Long-press a paragraph to send danmaku
The mark burns.
I'm standing in the bathroom of my apartment, shirt pulled up, twisting in front of the mirror like I can get a better angle and it'll suddenly make sense. The red glow pulses under my skin. Not on it. Under.
I've scrubbed it twice. Tried rubbing alcohol. Even dug out the nail polish remover from under the sink.
Nothing.
It sits there on my left shoulder blade, about the size of a quarter, lines branching out like a cracked windshield. Every few seconds it flickers brighter, and when it does my whole body goes cold for a heartbeat.
I don't know what the hell this is, but it's not a bite.
Bites scab. Bites fade. This thing looks like someone tattooed me with a laser and forgot to mention it.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I grab it.
Unknown number.
I stare at the screen. It buzzes again.
I answer.
"Don't go to a hospital." His voice. The guy from the store. Karl.
"How did you—"
"They'll scan it. The mark. It'll flag in their system and you'll have hunters at your bed before the nurse brings your discharge papers."
I grip the phone tighter. "What did you do to me?"
Silence.
Then: "I'm outside. Buzz me in."
He hangs up.
I stand there, phone still pressed to my ear, bathroom light flickering because the bulb's been dying for two weeks and I keep forgetting to change it.
Then I'm moving.
Down the hall. Past the kitchen. I hit the intercom button without thinking.
"What apartment?"
"3C."
I buzz him in.
Stupid. So stupid. The guy shows up at my work, gets me shot at, bites me, vanishes, and now I'm letting him into my apartment because what—he said don't go to the hospital?
But my shoulder's still burning and I don't know anyone else who has answers.
I unlock the door. Leave it cracked. Step back into the kitchen and grab the biggest knife from the block.
Footsteps in the hallway.
The door swings open.
Karl looks worse than he did last night. Blood dried on his collar. New split above his eyebrow. He's moving stiff, like his ribs hurt.
He sees the knife.
"Smart," he says.
I don't lower it. "What is this?"
He kicks the door shut behind him, checks the lock, then crosses to the window and looks down at the street.
"Karl."
"It's a blood mark." He doesn't turn around. "Means you're bound to me as a source."
"A source."
"Blood source. Your blood only feeds me now. No one else can drink from you unless I die."
I'm still holding the knife but my hand's starting to shake. "You're insane."
"I didn't have a choice." He finally turns. His eyes are wrong. Too pale. The kind of pale that doesn't exist on a living person. "They were going to kill you. The mark makes you mine. They can't touch you without breaking about six council laws."
"Council."
"Vampire council. The ones who make sure humans don't find out we exist and start another purge."
I laugh. It comes out sharp and bitter. "You're telling me vampires are real and I'm—what, your personal juice box now?"
"For thirty days."
That stops me.
"What happens in thirty days?"
"If I don't feed from you regularly, the mark fades. Bond breaks. You go back to normal."
I lower the knife. Just a little. "So I just avoid you for a month."
"No." He moves away from the window, closer. I raise the knife again. He stops. "If I don't feed, I get weak. Weak means I get caught. I get caught, they kill me. I die, the mark doesn't fade—it locks. You'll spend the rest of your life craving blood you can't digest and losing your mind in pieces."
My throat's dry. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
"Prove it."
He pulls his shirt collar down. There's a scar on his neck, thick and ugly, like someone burned a chain into his skin. "I spent four years in a blood pit with sixty other sources. Half of them used to be people like you. They're still alive. Sort of. They don't remember their names."
I set the knife on the counter because I don't trust my hands anymore.
"Why me?"
"Wrong place. Wrong time. I needed a mark to buy us both a few hours and you were there." His voice is flat. No apology in it. "I didn't plan this."
"Us both," I repeat. "You mean you."
"I mean if they killed you in that store, they'd have killed you to get to me. Now you're protected. For thirty days."
"And then?"
"Then you break the bond and go back to your life."
"What about you?"
He doesn't answer.
That's when the window explodes.
Glass everywhere. I'm on the floor before I realize I've moved. Karl's already across the room, dragging me behind the couch.
"Stay down."
Another window shatters. Kitchen this time.
I hear voices outside. Shouts.
"Back door," I gasp.
Karl pulls me up, shoves me toward the hallway. We're moving fast. My feet crunch on glass. Something hisses past my ear and hits the wall. The drywall bubbles, then burns black.
"What the hell—"
"Ash rounds. Don't let them touch you."
We hit the back door. Karl kicks it open. The fire escape groans under our weight. He goes first, then reaches back. I grab his hand.
We're halfway down when I hear the crack.
Karl jerks. Stumbles.
I catch him before he goes over the railing.
There's a hole in his jacket. Smoke rising from it.
"Go," he grits out.
"You're shot."
"Go."
I pull his arm over my shoulders and we take the last flight together. My legs are screaming. We hit the alley and he's leaning more weight on me than before.
"Where?"
"East. Three blocks. Old station."
We run.
I don't know how long. My lungs are on fire. Karl's breathing is wet and wrong. We turn a corner and there it is—an old subway entrance, chained off, covered in graffiti.
Karl rips the chain off like it's paper.
We go down.
It's dark. Cold. Smells like piss and rust. I can hear water dripping somewhere.
Karl collapses against the wall. Slides down.
I kneel next to him. "Let me see."
He shakes his head. "It's already healing."
"You were smoking."
"Ash rounds. They burn us from the inside out. I'll be fine."
He doesn't look fine. He looks gray.
I'm about to argue when he coughs. Blood sprays across his hand. Dark blood. Almost black.
He stares at it.
Then he laughs. It's bitter and tired and sounds like giving up.
"What?" I demand.
"They registered it."
"Registered what?"
"The bond. Someone scanned your mark and logged it in the council database. That's how they found us." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "We've got less than thirty days now."
"How much less?"
He looks at me. His eyes are still that wrong pale color, but now there's something else in them. Something that might be fear.
"Depends how fast my brother wants me dead."