Over the last week, I've been asking around, carefully, because apparently saying the wrong thing to the wrong vampire can get you killed. The vampire community has rules I don't fully understand yet. Territories. Hierarchies. Ancient grudges that play out over centuries.
But the same name keeps coming up, whispered like a prayer or a curse, depending on who's talking.
Maximus.
The gatekeeper. The one who controls access to clean blood in Atlanta. The vampire so old and powerful that everyone either worships him or fears him, sometimes both. No one seems to know exactly how old he is. Five hundred years. Six hundred. Some guy at a bar for supernaturals claimed he fought in the Crusades, but that seemed like bullshit.
What isn't bullshit: he's the only one with a reliable supply of uncontaminated blood. And he's notoriously selective about who he helps.
I've been trying to find him for three days.
It started at the Wax and Wane.
I stumbled onto the bar by accident three months ago, following a vampire who'd just fed on a human in Little Five Points. I'd hoped to corner him, ask questions about surviving this life. Instead, he led me to a door behind a laundromat that opened into something impossible.
The Wax and Wane Bar is neutral territory, run by a pack of wolf shifters who enforce one rule above all others: no violence inside. Break that rule, and you answer to the pack. I've seen what the bouncers look like when they shift. Nobody breaks the rule twice.
It's where I learned that vampires aren't the only monsters hiding in plain sight.
The first night I walked in, I nearly turned around and left. A woman at the bar had eyes that glowed amber, her nails extending into claws as she reached for her drink. Two men in the corner booth had pointed ears and spoke a language that made my teeth ache. Something that looked human but moved wrong, too fluid, too graceful, watched me from the shadows with a smile that had too many teeth.
Shifters. Witches. Fae. Things I didn't have names for. All of them real. All of them drinking together like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I spent weeks just watching. Learning. Trying to understand the world I'd been dragged into.
Now, dying from contamination, the Wax and Wane is the only place I know to ask for help.
Three days of nursing drinks I can barely keep down while asking careful questions. Three days of talking to contacts from my fighting days who've since turned out to be supernatural themselves, shifters who'd been betting on my matches, witches who'd been hiding in plain sight. Three days of dead ends and cryptic warnings.
"Don't waste your time," a vampire named Daphne told me, her fangs flashing as she spoke. "Maximus doesn't help nobodies. You need connections. History. Something he wants."
"Even if you find him," one of the wolf shifter bouncers said, arms crossed over his massive chest, "he'll probably kill you just for knowing his name. He's not big on his reputation spreading."
"I heard he once let a vampire starve to death outside his compound just to make a point," a witch added, stirring her drink without even touching her straw. "Begging doesn't work. Offeringmoney doesn't work. He decides who's worthy, and most people aren't."
Encouraging.
I manage to pull on jeans and a jacket, moving on autopilot. Every movement feels like I'm underwater, slow and distant. My reflection in the hallway mirror shows someone who looks half-dead, which is ironic considering I'm already technically deceased. The black veins have spread to my face now, creeping up my jaw like cracks in porcelain.
How long do I have?
Hours, maybe. My vampire healing should be working overtime, burning through the contamination. Instead, it's like my body doesn't know what to do with blood this toxic. Like it's given up.
I grab my keys, another old habit, since I don't actually drive anymore. Vampire speed is faster, and I don’t trust myself behind the wheel when I can hear every heartbeat within a hundred feet. But old routines die hard, and the weight of keys in my pocket makes me feel more human. More normal.
Then I'm out the door and into the night, letting the cold air hit my face like a slap.
The streets of East Atlanta Village are busy even at 11 p.m. on a Thursday. Humans everywhere, laughing and drinking and living their fragile little lives. Couples walking arm in arm. Groups of friends bar-hopping. A guy on a skateboard weaving through pedestrians with the confidence of someone who's never had to worry about predators.
I can hear their heartbeats, smell the blood pumping through their veins. My fangs ache with hunger despite the poisoning, because my body is stupid and doesn't understand that feeding right now would probably kill me faster. I shove the hunger down, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
Not desperate enough to feed from a random human on the street. Not yet, anyway.
I make my way toward Little Five Points, cutting through side streets to avoid the thickest crowds. The businesses here are the kind Atlanta is known for: vintage shops, tattoo parlors, and head shops with tie-dye in the windows. The Vortex looms ahead with its giant skull facade, a landmark that used to make me smile. Now it just reminds me that I'm heading toward a meeting that probably won't happen with someone who probably won’t help me anyway.
The meet-up spot is an alley behind The Vortex, hidden from the main drag by a fence and a dumpster. I slip into the shadows and wait, counting my breaths even though I don't need them. The black veins continue to spread under my skin, a reminder that time is running out.
Derek, the vampire who promised he could get me a meeting with someone in Maximus's circle, is supposed to show at 11:30. It's 11:25 now.
