CHAPTER 12
THE POLICE STATION is a hive of activity, even at this late hour, with officers moving purposefully through the corridors, some of them giving me curious glances as I’m being led to an interrogation room.
Inside, Chief Penn waits, her expression grave as she gestures for me to sit.
“Seraph Rosen,” she says, sliding her tablet across the table that displays a list of my charges. “Breaking a newly-turned vampire out of medical observation is a serious offense. Your fine for the hospital breach will be eighty-thousand.”
Not bad. That’s equivalent to the capture of about sixteen vampires with a manageable threat level, which means any vampire that’s not on RedNet’s wanted list. I could make that happen in a couple of days.
She highlights the next charge with a firm tap of her finger. “Crossing country borders without proper authorization has landed you in more trouble than just losing a chunk of credits. The specifics of your penalty are still under review, but you’re not getting off easy this time.”
I beg to differ, but instead I say, “I know the laws.” Taking a deep breath, I wince as the movement pulls at my partially-healed wound.
She fixes me with an unwavering stare. “Then, why did you do it?”
“Maxim was struggling with the transition and needed space, away from the hospital environment. So, I took him somewhere safe, somewhere he could adjust without feeling like a lab rat.” I slide the tablet back to her.
There’s nothing on it that I don’t already know.
“It would’ve been fine if not for the sire bond. ”
This is kind of our dynamic lately. I’m called in for an interrogation, then I reveal a new piece of useful information about our enemies to distract them from my misdemeanor.
As expected, this catches her attention. “Explain.”
I recount what happened in the cave: Max’s sudden loss of control over his actions, the mechanical way he moved, and his complete lack of response to my pleas. “Someone got in his head,” I conclude.
The chief exchanges a sidelong glance with the general, who’s been standing silently in the corner of the room.
“We’ve suspected something like this,” she says.
The other victims have been exhibiting similar behavior patterns.
There are times when they keep trying to escape, their eyes peeled for something—or someone.
” There’s a deliberate pause before she looks up, straight into my eyes. “You.”
“It seems their sire controls them somehow,” I say in agreement. “That’s what the turnings were about. Cain is building himself an army of puppets. Sire bonds are real.”
The statement hangs heavy in the air, weighted by a terrifying reality: if sire bonds are real, why have they never been witnessed before?
And if they are at play, what influence does she hold over Max and the others?
And why me? What could Cain possibly want with a dhampir who has spent her entire life away from the vampire world?
General Lee steps forward, placing a small device on the table. “The tracker in your arm is still functional, despite temporarily going offline during your little field trip.”
“You want me to keep it,” I deduce, his insinuation clear, “in case they come for me again.”
His expression remains neutral, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes. “Yes. It puts us one step ahead. Tracking you means tracking them, too.”
I consider my options. The tracker makes me vulnerable, exposed, but it also connects me to potential allies if things go south again. And south they will go. I have no delusions about that.
“Fine,” I concede, “but I want something in return.”
The chief looks up, not toward anything in particular. It looks more like a suppressed eye roll than anything else. “What is it?”
“Exemption. I’ll pay the fine, just leave it at that.”
She cocks her head to the side, looking to General Lee for any sort of input. Their faces are stern, tired, but so is mine. I look at him too, managing a subtle pout. He studies me for a long moment before giving a curt nod.
“Granted,” she says, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose, knowing it ends like this more often than it should. “But no more unauthorized excursions, and you will report any unusual signs or behaviors immediately.”
I push myself up from the chair. “I can work with that.”
The chief does the same, meeting me at eye level. “I mean it.” Her expression is even more severe than it was before, notably fed up with my infringements. “It’s not just about you anymore.”
Her words are received with their intended purpose, and I offer her a solemn nod. She’s right.
“One more thing,” the general says, moving to stand in front of the exit. “We are establishing a special task force to investigate these sire bonds. Captain Ventura will be leading it.”
There’s a flutter in my stomach. “Lexa?”
“She requested the assignment,” he clarifies, watching my reaction carefully. “Report to her on Monday at eight in the morning. You’ve been assigned to her unit until further notice.”
This surprises me. “I don’t work for Redmoore anymore.”
“Consider it a consultant position,” Chief Penn interjects. “Your exemption depends on it.”
I scoff, knowing they’ve learned to run the same game in reverse. “Alright.”
The general opens the door, prompting me to leave.
The station’s bright lights make my head pound as I navigate toward the exit, each step requiring more concentration than it should.
My body is demanding nourishment to heal properly—the vampire part of me craves blood with an intensity that’s hard to ignore, while the human part of me just wants to collapse into bed.
Blod help me, before I—
I stop the thought dead, dragging my focus back to the path ahead.
Outside, the fresh air momentarily clears my foggy mind. I consider taking public transport, but decide against it. The last thing I need is to be tempted by more humans.
The grocery store it is.
After rounding a few blocks, carefully placing one foot in front of the other and avoiding the main streets, I push through the automatic doors, wincing as they slide open with a cheerful electronic chime that feels like sharp needles in my sensitive ears.
Just get what you need and go.
The store is nearly deserted at this hour, with just a bored cashier behind the checkout counter scrolling through her phone and an elderly man methodically examining produce. Perfect.
The refrigerated section where rows of blodas wait in straight lines, calling out as if they know your weakness, is within immediate reach.
I hurry and grab a premium blend with extra hemoglobin, pop the tab, and drink in quick, desperate gulps.
This can costs three times as much as a six-pack of the standard formula, so I make every drop count.
A few steps past the usual lineup, my attention settles on a limited edition flavor—something with synthetic vanilla—and, what the hell, I grab that one too. Might as well treat myself after the day I’ve had.
When I approach the checkout, my reflection catches in the security mirror mounted in the corner.
I look like I just crawled out of a grave.
Which, all things considered, isn’t far from the truth.
My hair is matted with blood and dirt, my face is smudged with grime, and there’s a tear in my shirt that reveals the bandage underneath.
No wonder the cashier leans back, as if my appearance alone could make her faint. She clearly regrets coming to work tonight.
I place both the unopened limited edition and the opened, empty premium can on the counter.
The cashier’s eyes widen at the crushed aluminum, her gaze darting from my blood-stained clothes to my face.
She hesitates before grabbing the cans, probably worried about catching something from the bloodstained fingerprints I’ve left on them.
“Rough night?” she finally asks, scanning the items with trembling hands.
“You could say that.”
“That’ll be one thousand twenty credits.”
She brings the scanner up to my eyes, waiting for numbers to flash. A soft click confirms my credit is drawn. In Penn City, and soon all of Northcross, your face is now also your wallet.
The cans and receipt are dropped into a plastic bag and handed to me with the jittery urgency of a robot on espresso. I grab it from her, not missing the way she avoids touching my fingers.
Her relief at seeing me leave is almost palpable.
Once outside, I crack open the limited edition bloda, letting the synthetic vanilla-infused formula slide down my throat.
It’s sweeter than I expected, with an artificial aftertaste that lingers unpleasantly.
Still, the effect is immediate: warmth spreads through my limbs as my body absorbs the nutrients, the dull throb in my abdomen beginning to ease.
By the time I’m in my home district, I feel almost human again. Almost.
My apartment door is slightly ajar when I reach it, a sliver of light spilling into the hallway. I freeze, holding my breath, and strain to catch any sound from within. There’s the soft clink of glasses, the rustle of fabric, and the unmistakable scent of plasma berries.
Evan and Haden.
They are sprawled across my living room, still, surrounded by empty food containers and half-finished drinks. Both look up as I enter, relief washing over their faces.
“You’re alive,” Evan exclaims, his hands thrown into the air. “And bleeding!”
Their hair is damp, clinging to their foreheads.
Evan’s blue strands are darker than usual, while Haden’s curls are still dripping slightly at the ends.
They’ve also changed into clothes I keep for them in my spare drawer: Evan in a white t-shirt with a faded band logo and Haden in a simple gray henley.
The familiar scent of my shampoo wafts through the living room.
It’s nothing new or unusual—my place is their place. It’s like their second home.
Not to mention my shower has way better water pressure than theirs.
Better everything, to be honest.