The walk back from the blood bank was surreal. A cool breeze, carrying the familiar city scents of damp asphalt and distant decay, did little to clear the faint light-headedness that lingered behind Matt's eyes. His hand was shoved deep into his pocket, fingers curled protectively around a thick, crisp bundle of bills. The paper felt foreign, heavier than its physical weight. It was the price of a piece of himself, a liquid asset he never knew he possessed.
His feelings were a tangled, conflicting mess. On one hand, a profound, almost giddy wave of relief washed over him. The process had been unnervingly smooth. He'd braced himself for excruciating pain, for the prick of the needle to be a searing trauma, but it had been little more than a sharp, cold pinch. A momentary discomfort in exchange for his mother's life. And the money… they had paid him more than he'd dared to hope for. His AB negative blood, the nurse had whispered, was a rare and precious commodity. Enough to pay the excessive hospital fees and have a small surplus left over. For the first time in months, the crushing weight of financial desperation eased its grip on his chest, allowing him to take a full, deep breath.
But on the other hand, a sour, unsettling feeling curdled in his gut. He couldn't shake the image of his blood, draining away into that plastic blood bag. It was now a product, a commodity to be shipped, sold, and consumed. But by whom? And for what? The question hung in the air, a shadow he had long chosen to ignore. He wasn't a fool. He worked in a convenience store; he understood supply and demand. He saw the long, shuffling lines at the Kind Street clinic, the gaunt faces of people just like him, trading blood for survival. The supply was immense, a constant, desperate river of human life. So where was the demand? Who, in this world, needed that much blood?
He'd heard the whispers, the fragmented rumors that slithered through the dark corners of Media. Vague stories of wealthy elites on the Kingdom of Silos' fortified island, indulging in strange, life-extending therapies. Tales of a thriving black market that catered to unspeakable appetites. He'd always pushed those thoughts away, filed them under 'not my problem'. Finding out the truth felt like peeling back a scab on a wound he suspected was deeply infected. It was a truth he couldn't afford to know, a burden he didn't have the strength to carry on top of everything else. Tonight, he had made a devil's bargain, and he could only pray the devil would remain in the details.
The hospital, which hours before had been a fortress of indifference, transformed the moment Matt produced the cash. The bored medical attendant who had dismissed Maddie with a wave of his hand suddenly materialized, his face split by a flattering grin. The fifteen thousand pesos, counted out onto the grimy reception desk, acted like a magic key, unlocking doors that had been firmly bolted shut.
Suddenly, there were hands to help his mother, a gurney to carry her frail body. Nurses who had previously looked through them now spoke in hushed, concerned tones. A doctor, who earlier would have been an unreachable deity, appeared at their side, his expression a mask of professional empathy. His mother was whisked away into one of the hospital beds, a whirlwind of efficient, sudden care enveloping her.
Matt stood back, watching the scene unfold with a bitter, hollow feeling in his chest. "Money does move mountains," he muttered, the words tasting like ash.
Maddie, her eyes wide with a mixture of relief and confusion, tugged at his sleeve. "Matt? Where did you get this? This is… this is so much."
He couldn't meet her gaze. He just shrugged, a gesture that felt heavy and inadequate. Instinctively, he pulled at the collar of his shirt, and as he did, his sleeve rode up, revealing the small, tell-tale bandage in the crook of his arm.
Maddie gasped, her eyes flying from the bandage to his face. The question was there, unspoken but screaming in the space between them. "How was it?" she finally whispered, her voice a fragile blend of curiosity and concern.
Matt ran a hand through his hair, the exhaustion of the night, of the last few years, crashing down on him. "Okay, I think," he said, the lie feeling thin even to his own ears. "It was okay."
The Vein Garden's main floor was a cacophony of desperation, but its back rooms were sanctuaries of pleasure. Behind a set of heavy, blood-red velvet curtains lay a private chamber, a world away from the sullen thugs and trembling crazies outside. The air here was cleaner, scented with old incense and the faint, sweet perfume of expensive blood. The seating was plush, the lighting was low and intimate, and the service was impeccable. This was where Sarah conducted her real business.
Tonight, she was entertaining Sergeant Dave, a mid-ranking but ambitious official from the City Watch, and two of his junior officers. Making Dave happy was an investment. He was a man with influence, a man who could bring his comrades, his superiors, to her establishment. The Watchers, with their steady pay and appetite for distraction, were five times more profitable than all the bottom-feeders in the main room combined.
Three men swept into the pub, their grey Watcher uniforms parting the crowd like a ship's bow through water. The ambient chatter of the room dipped, and customers—vampire and human alike—found sudden, urgent reasons to study their drinks or the grimy floor. These men were a familiar sight on the streets of Media, signposts of the local government's authority, avatars of a fragile, fabricated peace. They were the law, and everyone, predator and prey, knew not to cross them.
"Why'd you bring us to this old and ugly pub, Dave?" one of the junior officers, a young man named Jim, asked. His tone was respectful, but a hint of disgust wrinkled his nose as he took in the filth of the main room.
Dave, a powerfully built man with a perpetual smirk, just chuckled as he caught Sarah's eye. "Hold your judgment, Jim. We're in for a real treat tonight."
Sarah glided toward them, a welcoming smile playing on her lips. "Sergeant," she greeted, her voice a silken purr. "Always a pleasure." She gestured toward the velvet curtains. "Your private room is ready."
She led the three men through the heavy fabric and into the secluded chamber. The two younger officers immediately broke into wide, predatory grins. Sprawled on a low-slung chaise lounge were two freshly recruited "crazies," a man and a woman, their eyes glazed over, lost in a narcotic haze. They had been given hallucinogens, a cocktail that dulled the pain of being fed upon and amplified the dizzying, ecstatic sensations their clients so enjoyed.
"Holy crap!" the other officer exclaimed, his gaze fixed on the woman. "A treat, indeed!" He was already moving toward her, his hunger plain on his face.
The men settled into their spaces, the two juniors immediately indulging in their "meals." Sarah gracefully moved to the small bar at the back of the room, preparing the drinks.
"You've outdone yourself as always, Sarah," Dave stated, settling into a large armchair as she approached, carrying a tray with two ornate, crystal cups. She handed him a peculiar one, half-filled with a dark, viscous liquid.
"I know you're bored of the usual kind," she teased, her eyes glittering. "I thought you might appreciate something… unique. This will make for a one-of-a-kind experience."
In the vampire world, human blood types were a culinary hierarchy. The common ones, O positive and A positive, were the equivalent of fast food. They made up over half the available supply, providing basic nourishment without any real flair. Getting it fresh from the source offered a better sensation, but it was still common fare. The rarer types were like fine dining, harder to come by, requiring connections and cash. But the AB blood groups were the stuff of legend. They were a forbidden delicacy, their supply so rare that they were reserved exclusively for the high nobility. No one below a Royal Court official was supposed to get their hands on it, much less taste it.
Sarah uncorked one of the small vials Grace had given her and poured its contents into Dave's cup. The blood was a vibrant, almost luminous crimson. Dave took the cup and swirled the contents, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He took a sip, letting the liquid coat his tongue, savoring it before swallowing. A slow, deep laugh rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"Incredible," he breathed, his eyes locking onto hers. "I know this stuff is hard to come by. I've heard rumors there are a few of them scattered in the dark corners of Media, but heck, I'll be damned if I could ever get a hold of one willing to serve me directly."
Sarah shook her head, a knowing smile on her lips. "It's against the law, Sergeant. A direct feeding would be a death sentence for us both."
"But they surely have them holed up for themselves in that lavish little community of theirs," Dave sneered, his voice laced with the commoner vampire's resentment for the fortified island of the elites. "Hoarding the best for themselves." He drained his cup.
"Do you want to share one more?" Sarah asked innocently.
"I don't mind," Dave's voice thick with greed as he offered his empty glass.
Sarah's smile widened. She refilled his cup with a standard, high-quality blood from her own stock. Then, taking the second vial, she poured half of its contents into Dave's cup and the remaining half into her own.
"To new experiences," she whispered, raising her cup.
"To new experiences," he echoed. They shared a toast and drank hungrily.
The effect was instantaneous and violent.
It wasn't a pleasant warmth; it was a bolt of lightning, a raw, untamed power that detonated from within. Sarah's eyes shot wide, the red of her irises burning with a golden, electric fire. The dull hum of the pub beyond the curtain erupted into a symphony of distinct, individual sounds. She could hear conversations from across the street, the frantic beating of a stray dog's heart two blocks away. A strange, crackling energy flooded her fingertips, and with a flick of her wrist, the crystal cups on the tray, the bottle of blood, and a nearby candelabra lifted into the air, hovering and spinning.
For Dave, the surge was one of pure, physical force. He felt so impossibly strong, so invincible, that he clenched his fist and the thick crystal cup in his hand shattered into dust. He looked down at a small cut on his palm—a shard had nicked him—and watched in utter disbelief as the skin knitted itself back together in seconds, leaving no trace of a wound. His regeneration had never been that fast. With a roar that was half shock and half exhilaration, he grabbed the heavy, ornate stone table in front of him and lifted it effortlessly over his head.
The two junior officers scrambled to their feet, their own feedings forgotten, their faces masks of terror and confusion as objects continued to float and spin around the room. The power surged for another ten seconds, a chaotic, uncontrolled spectacle of raw energy.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over.
The levitating objects crashed to the floor. The golden light in Sarah's eyes flickered and died. The immense strength drained from Dave's limbs, causing him to drop the heavy table with a deafening crack. Their bodies, unable to handle the catastrophic overload, simply gave out.
Sarah and Dave plopped to the floor like puppets with their strings cut, utterly and completely unconscious.