CHAPTER 1 #2
I huff, twirling my glass between my fingers. Fashionably late is kind of his thing lately. With one thumb, I tap out a response, keeping my other hand on the glass.
Take your time. Lou’s keeping me company.
A wry smile creeps across my face as I think of him hustling through preparations for his proposal and coming up with excuses like this one to keep it a secret.
All the signs were there, from his timorous fidgeting and reduced spendings to the hushed conversations among his friends that died as soon as I stepped into the light.
Tossing back the rest of my drink, my mind battles between dread and anticipation, the bar slowly filling up with the usual Friday night crowd.
I can sense the vampires among them, that subtle undercurrent of predatory grace that sets them apart from humans.
Being a dhampir means I can feel both worlds without fully belonging to either.
Humans proudly wear their donation bands—badges of honor for meeting their monthly blood quota in a society where bravery takes the form of generosity.
Donating isn’t mandatory, but those who don’t are often treated with scorn and sideways glances, and sometimes even a mysterious disappearance.
After all, it is the very transaction that keeps our peace intact.
If there are any unbanded humans at all, they never last for long, eventually succumbing to the pressure and fear anyway.
I instinctively direct my attention to the window. Outside, one of many holographic boards spans across the building, shimmering with fluctuating images that display the city’s blood quotas in mesmerizing hues: iron, bronze, silver, gold, and platinum.
Each rank cements a human’s status in this society, a glaring hierarchy woven into the very fabric of Penn City. It is a constant reminder of how deeply the notion of giving and taking is embedded into our culture.
Wearers of a lesser band are considered lacking in currency that marks them as valuable and trustworthy.
Their reports are more often than not filed as low priority incidents.
Investigations get stalled. Notes are quietly shredded.
Evidence mysteriously disappears. The unofficial policy is clear: protection is proportional to contribution.
Gold and platinum bands get immediate response teams, while iron to silver bands get a form to fill out and vague promises of follow-up, ultimately making them the perfect targets for delinquent vampires.
That isn’t to say that vampires have free rein entirely.
In fact, they are relentlessly viewed with a wary eye, straddling the lines without a defined place, always on the outskirts of acceptance.
But they benefit from privileges that the outside world would never afford them, even if those same privileges come with invisible strings attached—from the murmurs that mortals cannot still to always being an inch away from accusation, a small price to pay for the protections and provisions they receive.
They’re safe here, that’s what really matters.
Safe from hunters like me.
A heavy floral perfume wafts from one of the women that passes by, the scent so overpowering it seems to cling to her like a shroud. She’s clearly wearing it for more than just masking body odor.
An olfactory declaration.
I sharpen my senses, smelling an underlying whiff of blood. My eyes instantly flick to her wrist: a golden band. The pay for that easily covers rent in the coveted Upper Heights district.
That’s a lot of blood loss in a short period of time, though. With a wound as fresh as hers, she should be resting instead of venturing into a place like this.
A place infamous for its clandestine activities.
Euphoria chasers, as we call them, actively seek out vampire bites. Most of them wear lesser bands, which means this one must be new.
As I observe her more closely, her fidgety demeanor gives her away, bearing the telltale signs of someone who’s never stepped foot in here before.
She totters to a corner booth where a pale man with slick black hair waits, his eyes gleaming with an unnatural hunger as she slides in across from him.
I’ve got a feeling about how this is going to play out.
First, he’ll lean in close, whispering sweet nothings while dexterous fingers trace the veins in her wrist. Then, when the bar is at its rowdiest, he’ll lead her to one of the private rooms in the back. Ostensibly for a makeout session, but regulars know what really happens there.
The high from a vampire bite is allegedly better than any drug on the market. Addictive, dangerous, and highly illegal.
In places like Hot Shot, the management turns a blind eye as long as no one dies and credits exchange hands.
I signal Lou for another round, my eyes still tracking the woman as she laughs too loudly at something her companion says.
Her movements are already sluggish from blood donation. One bite and she will collapse from anemia.
Max would have a field day with this scene, launching into a lecture about vampires exploiting human curiosities and addictions, all while citing statistics about bite-related hospitalizations and giving me that look of part accusation, part concern, as if I’m personally responsible for every vampire’s actions.
“She’s already donated today,” I mutter when Lou slides my refilled glass across the counter.
He grunts, following my gaze. “Want me to intervene?”
I shake my head. “Just keep an eye on her. I think she’s green.”
He nods, understanding the unspoken agreement: if I spot trouble, especially the kind that might end with someone in a body bag, I’ll alert him. As the responsible owner, he’ll then offer a complimentary ride home for the vulnerable party. If refused, or things get heated, I step in.
Lou keeps his license, and I maintain a safe haven where I can drink in peace without worrying about the more enthusiastic enforcement units crashing through the door.
Not that I can’t handle them, but the paperwork is always a nightmare.
The occasional blind eye to the bill is a nice bonus.
It’s a simple but effective agreement, the result of years of patronage and one particularly messy night when I’d saved him from an unpleasant run-in with keepers.
My phone vibrates again.
Leaving now. Promise.
I smile despite myself. Max is always so punctual when it comes to updating his tardiness. As I watch the entrance in hopeful expectancy, I wonder what kind of ring he’s picked out.
Probably something practical with a touch of sentiment, just like his style. Understated, but elegant.
My mind races ahead, painting vivid pictures of our future together.
Our wedding will be small, but sophisticated.
I’ll probably wear something unconventional, maybe a deep burgundy dress that makes Max’s eyes widen when I walk down the aisle.
My friends will begrudgingly attend, some of them making sarcastic comments throughout the ceremony but secretly dabbing at their eyes when we exchange vows.
We’ll honeymoon somewhere far away from both vampire politics and human prejudices—just us and the stars.
I imagine lazy mornings in bed, with Max’s arms wrapped around me, his heartbeat steady against my back. The way he’ll kiss my forehead before leaving for work, promising to be home for dinner.
We’ll have Sunday brunches with freshly squeezed orange juice and pancakes stacked high, Max reading the newspaper while I sip coffee laced with just enough blood to keep me satisfied. Our child will have curious eyes who won’t care that her mother is different.
Marriage. Despite everything, the word itself feels foreign in my mind, like trying to pronounce a language I’ve never spoken. Five years together, and still the concept seems to belong to someone else’s life. Someone normal.
Someone human.
My father used to tell me and my brother stories about his private wedding by the lake. How magical it was. How special their union was. How deep their love for each other was, despite their forever being two entirely different timelines.
The mere idea of promising Max forever, knowing that he’ll go much earlier than I will, unsettles me.
The door swings open, my senses heightening on instinct. It isn’t Max. Just a group of office workers with their ties loosened and chatter obnoxiously loud, celebrating the end of their workweek. They claim a booth not too far from me, already ordering shots before they have fully settled in.
“Expecting trouble?” Lou asks, jolting me right out of my thoughts. “You’re watching the door like it might sprout fangs.”
“Just a date,” I reply, trying to downplay my excitement.
He lowers his voice. “The lawyer with the nice suits?”
I nod, surprised he remembers that detail. Then again, bartenders make it their business to know their regulars.
“He seems decent,” Lou remarks, wiping down the counter. “For a human.”
The way he let the word roll off his tongue carries a familiar sting, the kind of subtle condescension common among vampires. I’ve heard it a thousand times before. No matter how much we insist our city is different, some old habits die harder than others.
Among the younger, more radical crowd, relationships like mine are viewed as little more than passing indulgences, dalliances to be scoffed at or whispered about. Even among the more progressive types, the sting of superiority lingers like an aftertaste.
Vampires like Lou often believe that the allure of humanity is just a temporary fascination until the inevitable pull of their true nature takes over, even if they were human before they were turned.
It’s as if that part of their lives died along with them, or the passage of time simply has that effect on our brains.
Me dating Max is therefore seen as undeniable proof of my inherent recklessness. Lou’s words might have seemed innocuous to an outsider, but I know the underlying message. He doesn’t need to say it outright for me to hear his silent warning of not getting too attached.