C h r i s t i e

Jacques' arms slipped from my waist, falling to his sides, and then—without a sound—he collapsed backwards onto the mattress.

For a breath, I simply blinked at him, not quite understanding what had happened.

"Jacques?" I whispered, reaching out to touch his shoulder. I gave it a small shake. "Jacques?"

Nothing.

Panic rose like a wave in my chest. I scrambled closer, placing my palm to his cheek. He felt warm, but his face had gone pale—unnaturally so. I stared at him, horror curling through my belly.

I had taken too much.

"Oh no," I murmured, pressing my hand to my mouth. "Oh, Jacques..."

He looked so peaceful, like he'd fallen asleep, but I knew better. I ran my hands over his chest, his arms, searching for any response. My voice cracked as I said his name again, gently this time. "Please wake up."

But still, he didn't stir.

I stood, unsure what to do with my hands or my thoughts. I paced the length of the room, then turned back again. The silence pressed in.

This was my fault. Entirely.

I had always been a girl with a strong appetite. My mother used to scold me for it—reminding me that a true lady shows restraint in all things. I tried. I did. But Jacques had offered, and I hadn't meant to... I hadn't meant to take so much.

I paused at the window, heart racing. I would have to find someone. A human. Just enough blood to restore Jacques, and not a drop more. I could do that. I must do that.

Except—I'd never done it before.

Hunting was... well, it wasn't something I had ever been taught. I'd read about it, of course, and seen the old training videos—but those were terribly outdated and altogether frightening. And my mother always said those sorts of vampires were uncouth.

I pressed a hand to my chest.

Most humans, I knew, ate meat. Yet very few had ever killed an animal themselves. They simply picked up tidy little packages from the market—clean, bloodless, neatly wrapped in plastic. They didn't see the farms. They didn't hear the slaughter. Someone else did that part, behind thick doors and down long corridors where no one thought to look.

For me, blood had always come decanted—dark and smooth in elegant crystal bottles, served at a carefully prepared table. I never asked where it came from. I never wanted to know. That was someone else's concern. Not mine.

Until now.

I glanced back at Jacques, unmoving on the bed.

Now, it was my concern. And I had to be brave.

Even if I was trembling inside.

I slipped into Jacques's leather coat—it was far too big on me, the sleeves hanging past my fingers—and pulled it tightly around my frame. It smelled like him: something warm and mischievous, like cedarwood and cigarette smoke, with a hint of salt that made me ache.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and whispered to myself, "I am a hunter. I am at the top of the food chain. No one outranks me."

The words felt hollow. Like I was reciting a poem I didn't quite believe in.

I cracked open the motel door and winced at the pale morning light. It was that bluish hour where nothing felt real and everything looked bruised..

Jacques's sunglasses were still in the coat pocket. I slipped them on and stepped out, each step feeling strange without him beside me.

The town was quieter than I expected. Not serene—just empty. The streets had a forgotten feel. Half the stores were boarded up. The few that remained open had peeling paint and hand-written signs taped to their dusty windows. There was no chatter, no bustle. Just the low, metallic hum of something broken inside a vending machine and the occasional creak of a swinging sign that hadn't been oiled in years.

I started towards the gas station. Jacques had pointed it out earlier. It was only a few blocks down.

But before I could cross the street, a police car rolled by and pulled into the lot. I stopped in my tracks, pulse fluttering nervously.

Rats. Perhaps the gas station wasn't such a good idea after all.

I turned and made my way back to the motel, chewing on the inside of my cheek. As I walked, I tried to recall those old training videos they used to show us in etiquette class—grim little films with grainy lighting and cheerful narrators explaining how to feed without incident. They always said evening hours were best. Fewer questions, fewer crowds. Fewer people likely to remember your face.

And besides, Jacques wasn't dying. Vampires didn't die from starvation—we just got tired, slower, quieter. He would be alright until nightfall. He had to be.

Back in the room, I pulled the blanket up over him gently, making sure he was warm. Then I made a bed for myself on the floor. It didn't feel proper, sleeping beside someone who couldn't wake up to consent to it—though I doubted Jacques would have minded.

Still. Manners were important.

I laid there in silence for a long while, listening to the hum of the motel fridge and the occasional groan of a pipe in the wall.

I must have drifted off at some point, because the next time I opened my eyes, the clock read just past midnight.

I got up and checked on Jacques, he was still out cold.

I then left the room. It was raining outside.

I walked for a while, aimless but alert. I needed somewhere discreet. Somewhere people wouldn't remember me. Somewhere it was normal to stumble into strangers and forget their names a moment later.

My eyes caught on the bar across the street.

Of course.

Bars were perfect. Loners nursing regrets, slumped in booths or stumbling down alleyways. No one would miss one for an hour. Maybe two.

Music from the bar pulsed against my ears, accompanied by a flurry of heartbeats—quick, erratic, and drunk. Rain misted the sidewalk, making the neon glow of Cyndi's Bar shimmer like it had a fever. According to Crystal, it was the only bar in town. It looked tired and unkind.

Two bouncers flanked the door, talking lazily with a few men who lingered outside. I counted maybe four distinct heartbeats inside the bar, no more. Still, as I approached, the men outside turned toward me, the scent of sweat, alcohol, and cheap aftershave wafting in the damp air.

I tried not to wrinkle my nose.

Their pulses quickened the moment I locked eyes with them. I hadn't meant to. My gaze had instinctively dropped to their throats—just for a second—but it was enough.

"I think that one likes you, Bill," one of the men said, elbowing his friend with a grin.

I blinked and quickly looked away. Oh no. I'd been staring.

Bill gave me a once-over and tipped his chin. "Howdy."

I gave him a polite, tight smile and stepped past. One of the bouncers opened the door for me and I stepped into the dark.

Music that didn't follow any rhythm I knew thundered over hidden speakers. The lighting was mostly red, the kind that tried to make everything and everyone look sultry—but just made the ancient furniture seem more brittle, more stained. A few shadowy figures sat in booths, nursing drinks, talking low. Most of them were men. Most of them were staring at me.

My stomach turned. The scent of old beer, damp carpet, and overheated bodies clung to the walls like mold.

This was a mistake.

Still, I moved forward, trying to focus. I needed to find someone. Anyone. I just had to get a little blood—enough to help Jacques.

Then I saw her.

Crystal sat at the bar under the too-red lights, her beauty more tragic than dazzling. She wasn't wearing much—just a thin top and a lot of makeup that made her look older than she was. A man loomed over her in a plaid shirt, his arm slung around her shoulders like a claim. His body was pressed against hers, trapping her. She didn't return his touch, didn't even look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the clock behind the bar. Watching the seconds pass like she was counting down.

I could feel the revulsion pouring off her.

Why was she letting him touch her? Couldn't she just get up and leave? Was she scared?

I started to move toward her, worried she might need help—when a man stepped directly into my path.

"Cherry?" he asked, like he was seeing a ghost.

The entire bar fell silent.