Page 7 of Zomromcom

Edie’s knees weakened. She clutched the refrigerator doors tightly, unable to stop gaping at the neat rows of blood bags in front of her.

Vampires weren’t somehow inherently more dangerous than elves or fae.

Even the weakest representatives of all three species could kill her with ease, as desired.

But idle speculation about the Supernatural status of her neighbor was different from being confronted with the reality of his superior capabilities and potential for deadly violence.

He had a fridge full of prepackaged blood. He didn’t need hers.

But the realization that he could take it from her, whether she was willing or not, chilled her more thoroughly than the refrigerated air on her bare legs.

“I…” She swallowed hard, still staring blankly at the tidy rows of flat-bottomed bags.

“I kind of knew you didn’t look like a reaper.

More like you just got kicked out of an exclusive, pretentious European club for surly hot dudes because you were far too surly and hot, even for your fellow members. ”

Her bravado-compliment-insult combo should have distracted him from her sudden nervousness. Alas.

“Human.” When he yawned, he didn’t bother covering his mouth. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

“How comforting.” Despite her sarcasm, she relaxed a little, because he wasn’t wrong.

Reports about Supernaturals—their habits, powers, vulnerabilities, cultures, and organizational structures—typically contradicted one another, leaving humans like her unsure as to what was truth and what was mere myth.

There did seem to be widespread agreement in four areas concerning vampires, though.

First: Vampires, like all other Supernaturals, weren’t made but born. Supernaturals weren’t supernatural at all, in fact, but simply a different version of natural, with varying abilities depending on their species.

Second: Only the lifeblood of humans could satisfy vampiric hunger.

There was no substitute. Synthetic versions sickened vamps, and animal blood left them as hungry as ever.

Even fellow Supernaturals tasted like fetid rot to Not-Chad’s kind.

The same substance circulating in her veins kept both of them alive.

These days, humans willingly sold their blood, which was then purified and pasteurized, packaged for sale, and made available at every supermarket, convenience store, and wholesale retailer.

It was all very sterile and bloodless , ironically, apart from the occasional vampire gone murderously rogue and… the flesh trade.

That was the third thing reports reliably indicated: Certain humans flocked to vampire sex workers for their reputed skill as lovers and the pleasure of their bite, while other vampires flocked to humans who offered their blood straight from the tap, so to speak. For a price.

She’d never participated in any such exchange.

Her avoidance wasn’t due to moral abhorrence.

It wasn’t even due to fear, because the whole idea was too abstract for that.

Too impossible. There simply weren’t very many vampires out there, just as there weren’t many of any Supernatural species.

Only humans procreated reliably, and only their vast numerical superiority kept them from becoming either chattel to or victims of much more powerful species.

The vampires who did exist certainly hadn’t flocked to the Containment Zone, so Not-Chad was her first up-close-and-personal vampire.

Fourth and lastly: Vampires could tear out throats before their prey noticed the slightest movement.

Despite ample opportunity, Not-Chad hadn’t exsanguinated her yet, though, which was encouraging. And if he didn’t intend to do so in the future, as he’d just intimated, all the better.

His expression had turned thoughtful. “Killing you would save me from this tedious conversation, however.”

“Ha-ha.” Despite her anxiety, Edie knew when she was being trolled. Even though he wasn’t an actual troll. “No Miller Lite in your fridge, I see. I assume you don’t have any pomegranate juice either?”

He waved a hand toward the appliance’s contents. “It’s in the same color family.”

She snorted. “I’ll take that as a no . Fine, then. I’ll wash down my burrito with water.”

After opening a few empty cabinets, she found two fluted wineglasses, claimed one, filled it at the kitchen sink, and set it on the island.

Then she traversed the polished-concrete plain in search of her lost burrito.

It remained where she’d abandoned it on the console table, sadly smushed but otherwise intact.

“You’re…” He sounded horrified. “You’re still going to eat that?”

Dramatically, she flattened her hand over her eyes and scanned her environs. “What? Am I missing the four-course meal your chef prepared for me?”

“You used it to whack a zombie .” His expression of stunned dismay transformed him into Bro Chad—whose mouth hung slightly open, always—for several entertaining moments. “Edie, no . Those creatures are founts of disease.”

“The foil didn’t rip, so it’s cool.” Returning to the kitchen, she reclaimed her wineglass, settled herself on a low-backed stool at the island, and unwrapped her burrito. Which was literally cool now, but fine. Needs must. “Do you have a plate? Or silverware? How about napkins?”

He was muttering to himself, elbows again propped on the island, his face in his hands.

“Did I offend you and your delicate sheepskin-thonged sensibilities? My apologies, dude ,” she said sweetly. “Never mind. I can look for everything while you recover.”

“I’m offended at myself .” Muffled by his palms, his voice sounded plaintive. “How is this even possible?”

Her brow furrowed. “How is what even possible?”

Apart from a tool to open his blood packs, his drawers proved empty, and she didn’t find any plates either. No matter. She’d simply eat with her hands. Luckily, his desolate pantry contained a stack of cloth napkins, several of which she filched.

His muttering continued uninterrupted.

She sat on the stool again and picked up her burrito.

“Okay, then. If you won’t answer that question, here are four more: What’s your actual name, Chad?

How do you know about those cameras still working inside the compound?

Do all vampires have fancy underground estates like yours?

And if you’re a vampire, why have I seen you in broad daylight? ”

He raised his head, cynicism hardening his face once more.

“I mean…” After taking a bite, she shielded her mouth with one hand and kept talking. “You have a freaking tan . How does that work?”

He turned up his perfect nose. “There is such a thing as self-tanner, human.”

Sounded like a dodge to her. “Is that how you got your tan, then?”

When she didn’t wither under his suspicious scrutiny, he eventually sighed and relaxed a tad, his expression softening. Did that mean he was trusting her with the truth? Or had he simply come up with a plausible lie to sell her?

“My kind once avoided sunlight because darkness allowed us to feed from humans without drawing undue attention,” he told her.

She chewed her burrito and listened intently, hoping he’d be honest. Hoping he’d tell her something beyond what she’d already discovered in her years of research and close scrutiny of recently declassified documents.

For millennia, people had whispered about the existence of creatures with abilities beyond normal human understanding, but without evidence, those whispers had always been discounted as the wild-eyed speculation of the gullible and overdramatic.

Until approximately thirty years ago, when a feral werewolf’s attack on a hiker was caught on crystal-clear video, which the government promptly confiscated and proclaimed fake.

Publicly, anyway. As the declassified documents confirmed, that was when secret preparations began for what high-level officials considered an inevitable war for human survival against the newly discovered werewolves.

In a compound just outside the nation’s capital, Project Hunter was born.

The scientists recruited to the project worked around the clock for years and were encouraged to manipulate genetics, formulate proprietary serums, and do whatever they felt necessary—however untested, however ethically abhorrent—to create nonhuman supersoldiers that could track and kill werewolves or die in the attempt, with no need for further human bloodshed.

The lone werewolf the government managed to capture alive fought hard to survive the scientists’ experiments, but eventually bled to death when its—her—throat was slit.

With that new knowledge of their enemy’s vulnerabilities, the trainers focused their efforts.

The supersoldiers were taught to carry silver knives and slash at the necks of their victims, and the third iteration of the creatures seemed to be nearing optimal performance…

until the scientists gave them a final, fatal serum and scrambled their DNA a final, fatal time.

Afterward, the supersoldiers could no longer wield tools, even a knife.

They couldn’t swim, climb, or reason beyond a certain animal cunning.

What they could do: rip out throats with their claws and teeth, tear off their victims’ heads, and eat their brains.

Starting with the scientists and officials holding them captive, continuing with the previous generations of supersoldiers, and eventually moving on to the hapless world outside the compound.

Their hunger was endless, their strength and speed monstrous.

They claimed countless victims. Not only common humans like herself, but the Enhanced too, those rare beneficiaries of a fickle genetic lottery, born with special abilities.

Witches, warlocks, oracles, pyrokinetics, telepaths…

no matter their talents, they all fell beneath the onslaught.

As did an untold number of werewolves, vampires, trolls, and other Supernatural beings who could be killed by decapitation.