Chapter 1 #2
"Even if you find him," one of the wolf shifter bouncers said, arms crossed over his massive chest, "he'll probably kill you just for knowing his name. He's not big on his reputation spreading."
"I heard he once let a vampire starve to death outside his compound just to make a point," a witch added, stirring her drink without even touching her straw. "Begging doesn't work. Offering money doesn't work. He decides who's worthy, and most people aren't."
Encouraging.
I manage to pull on jeans and a jacket, moving on autopilot.
Every movement feels like I'm underwater, slow and distant.
My reflection in the hallway mirror shows someone who looks half-dead, which is ironic considering I'm already technically deceased.
The black veins have spread to my face now, creeping up my jaw like cracks in porcelain.
How long do I have?
Hours, maybe. My vampire healing should be working overtime, burning through the contamination. Instead, it's like my body doesn't know what to do with blood this toxic. Like it's given up.
I grab my keys, another old habit, since I don't actually drive anymore. Vampire speed is faster, and I don’t trust myself behind the wheel when I can hear every heartbeat within a hundred feet. But old routines die hard, and the weight of keys in my pocket makes me feel more human. More normal.
Then I'm out the door and into the night, letting the cold air hit my face like a slap.
The streets of East Atlanta Village are busy even at 11 p.m. on a Thursday.
Humans everywhere, laughing and drinking and living their fragile little lives.
Couples walking arm in arm. Groups of friends bar-hopping.
A guy on a skateboard weaving through pedestrians with the confidence of someone who's never had to worry about predators.
I can hear their heartbeats, smell the blood pumping through their veins.
My fangs ache with hunger despite the poisoning, because my body is stupid and doesn't understand that feeding right now would probably kill me faster.
I shove the hunger down, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
Not desperate enough to feed from a random human on the street. Not yet, anyway.
I make my way toward Little Five Points, cutting through side streets to avoid the thickest crowds.
The businesses here are the kind Atlanta is known for: vintage shops, tattoo parlors, and head shops with tie-dye in the windows.
The Vortex looms ahead with its giant skull facade, a landmark that used to make me smile.
Now it just reminds me that I'm heading toward a meeting that probably won't happen with someone who probably won’t help me anyway.
The meet-up spot is an alley behind The Vortex, hidden from the main drag by a fence and a dumpster. I slip into the shadows and wait, counting my breaths even though I don't need them. The black veins continue to spread under my skin, a reminder that time is running out.
Derek, the vampire who promised he could get me a meeting with someone in Maximus's circle, is supposed to show at 11:30. It's 11:25 now.
I lean against the brick wall and try not to think about the fact that I'm trusting a stranger who wanted five hundred dollars just for a conversation.
Money I didn't have but scraped together anyway by pawning my grandmother's necklace. The only thing of value I owned, and I handed it over to a vampire I barely knew on the promise of help. But I can’t wear it if I’m dead.
The minutes tick by. 11:30 comes and goes.
No one shows.
I wait thirty minutes. Then an hour.
No one is coming.
Of course not.
The poisoning is getting worse. I can feel it now, a creeping numbness that starts in my extremities and works its way toward my core.
My fingers tingle. My toes have gone completely numb.
When I try to flex my hands, the response is delayed, like the signals from my brain are traveling through molasses.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold concrete, knees pulled to my chest. The alley smells like garbage and stale beer and piss, and somewhere in the distance I can hear music thumping from one of the bars.
Life is going on without me. The world is spinning while I'm stuck in this alley, waiting for help that isn't coming.
How cosmically unfair is it that I survived three years of underground fighting, broken bones, concussions, opponents who wanted to actually kill me, only to die because I drank the wrong blood bag?
My vision starts to gray at the edges, darkness creeping in like a vignette.
No. Get up. Move.
But I can't. My legs won't cooperate. The numbness has reached my chest now, making it hard to think, hard to focus on anything except the spreading cold.
It reminds me of hypothermia, which I learned about in a first aid class years ago.
The way your body shuts down from the outside in, conserving heat for your vital organs until even that isn't enough.
Except I'm not cold. I'm a vampire. Temperature doesn't affect me the way it used to.
This is something else. This is my body giving up.
Is this it, then?
This is how Celeste Moreau goes out. Not in a blaze of glory in the ring. Not protecting someone or fighting for something that matters. Just… alone in an alley, poisoned by her own desperation and stupidity.
I close my eyes and try to remember what my mother's face looked like. It's getting harder.
"You've been asking about me."
The voice cuts through the fog like a blade, deep, measured, and utterly without warmth.
My eyes snap open.
A man stands at the mouth of the alley, backlit by the streetlights so I can't see his face clearly.
He's tall, over six feet, dressed in dark clothes that probably cost more than my entire apartment.
Black coat, dark shirt, everything tailored perfectly.
Even from here, even through the haze of poisoning, I can feel the power rolling off him in waves.
Not the desperate, feral energy of the few young vampires I’ve met in the bars. Not the cocky aggression of the fighters I used to face. This is something else entirely. Something ancient and controlled and absolutely lethal. Like standing near a barely contained explosion.
He steps closer, and the light catches his face.
Sharp features that could have been carved from marble.
Pale skin that hasn't seen sunlight in centuries.
Dark hair swept back from his forehead, long enough to brush his collar.
Eyes that look black in the shadows but probably aren't, probably some shade of dark brown that just reads as black in low light.
There's something aristocratic about him, like he stepped out of a Renaissance painting. Old money. Old world. Old power.
And he's looking at me like I'm an insect he's deciding whether to crush.
"How tedious," he says, his gaze sweeping over me with clinical detachment.
I try to speak, but my throat feels lined with glass. The words come out as a rasp: "You're… him."
"Maximus," he confirms, like it's the most boring fact in the world. "And you are Celeste Moreau. Former underground fighter. Turned eight months ago. No maker. No clan. Making quite a lot of noise asking for me."
He crouches in front of me, not close enough to touch but close enough that I can see his expression clearly. Bored. Vaguely annoyed. Like I'm an inconvenience rather than a dying woman.
Up close, his eyes aren't black, they're a very dark gray, like storm clouds. Ancient eyes that have seen too much. He’s strikingly handsome.
"You're contaminated," he observes, tilting his head slightly. "Microplastics, by the look of it. Probably fentanyl as well, judging by the vein patterns. Did you drink from a bag or directly from a human?"
"Bag," I rasp. My tongue feels thick. "Underground contact."
"Of course." His tone suggests this is exactly what he expected. "You know what happens to vampires who drink contaminated blood repeatedly?"
I shake my head. I've heard rumors, but nothing concrete.
"The contamination accumulates," he says, like he's giving a lecture.
"Your body tries to filter it, but modern pharmaceuticals are designed to be persistent.
They linger. Build up. Eventually, your healing factor can't keep pace.
You either die: true death, not the temporary kind, or you go feral.
Lose your mind, attack anything that moves, become the monster from human nightmares. Both options are unpleasant."
"Great," I manage. "Good… to know."
Something that might be amusement flickers across his face, gone so fast I might have imagined it.
"You have perhaps three hours before the damage becomes irreversible," he continues. “After that, even my resources couldn't help you. You'd be better off walking into the sun.” He tilts his head and leans closer. “Looking at your vein pattern, you actually look past the point of saving.”
He stands, brushing invisible dust from his coat with movements so precise they look choreographed. Like he's already written me off. Like he's about to walk away and let me die in this alley.
The rage that's been simmering under my fear suddenly ignites.
"So you're the gatekeeper," I say, each word an effort. My voice sounds stronger, fueled by anger. "The great Maximus. Everyone's… so terrified of you."
He pauses mid-movement, hand still on his coat.
"You don't… look that scary," I continue, even though my vision is tunneling. "Just well-dressed. Like a… a CEO vampire. Very… corporate."
Now I definitely see amusement. It softens his features for half a second, makes him look almost human, before the cold mask slams back into place.
"Most people beg," he says quietly. "You insult me instead. Interesting."
Something flickers in those storm-gray eyes. Not amusement. Something older. Hungrier.
"Begging… doesn't seem to work."