Chapter Three
CHARLIE
With a deliberate effort, I force myself to move in the opposite direction, my feet carrying me away from the woman even as every instinct screams to follow, to take, to drink.
The neon signs blur past in streaks of color, storefronts bleeding into each other as I half-walk, half-run through streets I don’t recognize.
Nothing looks familiar. Nothing makes sense.
The whole world has tilted sideways, and I’m sliding through, present but not part of it anymore.
A handful of people sit scattered throughout the space.
Two truckers at the counter, their heartbeats slow and steady. A young couple in a corner booth, his arm around her shoulders, hers racing with something that might be nervousness or excitement. An older woman working behind the counter, her movements efficient, practiced, tired.
The waitress is maybe forty, with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a stained apron over jeans and a T-shirt.
Her heartbeat reaches me through the glass, slightly elevated, probably from being on her feet all night.
She moves between tables, refilling coffee, clearing plates, offering tired smiles to customers who barely acknowledge her existence.
I push through the door before I can stop myself, a little bell jingling overhead to announce my arrival.
The waitress looks up, and her smile appears automatically, professional and empty of real warmth.
“Hi there, honey,” she calls from across the room.
“You look like you’ve had a rough night. You need some help?”
I weakly smile at her, glancing down at my torn, bloodstained clothes. “No ma’am, just some coffee please.”
“You sure, hon? I can call someone for you, maybe the police?”
My head snaps up to her, rage flooding my veins so hot it’s taking everything inside me not to reach out and snap her neck.
It feels like something inside me is pulsing with fire, and sweat is literally dripping off me as I try to rein myself in.
“I. Said. NO!” I yell louder than I intended, making her take a cautionary step back.
Even I widen my eyes at how intense my voice sounded.
She hesitantly smiles at me and gestures for the nearest table. “Grab any seat you like. I’ll be right with you.”
Feeling like a real asshole, I slide into a booth near the back, my hands shaking as I press them flat against the table.
The Formica feels too cold, every tiny imperfection in its surface standing out with excruciating detail.
I can see the material’s molecular structure, and I can sense the years of wear compressed into patterns that shouldn’t be visible to human eyes.
Except I don’t have human eyes anymore.
“What can I get ya? Just the coffee, or something else?” The same waitress appears beside my table, order pad in hand, that same tired smile fixed firmly in place.
Up close, she’s even more real. The fine lines around her eyes, the freckles scattered across her nose, the small scar on her chin that speaks of some long-ago accident are clearly visible to me.
Her pulse pounds in her throat, visible beneath skin that seems paper-thin, the vein blue and swollen and calling to something dark inside me.
“I’m not…” My voice comes out hoarse, strained. “I don’t think I’m hungry.”
‘The lie detector test determined that was a lie.’
The words taste like ash in my mouth because I’m hungrier than I’ve ever been in my life, starving in ways that go beyond physical need into something primal and terrifying.
“Coffee then?” she offers, already reaching for the pot she carries. “You look like you could use some warmth.”
Before I can answer, she’s pouring, and the smell of it hits me so completely and utterly wrong that my stomach rebels violently.
Not appetizing.
Not even remotely palatable.
Just a bitter assault on senses that have realigned themselves around a completely different definition of sustenance.
“Thanks,” I manage, wrapping my hands around the cup even though I know I won’t drink it. I can’t drink it, because coffee isn’t what this body needs anymore.
She starts to turn away, then pauses. “You okay, honey? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine.” Another lie. I’m so far from fine that the concept seems laughable. “Just tired.” Glancing at her name badge, it says, Trudy.
“Tell me about it.” Trudy shifts her weight, and I hear her knees creak, hear the liquid movement of blood through her veins and the grind of bone on worn cartilage.
“Been on my feet for nine hours. Two more to go before my shift ends. My granddaughter turns six tomorrow. I’m gonna try to make it to her party if I don’t fall over first.” She winks at me.
“You want anything to eat? Eggs? Toast? We make a mean stack of pancakes if you’re in the mood for something sweet. ”
The mention of food makes bile rise in my throat, though there’s nothing there to bring up. Everything about her offer sounds repulsive except for one thing, one terrible, undeniable thing that I can’t stop fixating on.
Her blood.
“No, I’m good.” I force the words past lips that want to form different sounds, darker promises. “Thank you.”
She nods and moves away, and I should feel relief.
I should be grateful that she’s gone, that the temptation has moved to a safer distance.
Instead, I track her movement across the diner with predatory focus I can’t suppress, watching the way she walks, the rhythm of her steps, the pattern of vulnerability she presents with every unguarded moment.
The hunter in me tracks her weaknesses.
Too slow to run.
Too small to fight.
Too human to survive what I’m becoming.
I grip the coffee cup harder, and the ceramic groans beneath my fingers. Cracks spiderweb across the surface, hot liquid seeping through the fractures to pool on the table. I release it quickly, staring at the damage with something approaching horror.
What the fuck am I?
The question loops through my mind, relentless and unanswerable, because I know what I am, even if I can’t accept it yet. The evidence surrounds me… the impossible strength, the heightened senses, the fangs in my mouth, the hunger that grows more insistent with every passing second.
Vampire.
I’m a vampire.
Vampires don’t exist… right?
But what else could I be?
The thoughts settle into my consciousness with terrible finality, and with it comes the crushing weight of everything that means.
I died.
That creature in the parking lot killed me.
Drained me dry and left me for dead, except death didn’t take. Instead, I came back as something else, something monstrous, something that needs blood to survive.
Human blood.
It makes me want to scream, to run, to claw my way out of this skin that doesn’t belong to me anymore. But I can’t move because Trudy has returned, carrying a knife to cut someone’s pie, and when she sets it down on the counter, the blade catches her finger.
Just a tiny cut.
Barely visible.
A single drop of blood wells up, bright red against her skin, and my world detonates.
The scent hits me with a physical force, rich, overwhelming, and absolutely intoxicating.
Sweet doesn’t begin to describe it. This is beyond taste, beyond smell, beyond any sensory experience I’ve ever had.
This is life distilled to its purest essence, calling to me with a voice that drowns out every other thought, every other instinct, every shred of humanity I’m desperately trying to cling to.
My vision tunnels, everything except that single drop of blood fading to insignificance.
My fangs throb with painful urgency, saliva floods my mouth, heat races through veins that shouldn’t carry warmth anymore, setting every nerve ending on fire with need so overwhelming I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can’t do anything except want.
Trudy doesn’t notice. She just sucks her finger absently, cleaning away the blood, completely unaware that she’s triggered something catastrophic in the monster sitting three tables away.
But I notice.
God, I notice everything.
The way her pulse accelerates slightly from the minor pain. The sound of her heartbeat amplifies in my ears until it’s the only thing I can hear. The warmth radiating from her body is a beacon designed specifically to draw predators from the shadows.
I’m on my feet before conscious thought catches up with instinct.
The diner blurs around me as I move, inhuman speed carrying me across the space in seconds. The other customers don’t even register my presence, too absorbed in their meals, their conversations, their blissfully ignorant human lives.
Trudy pushes through the back door, heading toward what I assume is a breakroom or storage area, and I follow without hesitation, my body operating on autopilot, driven by hunger so profound it’s eclipsed every other consideration.
The door swings shut behind me.
We’re alone in a narrow hallway, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the smell of grease and old food thick in the air. She doesn’t hear me approach, too focused on whatever task brought her back here, completely unaware that death is stalking her with silent, perfect efficiency.
I’m behind her before she turns.
Before she can do more than drag in a breath, my hand wraps around her shoulder and spins her to face me.
“What—” Trudy starts, but the word dies when her eyes meet mine.
Terror blooms across her face, instant and absolute, as whatever she sees in my expression communicates the danger her conscious mind hasn’t processed yet.
Her heartbeat skyrockets, fear flooding her system with adrenaline that makes her blood smell even more delicious, even more impossible to resist.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I mean it. God, I mean it with every fiber of the person I used to be. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Her eyes widen, breath hitching as she opens her mouth to scream.
I move without thinking.
My hand clamps over her mouth, sealing the sound inside her, feeling the vibration of it against my palm as terror shakes through her body. I hold her there, pinned and trembling, my own chest tight with something dangerously close to grief.
Then my head tilts back, my fangs sliding down on their own.
And I bite, piercing her throat with perfect, terrible precision, slicing through skin, muscle, and vein with an ease that should horrify me, but instead feels right as if my mouth was built for this exact moment.
Blood surges instantly, hot and thick, flooding my mouth, spilling over my tongue in waves of sweetness so intense it makes my knees weaken.
It’s utterly exquisite.
Better than anything I’ve ever tasted.
Better than anything I could have imagined.
I drink.
And drink.
And drink.
Her muffled cries fade beneath my hand as the world narrows to heat, hunger, and the impossible relief of finally being full, of finally being whole, and I don’t know where the line between mercy and monstrosity disappeared.
Only that it did.
The hunger roars in approval, satisfaction spreading through me, filling the void inside me with liquid heat that carries life force, energy, and everything I’ve been missing since I woke up in that warehouse.
Each swallow brings strength, clarity, the sense of pieces clicking into place as my body finally gets what it needs.
Trudy struggles at first, her hands pushing weakly at my shoulders, her body thrashing in my grip. But I’m stronger than her, so much stronger, that it’s not even a contest. Her movements slow quickly as I drain her, as her life pours into me with every desperate pull of my mouth.
Her heartbeat falters.
Slows.
Stutters.
Stops.
I come back to myself all at once, awareness slamming into me with crushing force as the bloodlust recedes and horror rushes in to fill the space it leaves behind.
I release her, and she crumples to the floor, lifeless, her eyes staring at nothing, her throat torn and bloody, her body empty of everything that made her a person only minutes ago.
Like Jake.
Just like Jake, except this time I’m the one standing over the body.
Oh fuck… I killed her.
The truth crashes down on me, inescapable and absolute.
This isn’t theoretical anymore.
This isn’t some nightmare I can wake up from.
I just murdered someone. Drained her completely dry. Ended her life to satisfy a hunger I couldn’t control.
Blood covers my hands, my mouth, my clothes. I can taste it on my tongue, sweet, coppery, and wrong, so completely and utterly wrong now that the feeding frenzy has passed and reality has returned with vicious clarity.
I did this.
I’m a monster!
The scream finally rips free, tearing out of me in a sound that barely sounds human, raw, shattered, choking on horror with nowhere to go and no way to claw time backward.
I stumble away from the break room, rushing toward the kitchen and slamming into the counter hard enough to rattle plates. Someone shouts behind me, a confused “Hey!” turning sharp as I vault the half-door into the kitchen, the smell of grease, coffee, and hot oil crashing into me all at once.
“Jesus!” one of the cooks yells as I burst through, eyes wide, spatula clattering to the floor.
I don’t slow down.
Pans sizzle, a fryer pops, and someone screams as I shove past stainless steel counters, my hands leaving smeared red prints on cold metal. My foot slips in something slick, and I catch myself on instinct, fingers denting steel as if it’s soft clay.
That realization almost stops me.
Almost.
“Call the cops!” someone shouts. Another voice cracks, panicked. “What the hell did she do?”
I don’t look back, slamming through the back door hard enough that it bangs open against the brick wall outside, night air crashing into me as I stagger into the alley.
The door slams shut behind me, cutting off the lights, the noise, the shouting, leaving only darkness and the sound of my own uneven movement as I flee.
Trash bags split under my feet. Rats scatter.
The smell of rot, rain, and old oil turns my stomach, but I keep going, legs driving me on instinct, moving before my brain can catch up.
I don’t stop until the diner is just a glow at the end of the alley and the screams are nothing but echoes in my head.
Because if I stop…
If I let myself feel it…
I know I won’t survive what I’ve become.
Not thinking, not planning, just moving, my feet carrying me away from the body, from the evidence, from the undeniable proof of whatever the fuck I am now.
The night swallows me as I run, buildings blurring past, my speed carrying me through streets I don’t recognize toward destinations I can’t name. Blood dries on my skin, sticky and damning, marking me as clearly as any scarlet letter.
Killer.
Monster.
Vampire.
The words chase me through the darkness, relentless and true, and I have nowhere to go, no one to turn to, nothing except the crushing knowledge that I’ve crossed a line I can never uncross.
I killed someone tonight.
And God help me, a part of me, some dark, terrible part that I can’t silence no matter how hard I try, part of me enjoyed it.
What the hell am I going to do now?