Bloodworks

Kentucky. Same time. Around the same place.

The sharp scent of iron was the first thing that hit Samuel, sharp enough to make his jaw tighten. Creatures like him had their senses turned up the umpteenth degree. In its own sick way, it was almost nostalgic. Almost.

The blood bank was quieter than he’d figured. Dim lights, sterile counters, and a row of sleek magick storage tanks humming softly in the corner, like they were trying not to draw attention to themselves.

A boy behind the desk perked up, his eyes a little too eager for someone in the blood business. He couldn’t have been older than twenty when he’d turned—not that it mattered much now.

"Evening!"

His voice was hoarser than he'd have liked. "Whole blood for today."

"'Kay!" The boy grinned, already reaching for a clipboard. “Lemme help you get set up. Just sit right there cross-legged, get yourself comfortable. Will be back in a jiffy.”

A short while later, it was done. The boy was logging the donation when Samuel did something that caught his attention. Quietly, smoothly, he used magic on himself—just a subtle weave to keep his complexion healthy while his body drew more blood from its reserves.

“Whoa,” the boy blurted, wide-eyed. “I only ever seen our kind do that. But your blood…” He leaned forward, squinting. “Look thick as bear fat. What’s a mister like you got to do with helping us folk?”

Samuel’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Blood magic’s hard to come by in Kentucky, apparently. So, I figured that I just do what I can to help.”

“Well, it’s appreciated. Can’t have enough these days, you know? Shortages hit everyone.”

Samuel nodded faintly. “When your platoon’s entrenched, comrades bleeding out, and the nearest healing mage is three miles away, you figure out how to stretch the supply.” He didn’t look at the vampire, instead focusing on the counter like it might reveal something more interesting.

“You were a soldier?” the young man asked, his enthusiasm barely masked. “Civil War? You must be old!”

“Well, not really, relatively speaking. Still got some spurs in my steps. Finished my service when it ended. I did what I could. Didn’t save everyone, though.” He paused, watching the flicker of interest spark in the vampire’s eyes. “Vampires had it the worst. Blood doesn’t clot so easy for you folk. Bad news at the bottom of a hill.”

“That’s… that’s right. Not many humans know that.”

Samuel glanced at him now, his expression unreadable. “I’ve had time to learn.”

“I appreciate your service for the Union, sir. What division? My brother was in the—”

Samuel raised a hand, cutting him off gently. “Let’s not get into details. You won’t like it when I elaborate.”

“Well, whatever the story, thank you. Can’t imagine what it was like back then.”

The vampire took the cooler and busied himself logging the donation. Samuel adjusted his coat, glancing briefly at the room’s faint reflection in the sterile glass walls.

That was, until the door swung open, and trouble walked in with spurs on their boots.

When the group barged into a bloody blood bank of all things, Samuel could’ve walked out—should’ve, really.

But he saw the boy’s hands tremble, and that was enough to stop him. "Why don’t you settle this outside, before we waste good blood and bad manners in the same breath?”

Their leader, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a crooked sneer, jabbed a finger at the vampire.

“Boy, gimme that blood."

He hesitated, clutching the cooler closer to his chest. Samuel stepped in. “Please. Let's talk like civilized folk. Don’t have to bother yourself. It’s already clean.”

“Doubt it. Don't want any talk of civility coming from the likes of you,” the man sneered, stepping closer.

“It goes through a second cleaning."

“Werewolf blood don’t clean. Stinks worse than swamp gas. Add someone colored like you? Bad news.”

“Oh. It's one of these. Can this wait?”

"I'd rather not."

"My vitality is gone too. All stored up in tubes. You really gonna take your anger out on a poor man like this?"

"You ain't deserving of no honor, mutt. None your kind do, especially Confederate blood. Black man from the Confederates, a werewolf. Hell of a conundrum. Yet you fought for them all the same."

The vampire boy finally spoke up. His words did not match the trepidation in his voice. “Don’t you men feel ashamed? Look at that Red Cross. Sanctara is watching over you, and you promote violence in her presence?”

"My daughter died cold and scared thanks to them Confederate boys! Tell'er that!"

Samuel stepped in. "Hell of an assumption to make, sir."

"C'mon. Contract said to look for a neck scar. Confederate werewolf division bore neck scars. You got a neck scar. Every mutt I kill, the same story. It ain't hard to connect the dots."

“Settle your business outside," the boy pleaded. "B-but not here. Not in Her domain.”

The man's lips twitched, just barely.

“Gods died a century ago, and now we are left to pick up after the piles of shit they left behind. You think invoking some goddess is gonna scare me? ”

“It will when I get the town sheriff to s-sicc on you."

Samuel adjusted his coat, his tone calm. “I’ll clear this up at the Union Hunter Association head office. Amnesty’s a thing in New York.”

The man’s sneer deepened. “People on the List ain’t good people. They were already knee-deep in bad territory before they got flagged. No innocents get caught—Magick Soul Scan sees to that. And the MSS don’t lie.”

“Ever occurred to you that it could get it wrong? Or be forged?”

"When it’s two SEPARATE agencies after your ass, it's hard to look at anything in your favor. And frankly son, I don't give a damn."

…

"Fine. Let's walk, you and I."

\\

Samuel’s boots crunched against the gravel as he stepped out into the street, his coat shifting with the cold night breeze.

Behind them, a small crowd had gathered along the edges of the wooden sidewalk. Among them stood the sheriff, a wiry man with a weathered face and a star pinned to his chest. His hat was tilted low, his eyes locked on Samuel.

“You’re just gonna stand there?” Samuel asked, his voice steady but sharp.

The sheriff shook his head slowly, spitting tobacco into the dirt. “Ain’t my place, son. Sixth Amendment says so clear as day—I ain’t obligated to step between a Hunter and their Mark.”

Samuel blinked, before letting out a soft, exasperated, “Shit.”

The sheriff shrugged, leaning against a post. “You know the law. The hunt’s clean as long as it don’t spill into town property.”

He adjusted his coat, hiding the faint scars on his arms. The past didn’t heal easy, not when you’d done things you couldn’t forget. But redemption wasn’t about forgetting—it was about doing better every damn day.

The man stepped out, his boys in tow. A distance aways between him, the man's eyes morphed into a look that could kill.

"I'm afraid there's no scenario here where you walk out of this without being in a body bag. Killed a lot of Dogs in my time." He twiddled a shiny revolver bullet between his fingers. "Silver, see?"

Samuel adjusted his coat as he stepped closer to the man, his voice calm but deliberate. "Ever considered the reason why they might be after me?"

"Don’t know, don’t care."

"Well, I’mma tell you anyway. See, I’ve got information they need. Information they’d rather not let other people know. Information that could get a whole nation-state in trouble, per se."

The man narrowed his eyes, his expression flickering with curiosity despite himself.

"Slavery wasn’t the straw that broke the camel’s back," Samuel continued, his voice dropping lower, quieter. "But this will."

He stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the gravel. "Something’s coming. From the east. A power we ain’t seen before. Something… big. Something I feel has to do with our old pal, the infernal engine."

The man’s sneer faltered, his fingers twitching against the gun’s grip. "You’re full of shit."

"Look, I know you’ve got mouths to feed," Samuel said, calmly. "And I know they’d rather see you home safe than standing here playing cowboy with a man you don’t understand."

The man’s grip tightened on the revolver, his knuckles whitening. "What I understand is that letting you walk free makes me a liar. A coward. What kind of example would I set if I let a rabid dog like you walk free?"

Samuel tilted his head, his amber eyes catching the lamplight. “An example for your kids, maybe,” he said quietly. “To leave folk who don’t trouble you well enough alone.”

The man stiffened, his fingers tightening on the grip of his revolver.

“No, I’m offering you peace. Leave. Go home. Put your iron away. I’d hate to make a widow maker out of you.

"And, all I am saying is... there’s a reason why it’d take two Agencies to silence the messenger, sir.”

Finally, the man sneered, raising his gun. "Shut your mangy ass up and fight."

Samuel sighed, his body shifting subtly as his nails sharpened, claws glinting faintly under the lamplight.

"Sure thing."