Blane Bloodworth's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Blane Bloodworth wanted to kill the hunter who murdered his maker. The problem was simple and ugly: he had never seen his maker's face. Someone turned him in an alley three years ago, fast and from behind, and left him to wake up changed. He had followed two trails since then. Both led to the same answer, a hunter who worked these streets. Both times Blane stood close enough to strike, and both times he walked away. He could not swing at a ghost. He needed to know who his maker was before he could prove who killed them. Tonight he pushed through the doors of the vampire punk club, where the crowd thought his long fangs were just a good costume. He wasn't there for the music. He was there for the old green apple who ran the bar at the quiet end. Granny Smith served drinks and scared tourists, but he kept the town's longest memory. If anyone knew the vampires turned in this city, it was him. Blane slid onto a stool. Granny Smith set down a glossy red cocktail he hadn't ordered, a thorny sprig balanced on the rim. "Three years ago," Blane said. "A vampire made in the back alleys. Then hunted down and killed. Who was it?" Granny Smith wiped the same spot on the bar twice. "Lot of dead vampires in this town." "This one made me." Blane spread his hands. "I never saw their face." The bartender went quiet. He looked at Blane's teeth, longer and sharper than any costume. Something behind his eyes settled, the way a man recognizes an old debt. "Those fangs," Granny Smith said. "Only one maker in this city grew teeth like that. A woman. Kept to the alleys. Fed careful." He stopped wiping. "She wore a long coat. Came in once a month. Ordered water. Never touched it." Blane's chest went tight. "You knew her." "Knew the type." Granny Smith's voice dropped, final. "She died the same week a hunter started bragging. Bunny-faced shadow on his jacket. Painted it himself. Said it was a trophy." A woman. A long coat. A bunny-marked hunter. Blane finally had a face to hunt and a mark to match it to. He stood up. The bartender caught his wrist. His grip was stone. "One more thing," Granny Smith said. "Your maker didn't come here for drinks. She came to watch you. She sat where you're sitting. Every month. After she made you." The room tilted. His maker hadn't abandoned him. She had followed him, silent, until the hunter found her. Blane walked out into the night. He no longer searched blind. He searched for a man with a bunny on his coat, and now he knew exactly why he would not freeze again.