Chapter 59 Lucian
Lucian
Right. Because my night wasn't already a supernatural shit-show. Now I've got a baby vamp with bubblegum hair to deal with.
"Everyone stay still!" I bark, moving faster than Damon's lovesick ass can react. "No sudden movements, unless you want to be tonight's juice box."
I shift my stance subtly, angling my body to create a living shield between Sable and Seraphina. Her breath comes in quick little puffs against my back, but she's holding it together like a champ.
Emily's still sprawled on her ass, looking like she just witnessed the second coming of Pink Jesus. Seraphina's wings are now practically strobing with divine light—hello, migraine—and Brax is doing his best impression of a demon who's seen too much.
"Sable," I keep my voice steady, like talking to a spooked horse with very sharp teeth. "Focus on my voice. The hunger you're feeling? That's normal. But if you eat Emily, you'll feel really bad about it later."
Her head snaps to me, and holy shit—those eyes. Black as midnight with a ring of electric blue. That's new. Most of us get the standard-issue red-and-black combo, but apparently Little Miss Pink decided to go custom.
"That's it, Bubblegum. Eyes on me. Though maybe ease up on the 'I'm-going-to-eat-your-face' look. It's not your best angle."
Damon finally remembers how to use words. "Sable?" His voice cracks like he's going through puberty. "You're... you're alive?"
Well, technically...
"Define 'alive,'" I mutter, not taking my eyes off our newest member of Club Undead. "Because right now she's more in the 'craving-a-blood-smoothie' category."
"I... I feel..." Sable's voice sounds like she's been gargling gravel. "Everything is so... loud."
Welcome to vampire sensory overload, sweetheart. Where everything's dialed up to eleven and normal volume no longer exists.
"Someone want to explain what the actual fuck just happened?" Emily snaps.
Oh honey, buckle up. This explanation is gonna be a wild ride.
"My blood," I admit, running a hand through my hair. "When I tried to save her. Must've been just enough to trigger the change. Congratulations, it's a vampire."
And somewhere in the great beyond, the universe is laughing its cosmic ass off at me.
"So she's not..." Brax's voice hangs in the air, his hellfire eyes darting between Sable and me, "...dead?" The question hangs with equal parts hope and what-the-actual-hell confusion. For a demon who's seen literal hell, he looks impressively bewildered by Vampire 101.
"Oh, she's definitely dead," I clarify helpfully. "Just the fun kind of dead. The kind that comes with eternal youth, supernatural powers, and an unfortunate aversion to tanning."
Sable blinks rapidly. "I'm a... vampire?"
"Surprise?" I offer weakly. "Welcome to the club. We have t-shirts."
"You turned her?" Damon's voice does that crack thing again. Seriously, someone get this kid a throat lozenge.
"Not intentionally!" I defend, watching Sable's nostrils flare. "It was more of a 'whoops, accidentally created eternal life' situation. You know, when you mean to text one person but hit 'reply all'? Except with vampirism."
"Oh my god." Emily gapes, stumbling to her feet.
Seraphina's wings finally stop their divine light show, which thank fuck, because my retinas were about to file for divorce. "We need blood. Now."
"On it!" Brax actually volunteers, probably grateful for any excuse to exit this clusterfuck. His demon ass vanishes in a puff of smoke that smells suspiciously like burnt Pop-Tarts.
"Sable?" Damon tries again, taking a step forward.
"Ah-ah!" I throw out an arm to block Lover Boy. "Vampire or not, baby vamp here is running on pure instinct. Unless you want your romantic reunion to turn into WWE SmackDown: Vampire Edition, stay put, Romeo."
The first tear rolls down Sable's cheek, then another, then fucking Niagara Falls.
Her emotions ping-pong across her face faster than my Netflix recommendations after Emily's been binge-watching.
"I can't—" Her voice cracks. "I'm supposed to be a witch!
" The last word explodes from her with enough force to rattle my prized Marvel figurines.
Then—WHOOSH—she's just gone, leaving only a pink blur and the sound of my imported vases getting absolutely massacred.
CRASH
Please don't find the Marvel shrine, please don't find the Marvel shrine...
"For fuck's sake, Lucian!" Emily's voice could cut diamonds. "Do something before she redesigns your entire house."
"Like what?" I throw my hands up. "Write her a 'Sorry You're Undead' Hallmark card?"
Another blur of pink, another crash that sounds suspiciously like my art deco coffee table meeting its maker.
Christ.
My limited-edition Iron Man figure wobbles dangerously on its shelf.
"Use your Maker's command, you absolute fucking walnut!"
Oh.
OH.
Right. That whole 'magical vampire maker' thing.
Lilith's memories slither through my mind like unwanted party guests, making me want to shower in holy water. But before I can process my emotional baggage—
CRASH
No. Not going there.
"Lucian." Seraphina's voice cuts through my spiral, honey-warm and steady. "You're not her. You'll never be her."
Another crash, followed by Sable's wail of confusion, makes my Deadpool bobblehead do a concerning dance.
"Fucking DO IT!" Damon roars as my precious entertainment center takes a hit.
Right. Because, this is my life now—
Pink and black blur through my vision until—gotcha.
My fingers lock around her throat, two hundred years of muscle memory taking over as I pin her to my (thankfully still intact) mahogany-paneled wall.
Those newly vamped-out eyes lock with mine, a hurricane of terror and confusion swirling in black-voided depths.
"Sable." My voice drops into that space between command and comfort, the tone that reaches past the feral and finds the person underneath.
"You're going to take a nice deep breath—which yes, I know is ironic now—and park your newly immortal ass on that couch so we can talk about this like people who don't destroy priceless collectibles. "
The change is instant—like someone hit a reset button. Wild black bleeds from her eyes, leaving familiar chocolate brown in its wake. Her muscles unlock under my grip, and the feral energy dissipates like smoke.
Well, shit. Maybe I'm not entirely terrible at this Maker thing after all.
Though my insurance company is going to have questions about tonight.
Brax materializes like a demonic Santa Claus, blood bag in hand. He tosses it to Sable. She snatches it out of the air, fangs already sinking into plastic before her ass hits the couch.
Ah, the dulcet tones of a baby vampire's first meal. Like a symphony of slurping and desperate gulping.
It's obvious self-preservation isn't in her witchy skill set, Emily takes a step toward her bestie. "Sable, honey, let me just—"
But then—fuck—Sable's head snaps up, blood bag forgotten. Her nostrils flare, pupils blown wide as they lock onto Emily's jugular. I see the moment instinct takes over, the predator recognizing prey.
"Nope!" I'm between them before Emily can blink, my hand around Sable's throat again. "New house rule: No snacking on the residents. Especially not the witchy one who smells like everything pumpkin spice."
Sable struggles against my grip, her fangs snapping like she's auditioning for Jaws.
"Listen up, Bubblegum," I pour power into my words, feeling the Maker's bond mold between us.
"You do not get to sample the locals. And you especially don't get within ten feet of my Angel Cake or Dani when she gets back.
Those two are like vampire catnip, and I'm not dealing with that drama on top of everything else. "
Sable blinks rapidly, the bloodlust haze clearing from her eyes.
She looks down at the blood bag like it offended her, then back to Emily.
Horrified realization dawns on her face.
"Em, I... oh my god. I'm so sorry. I don't know what.
.. I wasn't going to..." She looks about two seconds from bursting into tears again.
And here I thought being a nightclub owner was a wild ride. Clearly, I had no fucking idea.
Emily shrugs. "Remember my first spell? Pretty sure I set fire to everything but the actual candle." Her laugh is gentle, understanding. "We've all got our learning curves, babe. Yours just happens to involve a little more... liquid diet."
Sable slumps back onto the couch, attacking the blood bag. Her nose wrinkles with each swallow—yeah, cold hospital leftovers are definitely an acquired taste.
I watch her drain the bag, my mind already spinning with the logistics of teaching a newborn vampire how to feed without leaving a trail of bodies.
Maybe Damon can help. He's been there, done that, and has the 'I Survived My First Feeding' T-shirt.
Wait. Does this mean I'm like... a vampire dad now? Do I need to start carrying spare blood bags and wet wipes?
Fuck. My. Immortal. Life.
The reality hits harder than Thanos's pimp slap—I'm actually responsible for someone now.
I can practically feel the gray hairs sprouting. Is that even possible for vampires? Because I swear I'm about to find out.
Congratulations, Lucian! It's a girl! A forever-twenty-something bloodsucking, emotionally volatile girl who could probably bench press a car!
...I'm going to need so much more bourbon for this.
The lake stretches before me like spilled ink, moonlight fracturing across its surface.
The bourbon in my glass matches the darkness, promising temporary oblivion from this clusterfuck of a night.
Behind me, the mansion hums with the aftermath—Emily's patient explanations, Sable's questions, Damon's hovering presence.
At least someone's having a productive night.