Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Iclose the door to the medical facility and stand in the hallway for exactly three seconds before Marcellus appears.
He moves silently despite his size, six-foot-four and built like the enforcer he is. Two hundred years old and utterly loyal, which is the only reason I tolerate his occasional questions.
I found him two centuries ago, a fledgling abandoned by his maker and half-feral from hunger. Gave him purpose when he had none. He's been my second-in-command ever since, the only vampire I trust completely.
"You brought someone here," he says. Not a question. He would have been alerted the moment I entered the property with another vampire.
"I did."
"Into the sanctuary."
"Yes."
His jaw tightens. But bringing an unknown vampire into my private residence violates every rule I've established over the last four centuries.
"She's contaminated," I explain, moving past him toward my study. "Microplastics and opioids. Severe poisoning. She'll need monitoring."
Marcellus follows. "And this required bringing her here?"
"She was asking about me. Using my name all over the city."
That stops him. For a moment, his hand drifts toward the blade he keeps at his hip, old instincts from his human life as a soldier.
"You should have killed her," he says flatly.
"Perhaps."
"Then why didn't you?"
I enter my study without answering. The room is exactly as I left it three hours ago, desk cleared, books shelved with precision, curtains drawn against windows that will face east when the sun rises. Everything in its place. Everything controlled.
I pour myself a drink from the crystal decanter on the side table. Whiskey, aged fifty years. It does nothing for me physiologically; alcohol stopped affecting me centuries ago, but the ritual is soothing. The burn in my throat is a memory of being human.
"Maximus," Marcellus presses. "Why is she here?"
I take a drink before answering, letting the silence stretch. Thinking about the last three days. About how I found her in the first place.
"Three nights ago," I begin, "I heard whispers at the Wax and Wane Bar. A young vampire asking about me. Using my name carelessly. Demanding introductions."
"And you tracked her."
"Of course I did."
It hadn't been difficult. Celeste Moreau left a trail wide enough for a fledgling to follow.
She'd been to the Wax and Wane three nights running, asking questions of anyone who would listen.
Vampires, shifters, even a witch or two.
She'd offered money she clearly didn't have, approached strangers with the kind of desperation that makes supernaturals nervous.
The wolf shifters who run the bar had flagged her to me as a potential problem.
Reckless. Desperate. Exactly the kind of behavior that gets vampires killed.
I'd followed her from the bar back to her apartment in East Atlanta Village that first night.
Watched from the shadows as she climbed the external stairs to a second-floor unit in a building that had seen better decades.
The kind of place where humans live paycheck to paycheck, where no one asks too many questions.
"I observed her for three nights," I continue. "Learned her patterns. Her habits."
"And what did you learn?" Marcellus asks, settling into the chair across from my desk.
I swirl the whiskey in my glass, remembering.
The first night, I'd simply established her location and confirmed she lived alone. Watched the lights go out in her apartment around 3 a.m. Noted the fire escape that provided easy access, and the lack of security beyond a basic door lock. Vulnerable. An easy kill, if that's what I decided.
The second night, I'd watched more carefully.
She'd emerged from her apartment around 10 p.m., dressed for training.
I'd followed her to a twenty-four-hour gym three blocks away, one of those budget chains that caters to night shift workers and insomniacs.
She'd worked out for two hours with the focused intensity of someone who'd spent years honing their body into a weapon.
I'd observed from the parking lot, standing in shadows where security cameras couldn't catch me. Watched through the windows as she ran through martial arts forms on the mats in a corner. Precise movements. Controlled power. The kind of discipline that comes from thousands of hours of practice.
She'd trained like she was preparing for war.
When she'd finished, she sat on the mat for ten minutes. Just sat there, staring at nothing. The look on her face had been… lost. Like she was trying to remember who she was supposed to be.
I understood that feeling.
"She's a fighter," I tell Marcellus. "Underground circuit, based on her skill level. Trained in multiple disciplines, I observed elements of Muay Thai, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and possibly Krav Maga. She moves like someone who's been in real fights, not just sparring."
"That makes her dangerous."
"That makes her useful."
Tonight had been the most revealing.
I'd positioned myself on the roof of the building across from her apartment, my enhanced vision allowing me to observe through her window with perfect clarity.
An invasion of privacy, certainly, but I've long since stopped concerning myself with such niceties.
Privacy is a luxury afforded to those who aren't security risks.
She'd been pacing her apartment like a caged animal. I'd watched her pick up her phone a dozen times and then set it down again without calling anyone. The conflict on her face had been evident even from a distance.
She had someone she missed. Someone she couldn't talk to anymore.
The frustration. The anger. The sheer rage at her situation.
I'd seen it all written on her face, and something in my chest had tightened.
She hadn't asked for this existence. That much was clear. She wasn't one of those humans who romanticized vampirism, who sought it out thinking immortality would solve their problems. She'd been turned against her will and abandoned to figure it out alone.
Like I was.
The parallel had struck me then, though I'd tried to dismiss it.
"Her maker abandoned her," I say to Marcellus now. "Turned her and disappeared. No guidance. No instruction. She's been a vampire for eight months, and she's surviving on instinct and whatever she can piece together from observation."
"Many vampires have survived worse."
"And many have died. She was drinking contaminated blood. Would have continued until it killed her if I hadn't intervened."
Marcellus studies me with those too-knowing eyes. "You still haven't answered my question. Why did you intervene?"
I finish my whiskey in one swallow and set the glass down with more force than necessary.
"Because she interested me," I say finally.
The silence that follows is profound.
"She… interested you," Marcellus repeats slowly, like he's testing words in a foreign language.
"Yes."
"In the two centuries I've served you, I've never seen you interested in anyone. You barely tolerate most vampires. You've killed three in the last year alone for far less than using your name publicly."
"I'm aware of my own patterns, Marcellus."
"Then explain this deviation."
I stand and move to the window, pulling the curtain aside to look out at the dark grounds. "Tonight was the third night. And it was the most concerning.
"She paid a vampire named Derek five hundred dollars. He promised to connect her with someone in my circle. Arrange a meeting. He had no intention of following through. Took her money and planned to leave her waiting in that alley until she either gave up or died.
"She had a blood bag she'd purchased from somewhere.
Not from a legitimate source. I watched her drink it.
Then halfway through, she stopped. Even from across the street, I could see the moment she realized something was wrong.
The way her body went rigid. The way she dropped the bag and stumbled toward the bathroom.
"That's when I knew I needed to act. She'd been poisoned, and based on what I could see, she had hours at most. Derek was never coming. But I was already there."
I turn back to face Marcellus. "I saw myself in her. Who I was in those first years after Luciano. When I was still trying to hold onto who I'd been, before I learned that caring about anyone makes you weak."
Understanding crosses Marcellus's face. "You pity her."
"No." The word comes out sharp. "Pity is condescending. I respect her. She's been dealt an impossible hand, and she's still fighting. Not begging. Not giving up. Fighting."
"And when you found her tonight?"
"She insulted me instead of pleading for her life." I allow myself a thin smile. "Told me I looked like a CEO vampire. Very corporate."
Despite himself, Marcellus smirked. "You saved her life because she has a flip mouth?"
"Essentially."
He shakes his head, but something in his expression softens. "You're more human than you pretend to be."
"Don't," I say sharply.
"Maximus…"
"I said don't." The command cuts through the air like a blade. "I helped her because she has useful skills. She was a fighter. That requires tactical thinking and combat ability. She'll work off her debt, and then she'll leave. This is a transaction, nothing more."
Marcellus doesn't argue, but the skepticism on his face is clear. He's known me too long to believe my own lies.
"What do you need from me?" he asks instead.
"Monitor her vitals remotely. She'll need another bag in forty-five minutes, but I want to observe her recovery rate first. If she destabilizes, alert me immediately."
"Should I run a background check?"