Page 7 of Bitten Vampire
A pause, then a quiet throat-clear. “Look, love,” a woman says gently, “is your name Winifred Crowsdale, by any chance?”
“Um… yes.”
“You’re not gonna get a room, love.”
“It was my dog. I didn’t do any damage,” I whisper.
“I know. I didn’t think you’d gone full shifter and chewed through a door. But Derek’s made his position very clear. Nobody wants to cross him.”
I exhale slowly.
“Sorry,” she adds.
“No, it’s fine. Thank you for telling me.” I hang up, staring at the phone. This is ridiculous.
I work through the remaining listings, one after another. Every time I get the same response: no pets, no vacancies or flat-out refusals. Even the places far above my budget have suddenly vanished from the market. I even try stretching for a dingy terrace house. Still nothing.
Derek got there first.
Nobody wants to risk renting to the woman who crossed him. He’s the head of the local rental association and must have started calling around the moment he slammed that window shut, no doubt emailing photos of the damaged door.
I’m stuck.
I drop my chin to my chest. I’ll have to leave. There’s no other choice. I need to move further out, maybe out of the area entirely.
Baylor snores, his fluffy body stretched across the back seat, oblivious to the fact our world is crumbling. I watch his fluffy chest rise and fall. I need to think. I need to find someone Derek hasn’t reached yet. I am a good tenant. I have enough money for rent and a small deposit—not much, but enough.
The newspaper crinkles under my tight grip. I wish I could say this is a surprise, but it’s the same rubbish in a different wrapper. It’s like when Jay’s parents fired me and smeared my reputation, preventing me from continuing my marketing career. That was my work before my life went to hell, and now no reputable business will hire me.
The only job I could get was delivering food—they don’t care who you are as long as you turn up with the goods.
I bounce the phone off my knee, thinking. I have to dig deeper. There must be someone Derek hasn’t reached. For my sake, for the sleeping dog in the back, I need to keep trying. Otherwise I’ll become a statistic by the end of the week. Some nasty will prise us out of the vehicle like sardines in a tin.
They say the Human Sector is safe, but it isn’t. Living here doesn’t mean you’re protected. Our borders are weak, our defences against the other sectors laughable. Everyone pretends it’s normal to stay indoors after dark.
In our world, humans have evolved or devolved, depending on your view. ‘Human derivatives’ is the term everyone uses. Our DNA is still human, but with an added twist: fangs, claws, magic.
Some of us have a little extra, some a lot, and others hardly any at all. Pure humans—the original DNA strain—are vulnerable by comparison and nearly went extinct. Forty years ago, the government passed radical laws, granting autonomy to the derivatives and carving the country into sectors. Each species now governs its own.
I glance down at the newspaper. It’s not just vampires, shifters or magic-users you have to worry about. It’s the pure humans too. Sometimes it’s the ones who smile at you in the morning, then lock you out in the afternoon.
Homeless.
We are homeless.
I let the misery wash over me, if only for a moment—no one’s watching—and bitterness floods my thoughts. I’m nearly forty-one, and what do I have to show for it? I’m an embarrassment, and I’m… exhausted.
I’m so tired of it all.
Tired of scraping by, tired of never having anything solid to hold on to. Every year, every month, every bloody day, another piece of me wears away. It’s like I’m nothing.
I want stability, a real job, and a place to call my own.
Love.
I wanted Amy’s life.
Does that make me a bad person?
