New Jersey - 1926
The city stank of smoke and sweat, of coal dust and cheap liquor. Ezra leaned against the lamppost on the corner of Market and Third in Jersey City, the evening edition crumpled in one hand, the other shoved casually into his pocket. His cap sat at a cocky tilt, grin boyish enough to earn trust he didn't deserve.
"Read all about it!" he hollered, voice ragged but practiced. "Mayor caught with his side piece! Stocks shootin' up! Paper's two cents—cheaper than coffee, fills ya better too!"
Coins clinked into his palm. He winked at a young mother dragging two kids along and shaved a penny off her change without a flicker of guilt. The old man with a cane? Same trick—Ezra grinned as he slipped the paper into the man's hands, knowing full well the guy could barely see and would overpay anyway. Everyone was a mark. Everyone paid tribute, and he took it all.
Ezra's grin stretched wide, teeth flashing in the lamplight. Inside, he sneered.
Fools. All of 'em. Thought they were buyin' news. Really, they were payin' tribute, nickel by nickel. And what did he get? Cold nights, stale bread, a paperboy's wage, and a ratty coat.
A throne, not a lamppost, he thought bitterly. That's what I deserve.
And tonight, he promised himself, he was takin' it.
The day had waned, and the streets were thinning. Sun dipped behind brick rooftops, casting long shadows across Market and Third. Ezra had hustled through a few more blocks, peddling papers, picking pockets where he could, the city growing colder, darker with each hour. By now the lampposts had flickered to life, bathing the wet cobblestones in a dim, jaundiced glow. Evening had arrived, and with it, opportunity.
The Voisin C7 rolled up smooth, its polished black body glinting under flickering streetlights. Not a Jersey City ride—not even close. Ezra's eyes narrowed. He'd seen pictures of it in the papers: "French marvel, European engineering, luxury beyond imagination." A car like that didn't belong on Market Street. Too clean. Too fine. Too damned perfect for this gutter.
The man who stepped out was heavyset, hair slicked back, a diamond winking on his finger. Coat cut from fabric Ezra wouldn't even know how to name. Not local. Not anyone he'd ever crossed paths with.
Ezra's grin sharpened. An out-of-towner. Perfect. Outsiders never watched their pockets as close.
"Whole loaf tonight, baby," he muttered under his breath. "Ain't livin' off crumbs no more."
He shadowed the man to a narrow doorway lit by a single red bulb. Two bruisers stood out front, arms folded. Ezra kept his head low, slid around back.
Inside, music throbbed—trumpet blaring, bass thumping, piano rattlin' fast. Cigarette smoke hung like fog. Dancing girls twirled in sequins and feathers while trays of bootleg whiskey glinted amber in the light.
A speakeasy. Ezra's kind of place, though usually he got bounced before makin' it three steps inside.
A girl in sequins swayed past, tray teetering with glasses of bootleg amber. Ezra watched the play like a card sharp eyeing the river—one bump, one splash, and the mark would be his. Easy. Nobody ever looked twice at a clumsy kid in a joint like this.
He slid a glass off the tray, gave the edge a nudge. Whiskey spilled dark and sharp, staining the man's sleeve. Ezra stepped in quick, voice slick with apology. "Oh, so sorry," he murmured, dabbing at the mess with one hand. The other drifted lower, light as smoke, slipping for the pocket.
But the hand around his wrist froze solid.
"Kid," the man said, low and cruel, cigar smoke curling in Ezra's face, "you just picked the wrong damn pocket."
A hand clamped on his shoulder. Heavy. Unfriendly.
"Don't remember seein' you come through the front," a voice rumbled. One of the bruisers, broad as a truck, teeth gold-capped.
Ezra flashed a crooked grin. "That's cause I didn't."
The man's eyes narrowed. A second guard joined him, thick arms folded, crowd parting around them.
"Funny," the second one said. "Boss don't care for clowns."
The first twisted Ezra's arm behind his back, hard enough to make him hiss. They frog-marched him through the haze, past laughing drinkers and twirling skirts, down a narrow hall that reeked of piss and spilled gin. Ezra tried to dig in his heels, but a fist to the ribs doubled him over, kept him stumbling forward.
A door banged open. Night air slapped his face. The alley behind the club smelled of piss, garbage, and cheap perfume. Cobblestones slick with filth glimmered under a weak streetlight. Ezra hit the wall hard enough to see stars. Pain shot through his ribs, sharp and white. Two overcoats loomed.
"Nothin' on him, boss," one muttered.
The heavyset man stepped closer, cigar ember glowing. "This rat thought he could take me for a ride. Break him. Let the street know what happens when someone crosses me."
First punch shattered his nose. Blood ran hot. Second folded ribs, a fireburst through his chest. He spat red at their shoes, tried to laugh. Ragged. "You think you're kings, huh? You ain't nothin'. I'm better—"
A boot slammed into his chest. Something deep cracked. Darkness licked at the edges of his vision.
Don't beg, he thought dimly. Better to die first.
Then—nothing.
❧
The truck jolted, rattling toward the river. Ezra's body thudded against boards. Beside him, two others lay unmoving. He tasted blood—sticky, coppery, warm—on his own face. A small, primal itch clawed at him.
And then he felt it: an all-consuming thirst, so fierce it made his chest ache, his lungs burn. Something hot and demanding pulled him toward the nearest source. His hands twitched, fingers trembling. Strength was gone. Pain radiated from every rib, every joint. He was nearly nothing.
The man next to him groaned, shallow breaths rattling. Weak. Too weak to fight. Ezra's mind screamed, though his body barely obeyed. He forced his trembling hands to the wound, lips pressing against skin. The first sip was agony—muscles spasming, bones trembling, ribs protesting—but warmth bloomed through him, spreading like fire. Pain eased. Every spasm of agony melted into something sharp, cruel, electric.
The second sip brought more than relief. Strength surged. Ribs realigned with tiny, cracking pops. His nose reset itself. Fingers grew firm. Pain shrank back, replaced with a wild, raw vitality. The world sharpened: sounds became more distinct, shadows darker, air electric with the scent of iron and mist.
Each gulp drove him higher—desperate, feverish. By the time the man lay still, nearly gone, Ezra could push to his knees, stagger upright, trembling with rage and thirst.
"Blood tastes better'n bread ever did," he wiped his mouth, grinning wide. "Always knew I weren't meant t'die in no gutter."
The truck ground to a halt by the river. Gravel crunched under boots.
"Dump 'em," one muttered.
Tarp peeled back. Ezra lunged—just rage, hands like steel, and hunger that burned like fire. He grabbed the nearest thug, smashed his skull against the truck bed till it split.
Another reached for his pistol. Ezra wrenched it away, jammed the barrel under his jaw, pulled the trigger. The crack split the night.
The last man bolted. Ezra spotted a busted bottle in the truck bed. He snatched it up, grinning, and drove it between the man's ribs. Glass scraped bone. The thug screamed, choking on his own blood.
Ezra leaned in, mouth at the wound, and drank. Hot spurts filled his throat. He sucked greedily, growling low, until the body went limp in his arms.
When it was done, he stood over the heap, coat drenched, river mist curling round him like a crown.
He laughed again—louder now, drunk on blood, drunk on power.
A voice drifted from the treeline. Calm. Steady.
"You've awakened."
Ezra spun. A tall man, dark-eyed, unafraid, stepped forward.
"Awakened?" Ezra snorted, wiping his mouth. "Who the hell are you? What d'you know about me?"
"You ain't like them," the man said. "Humans are weak. Frail. You're somethin' greater."
Ezra barked a laugh. "Yeah. No kiddin'."
The man stepped closer. "You ain't the only one. I'm here to take you home. To your real family."
Ezra looked down at the bodies, then up at the Jersey City lights. His grin spread like fire.
"Paperboy King's dead," he said. "Somethin' better took his place."
He kicked a corpse off the truck and started walking toward the trees.
At the edge of the shadows, he paused, eyes glinting.
"Lead the way."