Chapter 2: Taken

Asher stared at the man in front of him for a full second. Then he burst out laughing.

It started as a short, disbelieving chuckle and quickly grew into full, breathless laughter that made his shoulders shake. He even had to wipe at the corner of one eye with his free hand.

"Okay, okay—wow," he managed between laughs. "That was good. Really good. Vampire Lord? You almost had me. Did the landlord put you up to this? Is this some new, creative way of collecting rent? Because if it is, I’m impressed. Truly."

Marcel didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile wider. He simply watched Asher with that same calm, unreadable expression, the cool grip on his wrist never loosening.

The laughter slowly died in Asher’s throat.

"...You’re serious."

His words got no response, and the silence made Asher’s smile twitch. "No. No, you’re not. People don’t just show up and declare themselves Vampire Lords. That’s not how life works. That’s how bad theater works."

He still got nothing from the stranger, and the silence was slowly beginning to make him think this wasn’t a joke. No, it can’t be real, he can’t be a vampire, talk less of the vampire lord.

Asher’s brain scrambled for an exit. Any exit.

"Listen," he said quickly, raising his free hand in a placating gesture, "how about this, free fortune readings for life. Unlimited. I’ll even do them at odd hours. Midnight? Fine. During a thunderstorm? Perfect. You want me to read the future of your future? Done. Just... let go of the wrist."

Marcel remained silent, he just stared at Asher, not moving or showing any emotions whatsoever.

"I’m allergic to royalty," Asher tried next. "Severely. Break out in hives. It’s very unattractive. You don’t want that near your fancy vampire court."

Still nothing.

In a last, desperate move, Asher twisted slightly and pointed toward the windowsill with his chin. "I can offer you that piece of bread. It’s been aging for three days. Very rare. Extremely hardened. Could probably stop a bullet. Consider it a signing bonus."

Marcel’s lips finally curved, just barely. The amusement was quiet, almost private, but it was there. Regardless, he still didn’t release the fortune teller.

Asher’s forced cheer faltered.

He had heard the stories. Everyone in the lower districts had. Marcel Thorne, Vampire Lord, an ancient terror who many feared to cross. People who crossed him tended to disappear, and nobody ever dared to ask questions about them.

Had he crossed this vampire by telling a false fortune? Asher wondered. He admitted all his prophecies didn’t come to pass, but a majority did, people sometimes weren’t just smart enough to catch it. For example he could tell someone they’d grow a beard, and they’d instead start growing hairs in some part of their body besides their face. He hadn’t exactly been wrong, the universe just sometimes played games with fortunes.

Asher’s heartbeat escalated and while he was now terrified, he did his best to not show it. Looking at the man in front of him now, though, Asher didn’t feel the sharp edge of immediate danger. There was no bloodlust in those eyes, no open threat. Just calm certainty.

But Asher knew better than to trust looks alone.

For the Vampire Lord himself to come all the way down to this filthy corner of the city... this was not a casual visit. This was serious.

Under any other circumstance, the offer would have been a dream. Becoming a royal advisor meant wealth, safety, a roof that didn’t leak and food that didn’t come with the risk of food poisoning. Asher should have been thrilled.

He wasn’t.

He couldn’t become the advisor to something that fed on his kind. There were laws, of course—restrictions against vampires hunting humans freely—but laws meant very little when the one breaking them sat at the very top. This could easily be a trap. Lure the useful human out, drain him dry once his gift had been squeezed for everything it was worth, and discard what was left.

Marcel still hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t tightened his grip into something painful. He simply stood there, patient and immovable, as if Asher’s agreement was already a settled matter.

That quiet certainty was somehow worse than shouting.

Asher’s shoulders finally dropped. The last of his resistance slipped away with a tired breath.

"...Fine," he muttered. "I get it. I’m done for." He gave a weak, crooked smile. "Death’s probably an upgrade from this place anyway."

Marcel’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered, it was too brief for Asher to read.

Without another word, the Vampire Lord turned and began walking, still holding Asher’s wrist. Asher had no choice but to follow, stumbling slightly to keep up as they stepped out of the building and into the harsh sunlight.

The landlord and his two men were still outside, sorting through the meager pile of stolen belongings. The moment Marcel appeared, the entire group froze. The change was instant. Color drained from the landlord’s face, and one of the men actually took a step backward.

Marcel didn’t speak. He simply looked at them. One sharp, cold glance was enough.

The landlord’s men scrambled like startled rats. In their haste, the crystal ball slipped from nervous fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud, rolling a short distance across the dirt.

Marcel released Asher’s wrist only long enough to bend down, pick up the sphere, and hold it out to him.

Asher took it automatically, fingers curling around the familiar cool surface. He glanced from the crystal ball to Marcel, then toward the landlord, who was still frozen in place. Then Asher made a face at the man, it was childish, but deeply satisfying. Marcel’s hand returned to his wrist and guided him forward again.

A sleek black car waited at the end of the narrow street, completely out of place among the cracked pavement and leaning buildings. The driver, a silent figure in dark clothes, opened the rear door without a word.

Asher hesitated at the threshold. He turned his head slightly, looking up at the Vampire Lord beside him. The question that had been sitting heavy in his chest finally slipped out, a bit louder than he intended.

"You’re not going to kill me, right?"