Page 3 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Three

With Baylor chewing his way through plastic, wires and wood, I’m beginning to feel embarrassed every time we set foot in the vet’s office. Like I’m the incompetent fool, the hapless pet parent dragging in her Husky sidekick yet again.

I half-expect them to report me. But after a thorough exam, the vet concludes he’s fine—no splinters, no paint ingestion—and sends us home with orders to keep an eye on him. Looks like I’ll be on poo patrol for the next few days. Lovely.

I drive to a nearby supermarket and park at the far edge of the car park, away from the bustle.

Rain patters against the windscreen, and behind the ominous clouds, the sun hangs low, stretching shadows across the tarmac.

Daylight is fading fast, and I’m no closer to finding a place for us to stay tonight. I need to find a place for us to live.

My shoulders ache, my eyes burn, and anxiety gnaws at me. Since online searches in the vet’s waiting room haven’t worked out, I decide to try the old-school route: I unfold a local newspaper and circle listings with growing desperation.

“Hello, yes, I’m calling about the room?—”

“The room’s gone.” Click.

That listing only went live on Friday. I sigh, press the phone to my forehead, then move on.

I try another. “Good afternoon. I’m calling about the room you have for rent?”

A pause, then a quiet throat-clear. “Look, love,” a woman says gently, “is your name Winifred Crowsdale, by any chance?”

“Um… yes.”

“You’re not gonna get a room, love.”

“It was my dog. I didn’t do any damage,” I whisper.

“I know. I didn’t think you’d gone full shifter and chewed through a door. But Derek’s made his position very clear. Nobody wants to cross him.”

I exhale slowly.

“Sorry,” she adds.

“No, it’s fine. Thank you for telling me.” I hang up, staring at the phone. This is ridiculous.

I work through the remaining listings, one after another. Every time I get the same response: no pets, no vacancies or flat-out refusals. Even the places far above my budget have suddenly vanished from the market. I even try stretching for a dingy terrace house. Still nothing .

Derek got there first.

Nobody wants to risk renting to the woman who crossed him. He’s the head of the local rental association and must have started calling around the moment he slammed that window shut, no doubt emailing photos of the damaged door.

I’m stuck.

I drop my chin to my chest. I’ll have to leave. There’s no other choice. I need to move further out, maybe out of the area entirely.

Baylor snores, his fluffy body stretched across the back seat, oblivious to the fact our world is crumbling.

I watch his fluffy chest rise and fall. I need to think.

I need to find someone Derek hasn’t reached yet.

I am a good tenant. I have enough money for rent and a small deposit—not much, but enough.

The newspaper crinkles under my tight grip.

I wish I could say this is a surprise, but it’s the same rubbish in a different wrapper.

It’s like when Jay’s parents fired me and smeared my reputation, preventing me from continuing my marketing career.

That was my work before my life went to hell, and now no reputable business will hire me.

The only job I could get was delivering food—they don’t care who you are as long as you turn up with the goods.

I bounce the phone off my knee, thinking.

I have to dig deeper. There must be someone Derek hasn’t reached.

For my sake, for the sleeping dog in the back, I need to keep trying.

Otherwise I’ll become a statistic by the end of the week.

Some nasty will prise us out of the vehicle like sardines in a tin .

They say the Human Sector is safe, but it isn’t. Living here doesn’t mean you’re protected. Our borders are weak, our defences against the other sectors laughable. Everyone pretends it’s normal to stay indoors after dark.

In our world, humans have evolved or devolved, depending on your view. ‘Human derivatives’ is the term everyone uses. Our DNA is still human, but with an added twist: fangs, claws, magic.

Some of us have a little extra, some a lot, and others hardly any at all.

Pure humans—the original DNA strain—are vulnerable by comparison and nearly went extinct.

Forty years ago, the government passed radical laws, granting autonomy to the derivatives and carving the country into sectors. Each species now governs its own.

I glance down at the newspaper. It’s not just vampires, shifters or magic-users you have to worry about. It’s the pure humans too. Sometimes it’s the ones who smile at you in the morning, then lock you out in the afternoon.

Homeless.

We are homeless.

I let the misery wash over me, if only for a moment—no one’s watching—and bitterness floods my thoughts. I’m nearly forty-one, and what do I have to show for it? I’m an embarrassment, and I’m… exhausted.

I’m so tired of it all.

Tired of scraping by, tired of never having anything solid to hold on to. Every year, every month, every bloody day, another piece of me wears away. It’s like I’m nothing.

I want stability, a real job, and a place to call my own.

Love.

I wanted Amy’s life .

Does that make me a bad person?

I was happy for her, but I was also jealous of her husband, her home and her happiness. And now? Now I feel guilty because I’m not jealous anymore. She’s gone. Her life, her dreams, her future—gone.

It was all ripped away.

The deaths of Amy and Max have left me seething with hatred. Part of me knows it’s wrong to condemn an entire group over one tragedy, but it’s hard not to.

The vampires do whatever they like, and human laws do not protect us when we venture over their borders. We are second-class citizens in a world of monsters, and nobody cares.

This is hell. Because hell isn’t fire, brimstone, a place of punishment for the wicked or unredeemed after death. Hell is here.

Baylor yawns, stretching his front paws and back legs at the same time like a starfish, and then he breaks wind. Loudly. The smell hits me immediately. It’s vile. I gag. It’s so bad I can taste it.

“Oh my god, Baylor.” I slap a hand over my nose, fumbling to roll the window down.

He sneezes once, curls up tighter and promptly goes back to sleep, utterly unfazed by the chemical warfare he’s unleashed.

I chuckle and turn my head, gulping in as much fresh air as possible.

Even the exhaust fumes in the supermarket car park smell better than that.

Trust Baylor to make me laugh. I close my eyes, inhale deeply and let the world blur at the edges.

If I let the panic ebb, maybe I’ll find some clarity and figure something out.

Baylor’s steady snoring fills the car, oddly soothing. Each breath anchors me as I focus on that gentle rhythm.

Meditation isn’t something I’ve ever been taught.

I let the odd gift I have—whatever it is—guide me.

I wouldn’t call myself psychic, but there’s…

something inside me. This pull, this awareness, resonates like an unspoken command.

A sense. A knowing. It sits between my chest and my gut, a gentle tug I’ve always felt.

Perhaps it’s pattern recognition. A canny intuition. I’ve always been adept at picking up shifts in energy, sensing the emotional charge in a room. It’s what made me so good at marketing—my ideas were always ahead of the curve.

Sometimes the urge to act builds so quickly that I respond before I realise what I’m doing.

The older I get, the more often it happens, like the night Amy and Max went out.

I had a bad feeling. I called her, but she didn’t pick up.

I never had the chance to warn her. Every day I wish I had tried harder.

But I was there to scoop Baylor up from the aftermath.

I know the human brain is complex. I know magic exists—at least for some. Like every human, I’ve been tested, and I’m not magical. Still, I trust my instincts when they scream for others even if I have spent ten years ignoring them for myself. If that isn’t magic, it’s close enough.

Colours swirl behind my closed lids, ribbons of shimmering smoke in shifting hues. Lightning flashes through the darkness; energy coils twist as though trying to show me something. I don’t resist. I let it wash over me.

And just like that, the panic slips away.

I open my eyes and glance at the newspaper.

All the suitable listings I’ve called are crossed out.

A tiny ad in the far corner of the classifieds catches my eye.

The text is so small it’s difficult to read.

Room for rent. Pets welcome. I initially dismissed it because it has no contact number, only an address.

I’m desperate enough to give it a go. I’m already in the car and have nothing to lose. I might as well check it out.

I enter the postcode, start the engine and drive out of the car park. Following the navigation system, I turn left. I drive southeast, towards the vampires.

The rain intensifies with every mile I drive towards the mystery accommodation. My fingers tap the steering wheel. I hope someone is home and that Derek hasn’t reached them first. It’s only about thirty minutes from the supermarket, yet I feel as though we have been on this road forever.

Beyond the tarmac stretches a barren scrubland, separating humans from vampires. I don’t want to live any closer to those monsters. The nearer we get to the Vampire Sector, the more my nerves prickle.

The more it feels like I’m chasing the sun.

The dampness from my wet clothing keeps fogging up the windows, forcing me to squint. I fiddle with the vents to clear the windscreen. The last thing I need is to drive into a ditch. I follow the navigation’s directions to turn right onto a narrow lane.

The road twists and turns through the thick trees and shrubs until the land opens, and a lone house appears through the downpour.

I ease to the kerb, my breath catching as I try to make out details .

Even with the pounding rain it looks quaint.

Immaculate red brick with decorative flourishes, even the roof sports ornate ridge tiles, not a single crack or chip.

The bay windows are perfect, their sash frames neat and straight, the glass gleaming.

I’m no architect, but it seems Victorian, likely predating the road.

Who knows. It’s not a farmhouse, yet here it stands alone. Odd. No neighbours, at least no human ones, as the Vampire Sector borders its back garden.

“Be a good boy. I won’t be long,” I tell Baylor, who’s now wide awake. I crack the windows, grab my jacket from the passenger seat and jump out, tugging it on. The thudding rain drowns out my thoughts as it hammers my hood. I will worry about drying it later if all this goes to shit.

This house could be a stroke of luck.

The day is dull and dripping, yet the house is not. It stands solid and bright, as though it has been waiting for me. For a moment I dare to think this is where things finally change.

Then another thought intrudes— this is too good to be true . Perhaps someone placed a joke advert in the paper to tease the owners; that seems more likely than our being allowed to live here.

Water seeps into my shoes as I ignore Baylor’s indignant howls at being left behind and walk along the pavement, peering around the back. A tall, solid brick wall encloses the rear garden, perfect for Baylor. Safe. Secure.

The naughty Husky will never escape it.

I make my way to the front of the house, slowing to a halt. The wooden gate unlatches itself with an unsettling, almost inviting creak .

Well, that’s creepy.

It must have a faulty latch.

Despite the weather, the front garden remains eerily perfect: bright flowers unscathed by wind or rain, lawn trimmed with near-laser precision.

As I look closer, I spot a subtle shimmer in the air.

Something compels me to touch it, see if it’s real or my imagination.

I wiggle my fingers through it, and a warm buzzing settles over my skin.

Yes, there’s magic here.

It’s a ward.

A magic-user’s house in the Human Sector right next to the vampires? It doesn’t make sense. Some über-rich people use magic to keep their property safe, but those types wouldn’t be renting out a room.

I eye the property with distrust, but my over-sensitive intuition—which should be screaming—is silent.

Well, I promised I’d be braver, so I take a deep breath, and without touching the creepy gate, step through the ward and start up the garden path.

The rain stops as though someone has turned off a tap. I glance back at the street. Water still pours from the sky, but not a single drop falls within the garden’s bounds.

Wow. That is a powerful ward.

I halt on the front step and study the door. It’s a deep teal, its stained-glass panels catching the dull daylight and scattering warm shards of red, gold and green. Bold shapes—diamonds and circles—glint like jewels set into wood.

I knock. My knuckles hardly graze the surface before the door swings inward, soundless, revealing a welcoming hallway floored with black-and-white chequered tiles.

Coloured light pools on the tiles, as though inviting me inside.

Ridiculously, I think this house might be my first glimpse of a true home.

It stands solid and immaculate as if to say, You are home now. Come in.

“Hello?” I call softly. “I’m here about the room.” My voice echoes, and the ward hums in response. I lean to the side, peering into the hall. An empty shoe rack sits off to one side, and a neatly polished staircase curves upwards.

The place seems old-fashioned, yet like the garden, shows no sign of wear. It is perfectly maintained.

That’s when I realise the house itself is magical.

A wizard’s house.

I stumble back. I have never seen one, few people have. I have only heard of them in mandatory magic lessons at school, and if my memory serves me correctly, they are pure magic, able to manipulate matter and relocate at will.

They have powers the Magic Sector doesn’t talk about.

Legend says a wizard’s house preserves its creator’s soul.

They are sentient.

Why anyone would choose to become a house after death, I don’t know. The idea rattles me. It’s not as though they get a second chance. They are just… stuck. Watching. Waiting.

It’s unsettling, like there’s a sinister side to it. I shake off the thought and my overactive imagination.

I came here for a reason. If a magical house is willing to accept my troublemaking dog and me, I’d be mad not to give it a shot. I square my shoulders, lift my chin and step across the threshold.

The door closes behind me with a bang.