Chapter 2: A Taste of Trouble

Chapter 2: A Taste of Trouble

"Not. A. Sound." Kaelen’s voice was a low hiss, colder than the grave. Before Elara could process the command, his hand clamped over her mouth, rough and unyielding. The other hand pointed a rigid finger at the restroom’s grimy window, where the silhouettes of the Argent Sun hunters moved with predatory grace.

Terror choked her. She tried to scream, but the sound was muffled against his palm. Her new, razor-sharp senses were a curse, picking up the soft crunch of their combat boots on the gravel, the faint scent of sanctified oil on their gear, the low murmur of their voices. It was all too much, a sensory overload that threatened to shatter her fragile control.

Kaelen ignored her muffled struggles. His eyes, ancient and calculating, were already mapping out their escape. There was no fighting two Knights of the Order, not here, not now. That was a fool's death. Survival was about being smarter, dirtier.

"The back," he whispered, his breath ghosting over her ear. "Storage room leads to an old service grate. We move on my signal. You make a sound, you get us both killed. Understand?"

She could only nod, tears streaming down her face, her body trembling with a mixture of fear and the gnawing, agonizing thirst that was eclipsing everything else. He pulled her upright, his grip on her arm like a steel vise. He was a blur of motion, dragging her out of the restroom, through the dimly lit store, and into the cramped, dusty storage room in the back. The air was thick with the smell of cardboard and industrial cleaner.

He pressed his ear to the thin metal door that led to the outside alley. He could hear them now, sweeping the perimeter. One was at the front door, testing the lock.

"Now," he breathed.

With a grunt, he kicked a stack of motor oil containers aside, revealing a circular iron grate set into the concrete floor. He hooked his fingers into the gaps and heaved. The metal shrieked in protest, the sound deafening in the silence, before coming loose. A wave of cool, damp air smelling of moss and decay washed over them.

"In," he commanded, shoving her towards the dark opening.

Elara recoiled. "I can't—"

"You can, and you will." He didn't give her a choice, practically forcing her legs into the hole. The drop was only a few feet into what felt like ankle-deep, sluggish water. She landed with a splash that echoed in the confined space. Before she could even get her bearings, he was down beside her, pulling the heavy grate back into place above them, plunging them into near-total darkness.

The sound from above became muffled. Footsteps crunched near the service door, then faded. They were safe. For now.

"Where are we?" Elara whispered, her voice shaking. The thirst was a living thing inside her, a fire in her throat.

"Storm drain. Leads three blocks south," Kaelen replied, his voice a disembodied rumble in the dark. He produced a cheap disposable lighter from his pocket, the tiny flame sputtering to life and casting long, dancing shadows. "My place is near. Stay quiet and keep up."

His "place" was a third-floor walk-up in a tenement that had been scheduled for demolition a decade ago and then forgotten. The air in the cramped, single-room apartment was stale, the only furniture a lumpy mattress on the floor, a single wooden chair, and a crate acting as a table. It was the den of a ghost, designed for function, not comfort.

The moment the door was locked and bolted, Elara’s composure shattered. The adrenaline from the escape faded, leaving only the all-consuming Hunger. A violent tremor wracked her body, and she collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball.

"It hurts," she gasped, her nails scraping against the grimy floorboards. "God, my throat... I need... I need something to drink."

"Water won't help you," Kaelen said, his tone flat. He was watching her with the detached interest of a bomb disposal expert examining a live device. He knew the signs. The tremors, the feverish glint in her eyes, the way her fangs were extending and retracting involuntarily. She had an hour, maybe two, before the feral instinct, the Beast, took over completely. A vampire lost to the Hunger was a mindless killing machine, and he had no desire to be in the same room when the switch flipped.

"Stay here. Don't move. Don't open the door for anyone." He grabbed a worn leather jacket from a hook.

"Where are you going?" Her voice was a desperate plea.

"To stop you from killing the first person you see," he said, and slipped out the door, the deadbolts clicking into place behind him like a cell door locking.

The Nocturne District was a five-minute walk, a slash of neon and shadow carved into the city's heart. Here, under the perpetual twilight of enchanted streetlamps, Anomalies of all kinds moved freely. Kaelen kept his head down, melting into the crowds of off-duty gargoyles, shifty-eyed goblins, and Fae tourists slumming it for a thrill.

His usual supplier was a blood-bank technician named Silas who skimmed expired bags for a hefty markup. It was safe, clean, and anonymous. But when Kaelen reached the designated meeting spot—a graffiti-covered alcove behind a werewolf bar—it was empty. He waited for ten minutes, a knot of unease tightening in his gut. Finally, he used a burner phone to make the call.

The voice that answered was panicked. "Don't call this number again. House Valerius did a sweep last night. Took three suppliers. I'm out, Kael. For good." The line went dead.

Kaelen swore, a low, vicious curse. Evangeline's reach was long, even after all these years. Her obsession with order meant periodic, brutal crackdowns on the black market she secretly sanctioned. His safe, easy source was gone.

He was running out of time. Elara’s face, pale and contorted in agony, flashed in his mind. He grit his teeth. There was another way, a riskier one. The Undermarket, a chaotic, open-air bazaar of illegal goods held in the abandoned skeleton of a multi-story warehouse. Going there meant being seen, being remembered. It was a violation of his most basic survival rule.

The warehouse thrummed with illicit energy. Stalls sold everything from bottled glamour to cursed daggers. The air was thick with the scent of ozone from a rogue warlock's stall and the musky smell of shifter pelts. Kaelen navigated the throng, his gaze scanning for the tell-tale coolers used by the blood merchants.

He found one near the back, run by a twitchy-looking goblin with greasy hair and eyes that darted everywhere at once.

"Looking for a vintage," Kaelen said, the common slang for blood.

The goblin, Pip, looked him up and down. "What year? Got some hospital-grade O-neg, very clean. A bit pricey. Or some synthetic, if you're on a budget. Tastes like pennies, but it'll get you through the night."

"Hospital grade," Kaelen said, tossing a roll of worn bills onto the counter. "Two bags. And hurry."

As Pip turned to fetch the blood from his iced cooler, Kaelen’s senses pricked up. That feeling. The one he hadn’t felt in over a decade. The feeling of being watched. Not by a casual observer, but by a predator.

He let his eyes drift casually over the crowd. Most were engrossed in their own sordid business. But then he saw him, leaning against a corroded steel pillar fifty feet away. A tall vampire, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that was out of place in this den of filth. His face was obscured by shadow, but Kaelen didn't need to see it. He recognized the posture, the arrogant stillness. An Enforcer. He wasn’t sure from which House, but it didn’t matter. They were all the same.

The Enforcer wasn’t looking at him directly, but Kaelen knew. He was the target. Someone had noticed him. The quiet gas station attendant had just stepped back onto the stage, and the spotlight was blinding.

Pip slapped the two chilled, crimson bags on the counter. "Pleasure doing business."

Kaelen swept them up, shoving them into the inner pocket of his jacket without a word. He turned and walked away, not running, not hurrying, forcing himself into a calm, measured pace. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could feel the Enforcer's cold, calculating gaze on him every step of the way, a physical weight on his shoulders.

He had bought the girl a few hours of peace. But in the Nocturne District, nothing was ever free. He knew, with a certainty that chilled his dead heart, that the price for tonight's transaction had yet to be collected. He was no longer invisible. He was a person of interest. And in Aethelburg, that was a death sentence waiting to be signed.