Saving the kid was … stupid.
One Disciple managed to escape during my little rampage, and thanks to my shifting, he assumed I was a vampire.
I wasn’t worried.
They saw fangs and shadows and picked the only word they had.
Simple minds need simple monsters.
If I don’t even know what I am, how the fuck would they?
Of course, that came back to bite me in the ass. The Disciples started targeting vampire nests across the country, and eventually, I had to apologize to the leader of the US vampires for putting them in such a shitty position.
And before you get your panties in a twist over my mention of vampires, let me make it clear: They arenothinglike the seductive, dominant monsters you read about in books or see on TV. They’re just self-important, daft assholes with a long history of slavery and manipulation all done to feed their egos and satisfy their hunger.
Vampires have held every position of economic power in human history.
They were the ones who built the pyramids on broken backs. The plantation owners who reveled in the misery of the humans they owned. The factory bosses who employed small children, pushed twelve-hour workdays, and created unsafe working conditions.
They helped Hitler rise to power and were behind the concentration camps.
They were the landlords who let their properties fall apart.
Anywhere you find human misery, there’s a vampire lurking in the shadows, pulling the strings.
Why? Because vampires don’t feast on blood. They feast on human souls.
The more miserable the better.
If I wasn’t so fucking tired of the vampires’ short-sighted stupidity, I might admire their tactics.
They’ve built entire empires on human misery, then sold the lie that it was all for their benefit.
Renato Cazador, the head of the US vampires and owner of almost every sweatshop in the United States, sat before me, his deep navy blue eyes trying—and failing—to intimidate me.
His wife and second in command, Vesna Sokolovic, lounged beside him, looking bored as hell.
Renato had insisted I travel all the way to his mansion just outside Chicago to apologize.
Could I have torn them apart instead? Yes.
Would it have benefited me? Sadly, no.
I’ve learned that sometimes it pays to keep the peace, even if it means humbling myself in front of a lowly soul-sucker.
Their home tried so hard to impress that it descended into a rococo fever dream with a hard-on for chandeliers and a color palette that looked like a wedding cake threw up. I could almost hear the ghost of Marie Antoinette whispering, “It’s a little decadent for my taste.” All it was missing was a dick-shaped fountain with a plaque that read, “Mine’s bigger.”
Every room reeked of wealth, decay, and desperation. Just like their owners.
Renato and Vesna draped themselves across flowered bergères, their iridescent, violet-tinged lips glistening against their sickly pale skin. They radiated an air of boredom and condescension.
I’m probably the most interesting thing, supernatural or human, to have walked through their doors in hundreds of years.
Within the underborne food chain, vampires are near the top—and these two were proof that it was lonely at the top.
“I understand you saved a young huskmaw, which is why I’m willing to accept your half-hearted apology. We can handle ourselves against a few pitiful humans. However, I’m still trying to figure out where you fit into this fiasco, and why they thought you were a vampire.”
Every word out of Renato’s mouth, delivered in that soft Spanish accent, dripped with feigned concern.
