Page 15 of Bitten Vampire
Vampires are the creepiest of all the derivatives. The vampire strain of DNA activates only once its host has drawn a final breath. Only death awakens the true magic in their blood. Reanimated, they remain unrotting yet undeniably dead, their existence revolving around an insatiable need for blood of the living.
They are parasites. Parasites still legally classed as human. Human.They fought for that designation, and who would dare deny a killing machine?
Even so, they are not all-powerful. At dawn, something in their magic flips, draining their strength and rendering them inert until nightfall. Perhaps daylight also recharges them—a surge their bodies cannot bear—so the magic in their blood shuts them down, like a remote-control car that has run out of power. This also means direct sunlight is fatal.
Fledglings are living vampires awaiting death. They are little more than marginally enhanced humans—sharper senses, greater speed—but nothing extraordinary. I am not even sure they drink blood. They do age and show some sensitivity to sunlight, yet once they die and their vampiric powers awaken, magic restores them to their biological prime. Perfect for hunting prey.
Thralls are long-term blood donors and servants. They begin as humans with trace amounts of vampiric DNA, but years of ritual bloodletting and blood magic transform them. Regular feedings—both the giving and receiving of their sire’s blood—alter their chemistry until they exist halfway between human and vampire.
A thrall survives entirely at its vampire’s whim. Fromwhat I’ve read, they have no free will and must receive regular doses of their master’s blood simply to stay alive.
A roadside sign jogs my memory: somewhere ahead stands a castle, residence of the Grand Master of the Vampirical Council, the ruler of the Sector, some say of the world.
A castle, how original. Right on cue, wrought-iron gates appear, opening onto a tunnel of trees and flanked by more armed guards than I saw at the border.
Yeah, vampires are scary.
Traffic thickens. Pedestrians bundle along in heavy coats despite the warm evening. Their blank stares unsettle me. Upscale shops, trees and bright flowerbeds frame the pavements like something from a glossy brochure. A lake shimmers to my left, complete with an orderly jogging track, while sleek apartment blocks rise to my right.
When the buildings start to cluster closer, the houses shrink, still immaculate but modest by comparison. My navigation chimes; I indicate and turn left onto the delivery street. Every garden is manicured to within an inch of its life. One home has its side gate ajar, rocking on its hinges with the breeze. Through the gap, I glimpse an enormous commercial bin. What on earth does a private house need with a monster bin like that?
I ease up to the address and nose the car against the kerb, engine ticking as it settles. The house has a beautiful oak porch. The beams are thick—probably as thick as my thigh—and most likely handmade. It’s very pretty, with blue flowers twisting around it, and the front door is a cheerful yellow.
I grab the bag and jog up the path. A quick photo ofthe yellow door proves I have delivered. Before I can knock, it flies open.
“Good afternoon.” I don’t make eye contact—I’m too busy fiddling with the app.Why won’t the photo upload?
“Nice of you to turn up. What took you so long?” a man snarls.
“My apologies, sir,” I reply, keeping my tone friendly, professional. I won’t argue with someone who is ‘hangry.’ “The restaurant is on the other side of the border. A forty-minute drive. But please don’t worry, the food is under a stasis spell, so it’s still piping hot.” I finally upload the delivery photo, then look up—and nearly forget to breathe.
My smile falters, and I stare, stunned.
Both hands brace against the doorframe, shoulders squared in challenge. He wears a black T-shirt that hints at the muscle beneath. Lower down, his thick thighs fill jeans, artfully torn at the knees, and black leather boots complete the whole ‘I can kill you easily’ vibe. He is so massive he fills the doorway; if he stood fully upright, he would tower above the lintel.
He clears his throat, dragging my attention back to him.
Violet-grey eyes, a silver hoop through his lower lip. On one side, sleek raven hair falls past his shoulders. The other is shaved and inked in intricate spirals that twist along his scalp, disappear behind his ear, and continue down his neck, wrapping around his muscular arm and hand in a stunning design.
In a world obsessed with conformity, he is walking defiance.
The manis… magnificent.
I scoff at myself.Magnificent? Really? You are such a weirdo.Pull it together, Winifred. He is far too young.
He scowls. He’s furious and kind of scary.
Is he a thrall or simply a blood donor? I see nobite marks, and I can’t imagine him volunteering to be anyone’s food. He’s active in daylight, so he isn’t a full vampire, yet the house behind him is dark and he is careful not to step into the sun.
A fledgling, then.
The bag is snatched from my hand. “No tip,” he growls.
The venom in his voice snaps me out of my trance. I drop my gaze and shrug. What does he want me to say? “Thank you.” I’ve been paid well to deliver the food—a smile would only seem patronising.
I give him a respectful nod. “Tipping isn’t mandatory, sir. Enjoy your meal.”
“Whatever.” His forearms flex as he pushes his bulk backwards and kicks the door closed.
