I had to admit it—these vampires really knew how to run a club.
It was, without question, the strangest place I'd ever set foot in, and that was saying something in a city like New York where strange was practically a civic virtue. A vampire-themed Goth nightclub in Brooklyn would never have been my first choice for a night out, or my second, or anywhere in the top hundred. But Henderson had been raving about Plasma for weeks, and Pella bought into the hype instantly. In the end, curiosityand a certain reluctance to be the only stick in the mud—dragged me along.
And now that I was there, I had to admit I was intrigued.
The vampires weren't real, obviously. But the owners had built the illusion so convincingly that disbelief felt almost disrespectful. The place rode the nationwide obsession with all things vampire, movies, novels, late-night TV, costume parties—and turned it into an experience that was part theater, part nightclub, and part fever dream. The building itself helped. It had once been a newspaper printing facility, and the central chamber where the presses used to thunder was now hollowed out into a massive vertical space stretching three stories high. The entrance opened onto the second floor, and from there a twisting maze of stairs led either upward to shadowy balconies or downward to the dance floor and stage below.
I leaned against the railing with a Corona in hand, taking it all in. The walls were painted a matte black that swallowed light, while crimson neon tubing snaked along corners and edges, casting everything in a permanent bloody twilight. Dark alcoves dotted the perimeter, each one occupied by a different breed of nightlife species—hard-core Goths dressed in lace and leather, Wall Street types loosening their ties, couples trying too hard to look mysterious. The music pulsed from below, a heavy electronic beat layered with distorted guitar riffs, vibrating faintly through the soles of my boots.
The staff sold the illusion better than any decoration ever could. Every one of them was pale, graceful, and eerily composed. Not a single clumsy step, not a raised voice, not a rushed movement. They glided instead of walked. Our waitress—Lydia—looked like she'd stepped straight out of a casting call for a supernatural thriller. Her skin was porcelain smooth, her black hair spiked in deliberate chaos, and her eyes… her eyes were an impossible green, luminous even in the red haze. I'd studied her face closely every time she approached, half expecting to find streaks of white makeup or powder. Nothing. If it was cosmetics, it was masterful. If it wasn't… well, I didn't like finishing that thought.
"Hey, Chris! Dude—here's to six months on the Force and the end of probation!" Pella shouted, raising his glass again. His words slurred together like wet paint. This had to be at least the twelfth toast.
I clinked my bottle carefully against his glass, steadying his hand so he didn't spill it all over himself. Pella and I had just cleared probation with the NYPD. Full benefits, real assignments, and the comforting knowledge that we weren't the newest rookies anymore. He celebrated like he'd won the lottery. I celebrated like I'd passed a difficult exam and was still waiting to see the final grade.
Across the room, Henderson-our unofficial host and self-appointed nightlife ambassador—was deep in conversation with two women at the bar. He'd waved me over a few times, flashing that effortless grin of his, but I wasn't interested. Mixing my personal life with my professional one was complicated enough without adding strangers into the equation. Henderson thrived in that chaos. I avoided it whenever possible.
Pella, meanwhile, was treating Bacardi and Coke like hydration therapy. I was still halfway through my second beer, and even that felt like work. Something had my nerves stretched thin, a quiet tension under the surface. Maybe it was just the club—its atmosphere, its theatrical darkness. I hadn't exactly grown up in places like this. My hometown sat near the northern edge of the state, brushing up against the vast wilderness of the Adirondack Park. Nightlife there meant bonfires, not bass drops. Albany during college had been a mild introduction, but Plasma was something else entirely—a surreal collision of fantasy and finance, where accountants and brokers paid cover charges to pretend they were dancing among immortals.
Lydia returned to our table, moving with that same fluid grace, tray balanced effortlessly on one hand. She set down fresh drinks with a small, knowing smile and leaned closer to me than necessary.
"Falling behind your friends a bit there, ay, North boy?" she purred.
Her voice was silk over steel—soft, but with an edge that caught your attention. I managed not to jump, though my heart kicked hard once in my chest. She was inches from my neck, close enough that I could feel the whisper of her breath.
"How do you know I'm from the North and not Canada?" I asked, raising my voice over the music.
She shrugged, amused. "Your accent. Kinda Canadian, but not quite. Ay, ya hoser." Her grin widened. "Looks like you could use a shot to catch up."
"No thanks. One of us needs to keep his wits about him in this wicked nest of vampires."
Her eyes glittered. "You'll be safe enough, Officer. We don't eat our civil servants."
Before I could respond, she spun away in a smooth half-turn, her tray of empties barely rattling. A drunk patron lunged clumsily for her waist; she sidestepped without breaking stride, eyes still locked on me over her shoulder. Then she slipped into a darker corridor, her green contacts glowing faintly like cat eyes in the night.
Yeah. Officially weird.
I'd dealt with creepy before. Creepy was practically an old acquaintance. But this place had a different flavor to it—polished, intentional, and just believable enough to make the hair on the back of my neck rise. My grandfather used to talk about vampires, witches, and werewolves as if they were neighbors he'd had minor disputes with. I always assumed he was joking. Mostly. With him, you never knew.
The idea that other supernatural beings might exist wasn't exactly a stretch in my line of… experience. But if vampires were real, would they really open a nightclub and advertise themselves? Probably not. Then again, Plasma never claimed actual ownership by vampires. The rumors were all word of mouth, fueled by advertisements featuring their impossibly pale staff and moody photography. Clever marketing. Very clever.
I tilted my head back to finish my beer—and the vision hit.
They never lasted long. Three seconds, maybe four. But when they came, they came hard, like someone had replaced my eyes with a projector. A corridor. A girl running. A burst of violence. And one of the demon-ridden. Then darkness.
I choked on my drink as reality snapped back into place, coughing beer onto the floor and blinking rapidly to clear my sight. My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew better than to ignore those flashes. They weren't imagination. They were warnings.
I moved to the railing overlooking the main floor. From the second-story vantage point I could see most of the club—the dance floor thrumming with bodies, the stage bathed in shifting lights, the main bar crowded three deep. Pella had wandered off to join Henderson and his new admirers, laughing too loudly at something that probably wasn't that funny.
Then the band finished their set.
The final chord echoed out, and the lights dimmed all at once, plunging the stage into blackness. The crowd cheered, unaware. My stomach tightened.
Fantastic.
Because when the lights went out, the monsters came out easier. And I needed every feeble sense I had to find them before they found someone else.