THE BLOOD WE SHARE

Mira Solano’s coffee had gone cold three hours ago, but she drank it anyway. The bitter, metallic sludge was the only thing anchoring her to consciousness at 3:14 AM in the Saint Augustine Hospital emergency room. The fluorescent lights above the nurses' station buzzed with a low, persistent hum. The ER was dead quiet. Mira hated the quiet. In her four years of nursing, she had learned that a quiet ER was just the universe holding its breath before dropping a nightmare on her head. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her scrubs smelled faintly of bleach and stale sweat. She was halfway through her second double shift in a row, and her feet ached with a deep, bone-tired throb. The double doors at the end of the hall slammed open. Paramedics rushed in, pushing a gurney. They moved with that frantic, tight-shouldered urgency that meant a patient was circling the drain. "Trauma two!" the lead paramedic shouted. Mira was already moving, her exhaustion shoved into a dark corner of her mind. She pulled on a pair of latex gloves, the powder snapping against her wrists, and met them at the door. "Twenty-eight-year-old male," the paramedic rattled off. "Found in an alley behind the Blackwood Bridge. Multiple deep puncture wounds to the neck and torso. BP is eighty over fifty and dropping. He’s lost at least three pints." Mira looked down at the man on the gurney. His skin held a sickly, grayish hue. His chest hitched with wet, shallow breaths. "Get him on the table," Mira ordered. "Start an IV, O-negative, wide open. Page Dr. Chen." She grabbed a pair of surgical scissors and cut away the man’s shredded shirt. The gauze packed against his throat was already soaked through, the heavy copper smell of blood flooding the small room. Mira peeled the gauze back. She froze. The flesh underneath was mangled, but the wounds weren't ragged or torn like they would be from a dog attack. They were clean. Precise. Two distinct puncture marks, spaced exactly two inches apart, right over the jugular. The breath caught in Mira’s throat. She had seen this exact pattern before. Three years ago. A woman named Clara Weiss had been brought in with the exact same wounds. The woman had died on this very table. The police had written it off as a feral dog attack. Mira had known better then, and she knew better now. Those were fangs. "Where's the cop that found him?" Mira asked, her voice dropping an octave. "There wasn't one," the paramedic said, backing away as Mira began packing the wound. "A guy flagged down the ambulance a block from the bridge. Said he found him like this. He's waiting outside." Mira didn't have time to process that. She worked on the man, her hands moving on autopilot. Pressure. Gauze. Suture. Her fingers flew, tying off the bleeders, trying to pull him back from the edge. "He's crashing!" the other nurse, Amy, yelled. Mira looked at the heart monitor. The jagged peaks were flattening. "Don't you dare," Mira muttered, leaning over the man’s chest. "Don't you dare die on me." She worked for twenty minutes. She pushed epinephrine. She bagged him. She cursed under her breath. Finally, the monitor beeped in a steady, rhythmic time. The patient's blood pressure stabilized, hovering just above fatal. Mira stepped back, her chest heaving. She stripped off her bloody gloves and tossed them into the red biohazard bin. It was only then that she noticed the man in the corner. He stood in the shadows near the supply cabinet. He was tall, well over six feet, dressed in a tailored black suit that probably cost more than her entire year's rent. His hands were clasped behind his back. His posture was immaculate. And he wasn't breathing. Mira stared at him. She watched his chest. It did not rise. It did not fall. He was as still as a marble statue. "Who the hell are you?" Mira asked. The man didn't flinch. He turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto hers. His eyes were the color of old blood. Dark, rusted red. "I am the one who found him," the man said. His voice was low, smooth, and carried a slight, old-fashioned cadence. He didn't use contractions. "Security is going to want to talk to you," Mira said. "I am sure they will." Mira walked toward him, stopping just a few feet away. She was too exhausted to be afraid. She pointed at the man on the table. "Those aren't dog bites." "No," the man agreed. "They are not." "You did this to him." The man’s jaw tightened. It was a microscopic movement, but Mira caught it. "No. But I know who did." "Then you know what he is," Mira said, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "You know what you are." The man tilted his head. It was a predatory movement, like a hawk assessing a field mouse. "You have a sharp eye for a human. Most of your kind choose not to see." "Get out," Mira said. "Before I call the police." "The police cannot help you," the man said. He took a step forward. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "They do not know about the Sanguine Quarter. They do not know about the families who run this city from the shadows." "I don't care," Mira said. "He is my patient. You are not family. You need to leave." "I am not leaving him," the man said. "If I leave, the ones who did this will come back to finish the job. And you will be the one explaining to the board why a man bled out in your ER." Before Mira could argue, a wet, gurgling cough came from the table. Mira spun around. The man—Thomas, his ID bracelet read—was thrashing against the restraints. His eyes were wide, wild with terror. "Hey, hey, you're okay," Mira said, rushing to his side. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're in the hospital. You're safe." Thomas grabbed her wrist. His grip was terrifyingly strong. "They know," Thomas wheezed. Blood bubbled on his lips. "They know about the girl." The man in the suit was suddenly at the table. He moved so fast, Mira didn't even see him cross the room. He loomed over Thomas, his red eyes blazing. "What girl?" the man demanded. Thomas looked up at him, and a fresh wave of terror flooded his face. "The photograph. The one in his study. He knows you're looking for her." The man’s face went utterly blank. The calm, collected mask shattered, revealing something cold and lethal underneath. "Who told you that?" "I heard them. The Ashgraves. They said... They said they're going to use her. They're going to use the girl to get to you." Thomas’s head lolled back. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to open the package." The man closed his eyes. When he opened them, the red seemed to glow. "Rest now," he said. Thomas's hand fell away from Mira's wrist. The monitors beeped steadily. Mira stepped back, her chest heaving. She looked at the man. "What girl?" The man looked at her. For a moment, she saw a flash of deep, agonizing grief in his expression. "My sister. She has been missing for ninety years." Mira didn't know what to say to that. She was a nurse. She fixed broken bodies. She didn't deal with missing vampire sisters or century-old blood feuds. "I need air," Mira said. She walked out of the trauma room. The hallway was empty. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, trying to slow her racing pulse. She heard the door open. The man stepped out. "I am going to leave now," he said. Mira opened her eyes. He was standing in front of her, holding out a small, black business card. "My name is Rafael Drakemoor," he said. "Take this." Mira didn't take it. She looked at the card. Silver lettering caught the fluorescent light. Rafael Drakemoor. Attorney at Law. "I don't want it," she said. "I know," Rafael said. He placed the card on the top of the nurses' station. "But you are in this now. The moment you recognized those bite marks, you stepped into a world you cannot walk out of." "Watch me," Mira said. Rafael looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were unreadable. Then, he turned and walked down the hallway. Mira watched him go. When the double doors closed behind him, she grabbed the card and threw it directly into the trash can under the desk. --- Mira’s shift ended at 7:00 AM. She drove home in a daze, the morning sun glaring against her windshield. Her apartment was a cramped studio on the fourth floor. The radiator leaked. The walls were thin. But it was hers. She unlocked the door, threw her keys on the coffee table, and locked the deadbolt behind her. She stripped out of her scrubs and took a scalding hot shower. She stood under the spray until the water ran cold, trying to scrub the image of Thomas's torn throat from her mind. She pulled on a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt. She was exhausted, her limbs heavy with a deep, physical fatigue. She just wanted to sleep. She walked into her tiny kitchen to pour a glass of water. She stopped. The glass slipped from her hand, shattering against the linoleum floor. Sitting on her kitchen counter, directly in the center of the cheap granite, was a black business card. Mira stared at it. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She lived alone. The door had been locked. The chain had been on. She took a slow, shaky step forward. It was the same card. The silver lettering was identical. She had thrown it away at the hospital. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she picked it up. She flipped it over. On the back, written in elegant, sweeping handwriting, was a single sentence: They know where you live now. I am sorry. Mira looked at the window. The curtains were drawn tight. The lock was bolted. But as she stood there in the suffocating silence of her kitchen, she felt the distinct, terrifying sensation of eyes watching her through the walls.