CHAPTER 16
RAIN BEADS ON MY leather jacket as Dr. Davis leads me to the biological marker procedure.
When we arrive, a nurse greets me with businesslike courtesy, gesturing to a chair that looks more like something from a dentist’s office than a military installation.
She prepares a syringe filled with iridescent blue liquid, motioning for me to lie back.
I roll up my sleeve, the inside of my elbow exposed. “Any side effects I should know about?”
“Some patients report a minor elevation in body temperature, but it dissipates quickly,” Dr. Davis says, his hands held behind his back. “Bodily fluids may exhibit faint luminescence in darkness, resulting in glowing tears. Nothing else of significance.”
Great. Just what I need—to literally cry blue light if things go south.
I stare at the ceiling as the needle slides into my vein. The liquid feels cold at first, then spreads warmth through my arm and across my chest.
“How long before it takes full effect?” I ask, flexing my fingers as a test to see if there’s any immediate change.
“It’s already working.” He holds up a handheld scanner, its screen showing a ghostly outline of my body, pulsing with soft blue light. “Perfect distribution. You’re officially a living beacon.”
“Everything I ever hoped to become,” I mutter.
We thank the nurse and head to the armory in the main building, where the rest of the teams are preparing. Halfway there, Dr. Davis splits off to attend a final briefing with command.
I’m told to stand off to the side as Rhodes carefully coats my dagger in G-oil, short for gardenia—the seemingly innocuous white flower that vampires are allergic to—so Redmoore naturally harvests and uses them wherever and however they can.
It’s a common myth that garlic keeps the bloodsuckers at bay. For centuries, people swore by its pungency, stringing braids above hearths and doors, tucking cloves beneath their pillows, and even planting rows of it in their gardens.
When the gardenia bushes beside them flourished, white blossoms gleaming like little warding stars, the people took it as proof that the garlic had done its holy work.
In truth, the garlic only deterred garden pests, not the thirsty dead.
It was the gardenia itself that repelled the creatures, its sweet fragrance turning acrid and poisonous in a vampire’s lungs, its essence their skin’s undoing.
Yet many generations clung to the garlic tale, mistaking the flower’s silent defense for the garlic’s protection, not realizing their true salvation bloomed quietly beside it.
As I’m watching, I slip on a pair of specialized gloves. Reinforced and lightweight, they’re built to stop even trace amounts of oil from seeping onto the handle.
For most, they’re just a safeguard against slipping. For me, they’re protection from pain.
I’ve learned the hard way that even a single drop can ruin a fight. I may only be half-vampire, but I’m not immune. Gardenia burns. The last time, I was too hasty, too eager to test the theory, and it cost me. Tonight, I won’t make the same mistake.
My focus is unbroken as I continue equipping myself with tools meant to blister fangs and melt flesh—oil for the blade, mist for the skin, and smoke for the lungs.
Two small spray bottles, the kind meant for quick, close-range bursts, click into place on the upper side of my hands, secured by the buckles and straps built into my gloves.
I adjust them carefully, ensuring they’re snug but not restrictive.
They’re easy to activate with a quick squeeze of my fingers, being a useful backup if things go sideways.
Then, without needing to think about it, I fasten two smoke bombs to the empty slots on my battle belt, with one on each hip for easy access, right where instinct can find them.
The idea of using gardenia in a fight doesn’t sit well with me, being a weapon against myself. I haven’t been around the shrub ever since I moved to Penn City either, considering it’s an act of violence there to carry it around, almost forgetting it exists.
But for a high-classed mission like this, I know better than to be caught without every tool I can get my hands on.
As everyone finishes their preparations, I take one last look at my gear to make sure everything is where it needs to be. To the vampires, this will look just like any ordinary bounty hunt, which is how they’ll take the bait. I just have to play my part.
We assemble on the rooftop landing pad, a persistent drizzle coating Northcross in a glistening gray haze.
Our matte-black aircraft waits, its engines idling as we board.
I take my place near the rear, away from the others, who maneuver with the seamless coordination of those who’ve flown countless missions together.
Four teams of slayers have been deployed for this mission, but none of their faces are familiar to me.
Lexa slides into the seat beside mine. “The general sends his regards. He’ll have his squads on standby.”
“Let’s pray it won’t come to that,” I say, tightening the straps of my harness.
Lexa snorts. “You sound like you need a drink already.”
I nudge her shoulder. “After this, we should.”
The aircraft lifts off silently, banking sharply to the east where the abandoned industrial zone forms a fragmented silhouette against the darkening sky.
Through the viewport, I watch Penn City’s lights recede behind us, replaced by the crumbling remnants of pre-war industry. Towers give way to skeletal cranes and shattered windows. Factories, long dead and picked clean by time, sprawl like the bones of giants.
“Drop zone approaching,” the pilot announces over the comm.
We’ll land three miles from the target location, as explained by Lexa during the briefing.
Close enough for a quick approach, far enough to avoid detection.
The aircraft touches down in a clearing surrounded by the rusted hulks of ancient storage tanks, on the edge of what used to be a freight district.
The moment our boots hit the ground, the aircraft ascends again, disappearing undetected.
“Comms check,” Lieutenant Whitlock orders.
One by one, team members confirm their channel is operational.
“Remember,” Lexa says, her voice low and authoritative, “this is a capture mission. We need the sire alive.”
We move in formation through the industrial wasteland, our path winding between massive pipes and collapsed structures.
The air smells of ash and copper, tinged with something older, more ancient, something forgotten—a metallic tang of oxidation combined with a sickeningly sweet undertone that makes my skin prickle.
Vampire territory truly has a scent of its own.
With every step deeper into the zone, the world we left behind is peeled away. Rhodes takes point, scanning the terrain ahead. I fall into step behind Lexa, my senses heightened and alert. Every shadow could conceal an enemy, and every sound could be a potential warning.
“Movement, two o’clock,” Martinez whispers through the comm. “Single figure, moving fast.”
“Hold position,” Lexa commands.
We freeze, becoming one with the shadows.
A vampire passes within twenty feet of us, moving with the agility of the undead. It pauses, their nostrils flaring as it samples the air, then continues on its path toward the depths of the forest.
“Scout,” Whitlock murmurs. “They’re expecting company.”
“Or they already know we’re here,” I add, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
We continue our approach, more cautious now.
The water treatment plant appears before us, a concrete monolith half-reclaimed by nature. Vines crawl up its walls, and trees have taken root in its crumbling foundations, reclaiming the ruin in slow defiance.
But it’s not abandoned. A faint light flickers from within, and the occasional silhouette passes across boarded windows.
“Positions,” Lexa directs, the team dispersing with expert precision. Rhodes and Martinez scale the walls to secure high ground. Wei and Keller circle to cover the rear exits. Dr. Davis sets up his portable lab in a concealed alcove, ready to analyze any samples we might recover.
They move quickly, securing vantage points and fallback routes.
Lexa then turns to me, her expression resolute. “You’re up.”
I nod, unsheathing my dagger. “If I’m not back in ten minutes—”
“We’re coming in,” she finishes. “Good luck.”
I approach the facility alone, moving from shadow to shadow.
The main entrance is sealed with a rusted chain, but a side door hangs partially open, revealing a slice of darkness beyond.
As I slip inside, the metal groans faintly in protest.
I’m met by a cathedral of decay. Machinery stands silent, wrapped in cobwebs and dust. Pools of stagnant water catch the faint light of our lamps, turning the floor into a fragmented mirror.
This will be my staging ground.
I stand alone in the center of the main floor, moonlight streaming through the collapsed sections of the roof.
One tracker is still in my arm, pulsing steadily and transmitting my location to the team, the other in my bloodstream, apparently making my fluids glow.
A whisper of movement snaps my senses into high alert. I’m not alone anymore. A figure emerges from behind a massive filtration tank. Male, tall and lithe, his eyes assessing me with predatory focus. I feign surprise, gripping my dagger tighter as if to prepare for an unexpected fight.
“Well, look what I found,” I call out, my voice echoing through the desolate space. “A little far from the feeding grounds, aren’t you?”
The vampire tilts his head, studying me with methodical interest. “Hunter,” he acknowledges. “You’re trespassing.”
I circle slowly, deliberately keeping my stance open and vulnerable. “Just doing my job. Rumors of activity in this sector. Didn’t expect to find anyone so… isolated.”
His lips curl into something resembling a smile, revealing the edges of sharp fangs. “Yet here I am. And here you are. Alone.”