlad absently started rubbing at his arms; he really wanted to get the hell out of here. Was it just him, or did the walls seem tighter, the space smaller, the air a tad cooler?

"Alright boy, I'll get yer gas."

The teen followed as the man slowly shuffled out of from behind the counter, and while walking with an obvious limp—Vlad noted, he opened the mesh door and ambled out into the dying light of the bleeding summer sky.

The old man stood next to the pump and pulled out a key form his pocket. Turning the catch, he released the handle from its locked position. Leveraging it, and cranking the arm a few times, he released the fuel and pumped the gas into the tank.

Vlad crossed his arms, marveling at the old machine.

He'd always appreciated the craftsmanship of the earlier centuries. It reminded him of a time when hard work was rewarded with honest pay and a loving family to return to—something Vlad had never experienced, no matter how hard he studied, no matter how many IB League schools he qualified for—

Vlad felt his nails digging into the sleeves of his sweater.

He had chosen the University of Wisconsin, because it had been a personal decision—his decision—where hard work would be rewarded with personal success, and he hoped that would be enough. It had to be.

"Now I just have to find a place to live…"

"Yer need a place to live?"

Snatched from his meddling thoughts, Vlad raised his head and met that same intense, one-eyed stare this man was quickly becoming known for.

"Excuse me?"

The man closed the pump, and wiping greasy hands on his jeans, he motioned for Vlad to follow.

"I got something good for yer."

"Yeah, like what?"

The man ambled back into the shack, and second-guessing his sanity, Vlad reluctantly followed.

Inside, Vlad found the man behind the counter mumbling incoherent nothings, and rummaging through boxes of random junk. Approaching the counter, Vlad spoke up, "Um, excuse me… Sir?"

"Gabriel"

Vlad swallowed, "Okay—Gabriel, just what are you… "

"Oh…" The man—Gabriel, turned around and held something yellowed and rolled up, close to his breast. Near shaking, Gabriel unclenched his hands and placed the document on the counter. With a mouth full of gold teeth, he smiled up at Vlad.

"I found it."

Suddenly, Vlad was staring at the water-stained surface of an old housing lease.

He gave the man a questioning look.

"What is it?"

The other man smiled—that mouth full of gold reflecting Vlad's knitted brow. Lowly he spoke, "An answer."

Vlad frowned; he didn't like the way Gabriel said that, but inspected the paper anyway.

The document certainly looked strange enough. Beyond the obvious antiqued appearance of the parchment, it was hand-written in red ink with large cursive loops and jagged downward strokes.

"1313 Elm Street?" Vlad glanced at Gabriel. "Is that a Wisconsin address?" He hadn't seen any defining city or state on the document.

Instead of the answering, the old man laughed—a sneering insidious sound, and then nodded his head in over-enthusiastic glee.

"Oookay…" Vlad raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the yellowed paper.

At least the lease seemed legitimate. The house described had 3 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, a basement, and an attic. A pretty good deal, all things considered. Still… Vlad was concerned.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch." Gabriel replied. "Yer sign the lease, the place is yers."

"What's the rent?"

"No rent."

Vlad swore his brow leapt off his head. "What do you mean, "No rent?" You must want money—you're not giving this house away for free, are you?"

The old man paused, a pregnant moment passing between them. When the man spoke again, Vlad felt the tickling tingle of gooseflesh upon his arms, and that same cold wind whispered about them.

"Not free, no. Never free," he punctuated. "What this house takes—Yer pay in…" Gabriel's words silently died on his tongue; instead the hollow, blank look in his eye spoke volumes. He turned that stare on the document, and then with a hushed murmur he answered an unspoken question.

"Memories."

The wind kicked up, and somewhere Vlad heard the melody of chimes singing a sad song in the distance. The shadows of the room shifted—bent in odd angles from the dying sun, opening up new clarity to the horrid macabre of the space.

A flicker of starlight caught the young man's eye, and Vlad followed its twinkle to the metal chain around Gabriel's neck. A single silver charm hung from the chain—it must have slipped out from behind the man's shirt, Vlad guessed—and sparkled in the evening twilight.

Vlad recognized the symbol as an Ankh, the Egyptian symbol of Life; often associated with eternity, and the endless tide of the Nile, the cycle of death and rebirth.

"30 days."

With a subconscious pull, Vlad locked eyes with the old man.

"30 days?"

Gabriel nodded, "Until I think yer done." He cracked his meaty neck, and placing hand with far too many rings upon the document, he indicated some of the finer printed scrawl. "30 days, then afta' that, it's yer choice how long yer want to stay."

Vlad didn't understand. "30 days for what?" He asked.

"30 days, yer gotta survive…"