Chapter 18: Second Visit
Marcus Webb looked worse than I remembered.
The two weeks since my first visit had stripped another layer from him—the cancer's relentless work visible in his sunken cheeks, his yellowing skin, the particular exhaustion of a body fighting a battle it couldn't win. He sat propped against pillows, a paperback novel lying forgotten on his lap, staring at the television without actually watching it.
"You came back." His voice was weaker, the words carrying less force than before. "I thought maybe you'd given up on whatever weird project I'm part of."
"I told you I'd return."
"People tell me lots of things." He gestured at the room around him—the medical equipment, the sterile walls, the window overlooking a parking lot. "The doctors tell me I'm fighting hard. The nurses tell me I'm brave. My buddy from the unit called last week and told me he was praying for me. None of it means anything."
I pulled a chair to his bedside, the same position I'd taken during my first visit. The television was playing local news—a story about a development project in Shreveport, followed by weather predictions for the week ahead.
"What would mean something?"
Marcus considered the question with the seriousness of someone who'd spent too much time contemplating their own mortality.
"Honesty. Just once, I'd like someone to walk in here and not pretend." He met my eyes directly—the challenge of a soldier who'd stopped fearing consequences. "You're not a volunteer. I checked. The hospital doesn't have a volunteer program in oncology. So who are you, and what do you actually want?"
Caught.
I could lie. Construct another cover story, maintain the ambiguity that had served me so far. But Marcus was asking for honesty, and something in his request resonated with the part of me that still remembered being human.
"You're right. I'm not a volunteer."
"Then what are you?"
"Someone with an offer. One you won't believe, and probably won't accept. But I'm making it anyway, because I think you deserve the choice."
Marcus's expression shifted—the hostility fading slightly, replaced by wary curiosity. He'd expected me to deflect, to spin another story. My directness caught him off guard.
"What kind of offer?"
"First, a question. What would you do with more time? Not the time you have left—real time. Decades. Maybe centuries."
"You asked me that before."
"And you gave me a list. Your father's car, the Grand Canyon, finding someone who doesn't look at you like you're already dead." I leaned forward slightly. "I remember everything you said. My question now is whether that's still true. Whether those things still matter to you."
"Of course they matter. They matter more every day." Marcus's voice cracked slightly, the emotional weight breaking through his soldier's control. "I'm thirty-four years old. I served my country for twelve years, did everything right, and I'm going to die in this bed before I see thirty-five. So yeah, more time would matter."
"Even if it came with conditions?"
"What kind of conditions?"
The television switched to a new story—something about murders in a small town called Bon Temps. I watched Marcus's eyes flick toward the screen, then back to me.
"Weird shit down south," he commented.
"It's weirder than you know."
The words slipped out before I could stop them—a reference Marcus couldn't understand, a glimpse behind the curtain I was supposed to keep closed. He frowned, confused by the non sequitur.
"What does weird Southern murders have to do with your offer?"
"Nothing directly. But they're connected to... what I'm going to tell you." I took a breath I didn't need. "What I'm about to say will sound insane. I'm asking you to listen anyway."
"I'm dying of cancer in a hospital bed. My tolerance for insanity is pretty high."
"Good. Because I'm a vampire."
Silence.
Marcus stared at me for a long moment, his expression cycling through disbelief, suspicion, and something that might have been fear. Then he laughed—a genuine sound, surprising both of us.
"A vampire. Right. And I suppose you want to drink my blood?"
"Your blood is contaminated by chemotherapy drugs and cancer cells. It would taste terrible." I let my fangs extend—the first time I'd revealed them to a human who wasn't being glamoured. "I want to offer you a choice."
The laughter died. Marcus's eyes fixed on my fangs with the focused attention of someone reassessing every assumption they'd ever made.
"Those are real."
"Yes."
"You're actually a vampire."
"Yes."
"And you've been visiting me for weeks because..."
"Because I'm looking for someone to turn. To make like me. And you meet the criteria."
Marcus was quiet for a long time. The television droned on—weather forecast now, promising clear skies for the weekend. Outside, an ambulance siren wailed past, carrying some other emergency to some other crisis.
"The criteria," he said finally. "What are the criteria for becoming a vampire?"
"Terminal illness—you want to live, which creates motivation. No close family—clean extraction, no connections to sever. Useful skills—military background, discipline, the ability to follow orders without losing independent judgment." I retracted my fangs. "You're the first candidate I've found who meets all three."
"Lucky me."
"Actually, yes. Most people I've considered are too connected, too broken, or too old. You're none of those things." I stood, preparing to leave. "I'm not asking for an answer tonight. I'm asking you to think about it. Vampirism isn't a cure—it's a transformation. You'd be trading one existence for another. Different rules, different limitations, different possibilities."
"What kind of limitations?"
"Sunlight kills. Blood is necessary. Silver burns. There's a social hierarchy you'd need to navigate, political structures that demand compliance." I moved toward the door. "But you'd be alive. Or something close to it. For as long as you wanted."
"And if I say no?"
"Then I stop visiting, and you finish your paperback in peace. No hard feelings, no consequences. This is a choice, not a sentence."
Marcus looked down at the forgotten novel on his lap—a military thriller, dog-eared and worn. His hands trembled slightly as he picked it up, the physical evidence of his body's decline.
"You said you'd give me time to think."
"As much as you need."
"How much time do I have? Really?"
The question deserved an honest answer. I accessed the medical knowledge I'd gathered from hospital reconnaissance—the charts I'd glimpsed, the prognosis updates I'd overheard.
"Two months. Maybe less, if the cancer accelerates."
Marcus absorbed this with the quiet acceptance of someone who'd already made peace with the timeline. Then something shifted in his expression—not hope, exactly, but the beginning of calculation.
"Come back in a week. I'll have questions."
"I'll answer them."
I left without further conversation. The hallway outside was quiet—evening shift, minimal staff, the particular stillness of a hospital after visiting hours. A nurse passed, nodded without really seeing me, continued on her rounds.
In the elevator, I allowed myself to assess the encounter. Marcus hadn't said yes. But he hadn't said no either. He was processing, weighing the impossible offer against the certain alternative.
One week. Then questions. Then, maybe, a decision.
The parking lot was mostly empty. I found my car, sat behind the wheel without starting the engine, and let the weight of the evening settle.
George was dying. Marcus was considering undeath. Bon Temps was sliding toward chaos I couldn't prevent. Victor was watching from two miles away, waiting for weakness. Elena was trusting me with plans I couldn't fully explain.
Too many variables. Too many lives depending on decisions I'm not sure I'm qualified to make.
The system pulsed at the edge of my awareness, reminding me of metrics I still needed to improve. Lineage sat at 5—insufficient for progeny creation. I needed 10 to turn Marcus, which meant expanding territorial influence, building power through methods I hadn't yet identified.
The math is tight. Two months for Marcus, unknown timeline for Lineage growth.
I started the car and pulled onto the highway, heading back toward Monroe. The Silver Dollar would be closing soon—last call at 2 AM, cleanup after, dawn approaching with its usual demands.
The drive gave me time to think about George's request. He wanted to die in his bar, surrounded by the life he'd built with Mary. He wanted me to let him go when the time came, without intervention, without desperate measures.
I promised him that. And I'll keep the promise, even though every instinct screams against it.
Loss was the price of connection. I'd learned that lesson in my old life, watching colleagues retire, watching relationships fade, watching my own body fail. Death was the constant companion of anyone who dared to care about something beyond themselves.
But vampires didn't die. Not easily, anyway. We accumulated losses instead—watching humans age and fade while we remained unchanged. George would be the first, but not the last. If I turned Marcus, I'd eventually watch him make the same difficult choices about humans he cared about.
The cycle continues. The only question is how we carry it.
The Silver Dollar's lights were visible from the highway—the renovated sign glowing against the Louisiana darkness, welcoming travelers to the roadhouse that had survived sixty years and was about to enter a new phase of existence.
Elena was waiting at the entrance when I pulled into the lot.
"How's the candidate?"
"Considering. He has questions. I'll answer them next week."
"And if he says yes?"
"Then we need to accelerate the Lineage building. I'm not sure how yet, but we'll figure it out." I locked the car, fell into step beside her as we walked toward the entrance. "Anything happen while I was gone?"
"Victor's people drove past twice. Didn't stop, just watched. He's still measuring us."
"Let him watch. We're not doing anything worth hiding."
"And George?"
The question carried weight. Elena had noticed the same decline I had—the careful movements, the increasing absences, the gray pallor that makeup couldn't hide.
"George is dying. Faster than he expected." I paused at the door, hand on the handle. "He knows what I am. Has known since almost the beginning. He asked me to let him go when the time comes."
Elena processed this without visible reaction. After a moment, she nodded.
"Some requests are harder to honor than others."
"This one will be."
We entered together, leaving the darkness behind and stepping into the light and noise of the world we were building.
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