Page 6 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Six

A vampire delivery on a random Friday evening. Brilliant. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but cancelling the order would mark my record, and I can’t risk that. I need this job. I don’t want to add fuel to the fire—if Theresa ever discovers where I work, she will report me.

I would not put it past her—meddling is her favourite hobby. One pointed question to the staff at the restaurant would reveal I’m a delivery driver, not a customer. I must stay squeaky-clean, so I cannot refuse this job.

I collect the order from a high-end restaurant, probably the priciest delivery I will ever make. A stasis spell keeps the food piping hot, as though it has just left the kitchen. At least I needn’t worry about the food getting cold. Expensive delivery, indeed.

To steady my nerves, I queue a motivational podcast. I listen intently, nodding along to the podcaster as her soothing voice reminds me to master my destiny. Thirty minutes later—having learned I should give my nasty inner voice a name—I sail past the turn-off for home.

Moments after that, an enormous sign looms over the lanes: warning: you are entering the vampire sector .

My heart skips a beat, and I immediately silence the podcast so I can concentrate.

Unlike the Shifter Sector in the north and the Magic Sector in the southwest, there are no towering walls or imposing barricades here.

The road widens into toll-style lanes, each fronted by an empty booth.

A green light tells me I may proceed—humans entering the Vampire Sector need no papers.

The opposite carriageway is a different matter entirely, lined with guards and identification checks. As a licensed delivery driver, the electronic tag on the car will let me skip the queue on the way back.

The border is quiet now; just before sunset it will swarm with traffic. A glance at the clock tells me I have a shade over two hours of daylight. Plenty of time.

Behind me the checkpoint shrinks, and the tarmac grows silk-smooth. On each building, the windows glitter with UV-blocking glass. Everything is shinier here, almost too pristine. The farther I drive, the bigger the properties grow, and the owners’ wealth becomes impossible to miss.

Vampires are territorial; they need space for their ‘family.’ They live in small groups, collectively known as Clans, each made up of a master vampire, lesser vampires, fledglings, thralls, donors, and daytime guards. Serving a Clan is—so they claim—an honour .

An honour to serve a corpse.

Vampires are the creepiest of all the derivatives.

The vampire strain of DNA activates only once its host has drawn a final breath.

Only death awakens the true magic in their blood.

Reanimated, they remain unrotting yet undeniably dead, their existence revolving around an insatiable need for blood of the living.

They are parasites. Parasites still legally classed as human . Human. They fought for that designation, and who would dare deny a killing machine?

Even so, they are not all-powerful. At dawn, something in their magic flips, draining their strength and rendering them inert until nightfall.

Perhaps daylight also recharges them—a surge their bodies cannot bear—so the magic in their blood shuts them down, like a remote-control car that has run out of power.

This also means direct sunlight is fatal.

Fledglings are living vampires awaiting death.

They are little more than marginally enhanced humans—sharper senses, greater speed—but nothing extraordinary.

I am not even sure they drink blood. They do age and show some sensitivity to sunlight, yet once they die and their vampiric powers awaken, magic restores them to their biological prime. Perfect for hunting prey.

Thralls are long-term blood donors and servants.

They begin as humans with trace amounts of vampiric DNA, but years of ritual bloodletting and blood magic transform them.

Regular feedings—both the giving and receiving of their sire’s blood—alter their chemistry until they exist halfway between human and vampire.

A thrall survives entirely at its vampire’s whim. From what I’ve read, they have no free will and must receive regular doses of their master’s blood simply to stay alive.

A roadside sign jogs my memory: somewhere ahead stands a castle, residence of the Grand Master of the Vampirical Council, the ruler of the Sector, some say of the world.

A castle, how original. Right on cue, wrought-iron gates appear, opening onto a tunnel of trees and flanked by more armed guards than I saw at the border.

Yeah, vampires are scary.

Traffic thickens. Pedestrians bundle along in heavy coats despite the warm evening.

Their blank stares unsettle me. Upscale shops, trees and bright flowerbeds frame the pavements like something from a glossy brochure.

A lake shimmers to my left, complete with an orderly jogging track, while sleek apartment blocks rise to my right.

When the buildings start to cluster closer, the houses shrink, still immaculate but modest by comparison.

My navigation chimes; I indicate and turn left onto the delivery street.

Every garden is manicured to within an inch of its life.

One home has its side gate ajar, rocking on its hinges with the breeze.

Through the gap, I glimpse an enormous commercial bin.

What on earth does a private house need with a monster bin like that?

I ease up to the address and nose the car against the kerb, engine ticking as it settles. The house has a beautiful oak porch. The beams are thick—probably as thick as my thigh—and most likely handmade. It’s very pretty, with blue flowers twisting around it, and the front door is a cheerful yellow.

I grab the bag and jog up the path. A quick photo of the yellow door proves I have delivered. Before I can knock, it flies open.

“Good afternoon.” I don’t make eye contact—I’m too busy fiddling with the app. Why won’t the photo upload?

“Nice of you to turn up. What took you so long?” a man snarls.

“My apologies, sir,” I reply, keeping my tone friendly, professional.

I won’t argue with someone who is ‘hangry.’ “The restaurant is on the other side of the border. A forty-minute drive. But please don’t worry, the food is under a stasis spell, so it’s still piping hot.

” I finally upload the delivery photo, then look up—and nearly forget to breathe.

My smile falters, and I stare, stunned.