Bleeding Mars: Looking Down by Asher J Quazar

BLEEDING MARS: Looking down

ASHER J QUAZAR

BLEEDING MARS: LOOKING DOWN by Asher Quazar

Copyright © 2024 by Asher Quazar All Rights Reserved First Digital Publication November 2024 Cover Design by Finnialla Wright Published by PULP Literary Magazine pulplitmag.com

“Her pedigree is excellent. Quarter Old-World German.” Angelique propped her toddler up on Klark’s desk. “We’re in discussions with the Yasutakes about an arranged marriage, too.”

Klark pulled his tablet back as a thread of drool dropped from the kid’s chin onto the polished mineral-wood table. “Congratulations. Do you mind if I ask her a few questions?”

“Oh—yes. This is an audition, after all.” She placed the girl back on her booster seat and smoothed down her blown-out curls and tutu.

Klark referenced her application details on his tablet, confirming the kid had gotten in by referral; that made things easy. The girl was the right demographic for both Martian and offworld content, but a little too quiet to be a headliner. Her bio-parents wouldn’t be happy about that placement, but he’d deal with that headache later. As of now, his job was to fill in a couple boxes on her contract and get her onboarded to a long career of standing behind the kid of some Old-World oligarch.

Klark offered the girl a gentle smile, hoping to lighten the pressure on her. “Can you tell me your name, sweetheart? Full name, as clear as you can.”

“Mmhmm.” The girl nodded, blinking one eyelid at a time.

Shit; this again.

Klark ran his hand over his clean-cut hair and set his tablet aside. “Ma’am, what type of downer did you give her?”

“Well—” Angelique sat up straight. “Our agent said a dose of cold medicine would keep her calm...”

“A child’s dose, right?”

She chewed on her bottom lip; her kid was getting pretty sweaty, too. “Are you going to report me?”

He discreetly scrolled to the genetic parentage section of her application. She was only Devron’s second grandcousin, but—bleeding Mars—the kid was their sire’s. Klark did not want to be the one to inform a stuffy immortal that his surrogate had over-medicated his new child, but he had to prioritize what was best for this little girl.

“Wait here,” Klark said. “I need to make a few calls.”

“No! Please—they’ll take her away from me,” Angelique blubbered as tears gathered on her fake lashes. “They treat me like a glorified babysitter, but she’s my daughter. I gave birth to her, marsdamn it, and I love her more than they ever will. I-I just didn’t want her to get too hyper and ruin her future. I—” “Angelique, this interview is a formality; your daughter was a Zenimount the day she was born.”

Klark pushed his chair back and stood. “I’ll figure out what to tell our sires later, but we’ve got to get her to a hospital immediately.”

Angelique’s eyes instantly cleared, and she scooped her daughter up. “Yes. I’ll pop over right now.”

She barreled past him for the door, not even bothering to grab her purse.

“Wait—I was...going to go with you.” Klark picked up the abandoned handbag, astonished by how fast she had gotten past him in those heels. As impressive as her getaway had been, there was no way she planned on running her negligent ass to an urgent care center.

Klark had been played, and whether Angelique’s plan was to pretend this had never happened or to skip town with her sire’s genetic offspring in tow, he’d have some tough questions to answer when she got caught—or if she got caught. She was probably betting that he had a good enough handle on family politics to know that reporting her now required admitting he was the one who’d let her walk out. She was right; he did know better, but he couldn’t help himself when a kid’s safety was on the line.

He threw open the door to the hall and jogged around the corner to the filming sets. The starlettes and interns in charge of wrangling them were finishing up their last takes for the day, but Klark kept an eye out for any disgruntled legal guardians who might try to get

between him and Devron’s office.

“I could use some help with the talent over here.” Rhys kicked aside some of the oversized building blocks scattered on the colorful foam flooring of his set. “The kid on the Lunar stage threw up something green, and I know for a fact his parents can’t afford spinach.”

“It’ll have to wait.” Klark waved him off. “Devron’s referral poisoned her kid.”

“No shit?” Rhys crunched his gelled hair, putting a lump in his shiny blonde pomp. “I heard Angelique was a ditz, but this is probably her last strike, huh?”

“Yeah, she’s toast.” Klark grimaced. Losing custody was a given, but for a screwup this bad, they’d strip her of the family name and excommunicate her. Klark almost didn’t blame her for running.

“So.” Rhys jogged alongside him, hopping over the short walls between the filming pens.

“You coming to Stellaire tonight to celebrate the promotion?”

“Whose promotion?” Klark turned the corner and spotted his sire’s office.

“Yours, man! That sponsored content pitch you did for Ambrose Blood Acquisitions was pure platinum. If you want them to donate to you instead of the other guys, you need to get them young—downright inhuman. No wonder they loved it.”

“Yeah, inhumane. Look, I’ll be right out. If there’s glitter in that kid’s puke, he ate slime. If it has soap bubbles, he’ll get the squirts, but it’ll work its way out.” Klark grabbed the doorknob, but then hesitated. “But call Poison Control if it looks serious.”

When he pulled open the door, Devron’s chest hit him like a Magna train. Before he fell to his ass, Devron caught him by the shoulders and yanked him into his office.

With dizzying speed, he threw Klark into a seat, then slammed and locked the door.

“What the hell is going on?”

Klark caught himself in the office chair, planting his feet on the ground to stop it from spinning. “Angelique—Call security. She made a run for it.”

“They’ve already got her. She’s bawling like an infant while the actual child can barely stand.”

Devron narrowed his indigo eyes at Klark. “You were supposed to sign her. What happened?”

“She overdosed her child on cold medicine. Call medical.”

“Dear Zephyr.” Devron snatched his closed-circuit desk phone and dialed. “What were you thinking, letting her go? Do you realize how many people saw her? This will be impossible to keep quiet.”

Klark’s palm got slick as he gripped the vinyl handle of Angelique’s purse. “I miscalculated.”

Devron gave the details to the emergency dispatcher, then dropped into his leather chair, pushing his pale fingers through his tuxedo-black hair. “You’ve got to think before you act, Klark. A mistake like this reflects poorly on me as your mentor.”

He nodded, having some trouble meeting the disappointed look of his sire. “It won’t happen again.”

“It will if you can’t keep a tighter leash on your empathetic impulses. Don’t let them control you, and never let a fledgling like Angelique take advantage of them.”

“My deepest apologies, Sire. I should have anticipated she would act irrationally when her child was involved.” He’d gotten too caught up in identifying with Angelique as a parent and forgotten the first lesson Devron had taught him: Empathy was a tool for understanding your opponent, not for giving in to them. Klark sucked at that last part, but he’d been practicing being more of an asshole.

“It’s not her child; she’s a surrogate, and a poor one at that. But I suppose the important thing is that we’ve separated her from the child. You’re still young, so I can’t expect you to have mastered your emotions yet.” Devron stretched out his long legs on his desk. “But, since I have you here, why don’t we get your evaluation out of the way? I’m sure you’ve been going batty waiting for the news.”

“Yes, sir.” Klark stood, bowed, and then sat again. He and Devron had known each other so long that they usually skipped the formalities, but evaluations only came once a decade, and getting sat down for one right after a scolding had him sweating in his blazer.

Wearing a set-ready smile, Devron planted his cactus-leather loafers on the carpet.

“Here’s the good news: I got you a serious bonus.”

“I...don’t know what to say. I mean, thanks.”

Klark should have said that with more enthusiasm—this was good news—but he didn’t feel either way about it. His sweats were gone, and his chest was perfectly hollow. Devron tilted his head sympathetically. “I know it’s not what you were expecting, but we had to make some tough decisions this quarter.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything, so this is great. Really.” Klark smiled, but it hurt his face, like tensing a muscle for too long.

Devron stood and turned to the oil portrait of Zephyr Zenimount, the family founder and patriarch, hanging on his wall. Great; he was about to do the talk again.

Devron peered over his shoulder at Klark, eyes glittering. “Not the Mr. Zenimount speech. You can say it; I won’t hold it against you.”

Klark put Angelique’s purse on the desk and glanced at his sire. “It creeps people out when you guys do that.”

“Us guys?” He laughed. “Was the rite so bad you forgot when I made you one of us?”

“No, but—” Klark snorted and pointed at the portrait; Mr. Zenimount’s stance oozed power, and his venerable violet gaze betrayed all the centuries he had seen. “Old Zephi Zeni there, now that’s an immortal.”

“With patience, hard work, and loyalty, you’ll get there too.” Devron cupped his hands behind his back, sporting the noble posture he’d inherited from the couple of chromosomes he shared

with their patriarch. “The deal you brokered with the Ambroses was excellent—good enough for a band up—but I had to make a choice. My sire keeps a tally, and if I can fill it, you, me, Rhys, Alice, Kai—we can all get out of this content-farm crap and move up a level, together.”

“I get it. I’m not upset.” Klark looked up at the bright eyes of the man who had brought him into this family.

He’d watched Devron argue with his sires, fight to promote him from a nobody stage tech to a talent manager over the line of legacy applicants. While they spread rumors about him being a diversity hire—trying to leverage the fact he was one of the few Black members in a very White family—Devron recognized him for the quality of his work. He’d put the scar on Klark’s neck that marked him as a Zenimount, irrespective of his adopted status, and granted him the blood that made him an immortal, even if a young one.

“You’re pissed, you just haven’t noticed yet.” Devron brushed his thumb over the mark on Klark’s jugular in a little act of familiarity that only sire and scion shared. “But it’ll be worth it.

You don’t want a jump promotion, anyway. My sire is a dick.”

Klark chuckled. “Imagine us as sibling scions. I was blooded a couple of decades ago and you’re, what, a century old?”

“One hundred and twenty this year.” Devron grabbed his briefcase and Angelique’s pink, feathery purse. “Can you lock up for me? I’m late for a date.”

Klark mocked a salute. “Aye-aye, Sire. Show the lady something special.”

“There’s the goofy jerk I turned.” Devron shot him a finger gun and a fanged smile as he left his office.

Klark scratched the scar on his neck. It was a weird feeling—impossible to forget—having a man’s teeth under your skin. It didn’t help that a crowd from Corporate had shuttled in to watch the ceremony. He’d felt more human than ever in that moment, as close to death as he’d ever be again, but he didn’t wake up seeing other people as food. At this stage of the process, the only blood he needed was an injection of his sire’s here and there.

The first dose had drastically slowed his aging, but ever since last year’s chest-pain scare, it was like his body had frozen in time completely. Whatever the hospital had done to him while he was out fixed his back pain, too, but now the doctor was always on his ass for skipping his hemoglobin treatments. It didn’t feel like he needed them yet, and even the generics were damn expensive. A promotion would have helped with that. A promotion would have helped with a lot of things.

“Ooh, that’s a weird face.” Rhys peeked past the door. “Bad news?”

“The kid’s safe, I got a bonus, and we’re all still employed; what’s bad about that?”

“A bonus.” Rhys nodded thoughtfully. “That we’re going to quadruple at Stellaire, right?”

“And give Nora another reason to sharpen her stakes? I’ll pass.” Klark locked Devron’s door and then tested the handle. “I’m sure it’s stock options with a million strings attached. The last bonus I got took a decade to settle.”

“Well, there’s always next eval, right? I was kinda hoping for my first raise this year, but guess I didn’t do as well as I thought.” He shrugged. “It’s tough to compete, standing next to you.”

Rhys was too young to realize that the budget was written with guys like him in mind. For every high-performer that got a four-percent bump, there was somebody like Rhys getting nothing but more candles on their birthday cake and digits in their medical bills. Klark would have thought Devron’s great grandnephew would have been taught to climb the ladder from birth, but those cushy private schools had kept him too comfortable. A guy like Rhys wouldn’t bite someone even if he was starving. That was what Klark liked about him, but every Zenimount had to wear in their fangs, eventually.

“If you stress about it, it’ll only give you wrinkles, bro.” Rhys patted Klark’s shoulder. “I’m sure it’ll all shake out.”

“Yeah.” Klark shrugged him off. “Let’s figure out what that kid ate and try to get out of here by five.” ***

Klark sniffed his hands. Even though he had scrubbed them raw, he swore something still smelled like diarrhea. Then again, he’d always had a weak stomach.

With a bouquet of organic daisies under his arm, he scanned his wrist at the door and stepped into his flat. “Nora, I tried to get home on time, but a kid got into the soap again.”

When he stepped out of the entryway, he found a plastic-wrapped dinner waiting on the quartz countertop, but his wife was absent and the lights were dim. He tossed the flowers on the floor and paced to the bedroom.

There she was in her nightgown, sitting on the crisp bedsheets, applying cream to two fresh punctures above her hip bone.

Klark beat his fist on the open door, mocking a knock. “I don’t remember giving you those,” he gritted out.

“You’re early.” Nora replaced the bandage over her fresh love bite and then walked past him to the kitchen. “Did you see they repainted the grass out front? I guess it’s finally spring.” Klark followed behind, struggling to keep his tone level. “I’m an hour late.”

She pulled two waffles from the freezer and dropped them into the toaster. “You’re forty minutes late, which is twenty minutes less late than you’ve ever been.”

“When did he leave? Who was it this time?”

“You know you don’t want me to tell you that.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, daring him to disagree.

He dropped into the chair in front of his cold dinner. “So this is it? Eighteen years, my mother’s wedding dress, and you—” “If I wanted a divorce, I would tell you.”

He buried his face in his hands. His cheeks were hot as hell, but his palms were corpse-cold.

“You said you wouldn’t do this again...”

“I said I wouldn’t make it obvious.” She crossed her arms and faced the patio window.

Turquoise rooftop pools lit the skyline, dotted with plastic palm trees, spray-painted lawns, and potted gardenia bushes with cream-white flowers.

“You better drink,” Nora said. “Dr. Ruiz said your red blood cell count finally dropped.

Congratulations.”

“Did you want me to catch you? Are you trying to tell me you’re—” he whispered as if that would make the possibility more distant, “polyamorous?”

“No, of course not, I—” When her waffles jumped from the toaster, she waved the thought away. “Never mind.”

“I’m so worthless to you that I don’t even deserve an explanation?”

Nora turned her cool pewter eyes to him. They were beautiful against her dark curtains of hair, like twin moons rising between midnight waterfalls. The silver threads on her crown glistened like starlight on water. She thought she looked old, but she couldn’t recognize how beautiful she’d been at twenty, either; wearing all black with smudged eyeliner.

“I only have a few years left of this,” Nora said. “And you...you look exactly how I found you.”

He took her hands, so pale against his own. “What do you think these men do for you? Let me give it to you instead.”

“Did you get the promotion?”

Klark’s mouth dried up. “I got a bonus. I’ll buy you dinner. Let me get you a bag or something.”

“When you take me out, people ask if I’m your mother.” She threw his hand aside.

“Devron promised—how long does he think he can keep us waiting?”

“The budget was tight—”

“Don’t you dare defend him. He knows what he’s doing. I think he enjoys watching me die.”

“You’re not dying. I won’t let that happen. We just need to wait for him to move up to third line and then he can bring me up to second.”

“He’ll keep you waiting forever because you let him. That’s what makes you the perfect doormat, but I can’t afford to sit here watching you clean his boots any longer.”

She meant that. This was it. He had known it was coming, but not this soon.

“Are you going to leave me for this guy?” Klark asked.

Dead-eyed, Nora grabbed one of her waffles and took a dry bite. “He has a girlfriend.”

“Of course he does. You think you’ll find someone willing to sleep with a cheater who doesn’t?”

Her frozen expression cracked; tears leaked through. She rushed down the hall and shut the bedroom door quietly.

Klark didn’t follow her. He slammed his fist on his synth-egg quiche, shattering the bowl.

“Damn it—” He gripped his hand and then pulled a shard of ceramic out.

His blood was darker than he remembered it being, and it gelled over his wound remarkably fast. He wished he could give some of it to Nora now, but that’s not how things worked. Even if he’d gotten that promotion, and permission to make a scion, he couldn’t choose anyone he wanted. His sires still had the final say. He had explained it to Nora—that saving up for a third-party treatment plan was their best option if she couldn’t get her career off the ground —but she saw their account balances. At this rate, she’d be sixty before they had enough, and until then, she’d continue letting any asshole with a set of fangs bite her so she could pretend they were putting a brand on her neck.

Klark plugged his nose and tossed back the ounce of blood sitting behind his mangled dinner.

He chased it with a full glass of water and a mouthful of flattened quiche.

Fuck it, he needed to get out of here.

He headed for the door, but as he grabbed his coat and shades, his foot knocked against a briefcase sitting under the coat rack. It was made of vintage, organic leather—like Devron’s. He knew it was in his head, but the bitter brine of pig blood still lingered on his tongue. *** “I knew you’d show up!” With his tie loosened and a whiskey double in his hand, Rhys threw his arm around Klark.

Klark snatched Rhys’s drink and downed it in one go. “What are we playing?”

Rhys waved dismissively at the slot machines and poker tables. “Don’t get caught up in the lights. We’re here to invest.”

“We’re at the Casino de l’Anneau Stellaire to invest? You’re high.”

“You’ve never played the market?” Rhys turned around, walking backwards with his arms spread. “You sure picked the right night to learn! The first quarter reports get beamed from Earth in an hour.”

Klark grabbed Rhys’s arms and pulled him aside before he backed into a pair of silk-suited Venusians who looked like they’d bite his head off if he so much as breathed on them.

“It’s packed with off-worlders tonight.”

“I bet they’re here for the bloody ball they’re throwing at the Hadron Tower.” Rhys dodged around a cluster of Earthlings with frilly scarves and funny accents, pulling Klark with him. “I guarantee something’s going down tonight. No way they’d fly in this many old bloods if they didn’t expect a total blow-out. Hey, how many babies do you think they eat at one of those parties? At least an orphanage’s worth, right?”

Klark suppressed a snort. “Zero. You watch too many movies.”

“I’m serious, man. They get up to some freaky stuff in there. I’d still kill for an invitation, though. The most exclusive thing I can get into is the office Christmas party, and they don’t even serve booze!”

While Rhys went on about some party his cousin supposedly kissed an ancient at, they approached a section of lounge chairs arranged around a towering set of displays.

Ragged line graphs ticked away beside tables flickering with red and green bid prices. The intricacies of a moving-average plot were beyond Klark, but every immortal knew the big tickers. Where to invest your perpetuity fund was always in hot debate, since an overly strategy would leave you short when you hit your next treatment milestone. A fresh set of organs wasn’t cheap—rather, it could be cheap, but the hidden costs would catch up when your natural teeth fell out a decade ahead of schedule.

Rhys hurried Klark into a seat and took his own. “Like I told you, my sister’s blood cousin is boinking an Ambrose, and after one of their two-fang tangos, she said they told him that tonight was an engineered buy-in opportunity for their fledglings. We’re jumping in for a ride along.”

Klark ordered a drink on the table-mounted touch menu. “Isn’t that insider trading or something?”

“Are you and me Ambroses?”

Klark snorted. “I wish.”

“They pull this racket every quarter century, so I doubt this will be the first time regulators catch on.”

Klark spun his phone between his fingers and caught it repeatedly, getting a little closer to unlocking it each time. Drinking and gambling were a bad mix, but he deserved to celebrate.

Maybe he’d surprise Nora by turning this bonus into a little more for her fund. She might even let him sleep in his own bed for once.

“Sounds like this is a once-in-a-generation opportunity...”

“That’s what I’ve been saying.” Rhys snatched Klark’s phone, turned on the screen, and showed him the time. “And you’ve got exactly two minutes if you want in. Dump that whole bonus in calls ending tonight. Get the twelve-thousand strike price.”

“Are you crazy?” Klark grabbed his phone and opened his brokerage app. “I’m getting at-themoneys.”

The calls were going for nine hundred dollars an option, which would turn a thousand-dollar profit if Ambrose Industries went up one percent, but his crap bonus was only worth one contract. With a little from his savings and a good jump in price, he could buy Nora that dog she had always wanted. With a lot of his savings, he could move them out of Bright Dune and into Platinum Plateaus so the dog would have a yard to run around in. If he leveraged his perpetuity fund and traded on margin, she could start treatment tonight.

He rubbed the back of his neck and took another shot to steady his nerves while the seconds ticked down. Even if Rhys’s info was junk, the Ambroses were a safe bet—a massive, welldiversified conglomerate. They weren’t some dune-bound family like the Edens or discountsuperstore peddlers like the Planitrs. Hell, their subsidiary, Hadron, had landed the first antimatter rocket on Alpha Centauri last week.

Rhys took a pull off his cig and chuckled as the vapor wisped around them. “Ah, guess you don’t have it in you.”

Klark hit buy. What he bought, he wasn’t sure, but when the clock ticked to midnight, his account doubled. He fell back in his seat—felt like his veins were filled with helium. “Rhys look.”

His eyes bugged out, and the cig fell from his lips. “Suck my fucking spine out—are you on margin?”

“Shh—” Klark smacked Rhys’s chest and pointed at an on-screen newswoman. “The earnings reports are out.”

The reporter got out about five words before the room burst into cheers. The stock price for Ambrose Industries launched upward, and Klark’s account doubled again, and again, and again.

“I’m up twenty-X!” He stood and flashed his phone at Rhys, a glitzy tourist, a waiter—at everyone. A crowd formed around them, trying to catch a glimpse of the nine-digit number on his screen.

“Don’t you dare sell them. Platinum fists—platinum fists, brother!” Rhys climbed onto his chair, raised his arms, and shouted, “I’m going to buy a fucking space yacht!”

“Hell, we can start our own bloodline!” Klark shouted.

Red light washed over the room—red from the charts on the screens. The Ambrose Industries graph stumbled two hundred points, knocking Klark’s knees out from under him. He dropped into his seat and scrolled his account, but with his hands sweaty and shaking, the screen hardly registered his inputs. Should he sell? He’d still made nearly a million, but was that enough for Nora? They needed at least two for her to start treatment.

A chorus of wails swelled around them, and Klark raised his eyes to the sickly yellow sell orders on the transaction table. Someone had dumped a billion shares, decimating Ambrose Industry’s stock price. The line chart dived into the red like a cat leaping off a cliff, bounced a little on impact, then continued its bloody slide down the ridge. Klark’s options were worthless, his account was negative, and he owed more money than he’d earned in his entire life. Rhys stared at his phone until the screen turned off. With a sallow look in his eyes, he slid it into his pocket and then turned to Klark like he was expecting fucking marching orders.

“Don’t stress,” Klark said with a hint of a sneer on his lips. “It’ll all shake out.”

“I’m going to be sick,” Rhys mumbled, then he dashed into the crowd.

He wouldn’t be back. Everybody knew what happened to a perennial too broke to afford their treatments: a slow death that looked like cancer and drug withdrawal’s demented baby. It wasn’t pretty when starving immortals begged their coworkers for money and their mortal friends for blood. Klark would die faster than Nora, and she wouldn’t stick around to watch.

“Excuse me, sir.” A waiter placed a drink on his table.

He didn’t raise his head. “I can’t afford that.”

“That guest ordered it for you.” The waiter pointed to a figure clad in black sitting by the wall.

The stranger wore a wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, neck scarf, and face mask designed to block ambient Martian dust. The immortal opened a gloved hand invitingly at an empty chair and, like a good doormat, Klark trudged over. Following orders was a hard habit to break when he’d spent his entire life under one or another immortal’s thumb, but at least he’d get some free drinks out of this one.

“Seems fate dealt us the same hand tonight.” The stranger’s voice was velvety and accented like an Old-World royal’s.

“Are you faking that, or are you actually from Earth?” Klark was dead already, so he didn’t give a shit whether he offended some ancient monarch.

The stranger lowered his head, giving Klark a glimpse over his shades. His eyelashes were white as lace, but his irises were the color of rubies, neon, and blood.

“My coffin rests on the satellite AZURE, but my grave soil hails from Paris, the home to my soul and site of my first death. Although I was once an Earthling, I am now considered a star vampire.”

Klark snorted out a broken sound, like something a dying animal would make.

“Vampire.” He’d never said it out loud—superstitions like that were for the uneducated—but now he wanted to shout it.

The vampire’s silver eyebrows rose. “You’re terribly jovial for a man who has lost so much.”

Klark downed his entire drink, letting a few ice cubes fall out and bounce off his shirt. “I lost everything. Now I’ve got a fucking expiration date, and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“I hear the view from the Hadron Tower is excellent for clearing one’s mind.” The vampire tucked his sunglasses into his collar. “A leap from the top would certainly settle it.”

Klark wheezed. “You’re hilarious, but I have to tell my wife something before I neck myself.”

The vampire tapped the table, and the waiter brought another round. “Wife? I would have taken you for the husband sort.”

He choked on his drink, suddenly feeling very normal. “Oh, no. I messed around in college, but...”

Klark shrugged. He didn’t really know how to finish that thought.

“You satisfied your curiosity?”

“No. I’ve just always wanted kids, and it’s usually more affordable with women, you know?”

“I take it she never gave you any.”

“Nope.” Klark took a long drink, letting the bitter liquor sting his tongue while he imagined what his children might have looked like. “She said we had to get a dog first. Said you can’t have kids if you can’t afford a dog. I don’t think she understands how hard it is to get a hold of any live animal, let alone a marsdamned labrador.”

The vampire tilted his head. “Looking back, do you regret limiting your options?”

“No, I love Nora. She was all I ever wanted.”

“Was. Age changed her.” He said it like a fact plucked from the darkest part of Klark’s subconscious.

He met the vampire’s eyes, but their lurid glow made his head spin, so he stared at the bottom of his glass instead. “I hate it when you guys do that.”

“All mortals change with age, young one. Even you are yet capable of it.” The vampire was closer now, his voice soft as a woman’s caress. “You’re lost, but I wonder if I might guide you.”

“Oh, mentorship.” Klark finished his drink with a grimace. “And here I thought you were hitting on me.”

Swift as his smile, the vampire brushed the back of his fingers on Klark’s scar. “If we were courting, you would know it.”

Klark snatched his wrist, knitting together a good string of curses to tell the fucker off, but even after several drinks in, he sensed something was off about this man. His arm was like a cold bar of steel in Klark’s hold, and his eyes blazed with delight at the prospect of violence.

“I think we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, Zenimount. You seem like a man comfortable with risk, and you are in dire need of a new line of credit.” Unhindered by his grip, the vampire slipped a business card into Klark’s breast pocket. “My family is having a small gathering at the Hadron Mars Headquarters. Be my dinner guest, and we can discuss my proposition.”

Klark released him. “What if I don’t want what you’re selling?”

“If you’re not interested in solving your money troubles, then attend because it will be an excellent place to die.” The vampire put on his shades. “Arrive sober.” *** “Are you drunk?” Nora raised her lip, forming two deep wrinkles under her nose.

“I am.” Klark nodded. “And we’re in trouble—or I’m in it. No, it’s us. That’s why we have to talk before I go to Devron—” “Can’t. I have a pitch in an hour.” She stuffed her laptop into her messenger bag. “Were you out drinking with Rhys again? You know that kid isn’t going anywhere in life. Has he even been blooded yet?”

“Nora, please.” Klark shut his eyes, forcing down half-formed tears, and reached out for her.

He needed her right now. She would see something he had missed, like she always did, and together, they’d figure this out. Even if he died, so long as it was in her arms, it’d be alright.

“Stop it! If you won’t help me, then at least don’t sabotage me!”

He opened his eyes and caught himself cornering Nora against the wall. “What?”

She tapped her labrador-sticker-covered tablet on his chest. “You promised to read this before my presentation, but you didn’t bother to. Now get off before you make me smell like a drunk.”

He stepped back. “You’re pitching Dentist of the Damned again? I finished that one. It was hilarious.”

“It sucked.” She pulled a rosebud frown and tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear.

“I’m pitching Uncorked; the drama about live-in donors on AZURE, remember?”

“I was going to finish it last night but...” Klark swallowed.

Nora crossed her arms.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t distract you. I’ll figure this out myself.” He offered a queasy smile. “Blow their minds, like I know you will.”

“Thanks.” She slipped on her heels and grabbed a purse with a pink ostrich-feather fob from the coat rack. It was the same style of bag Angelique had brought in; same color as the one Klark had left on Devron’s desk.

It had to be a coincidence—maybe he had splurged on that bag last Valentine’s Day and forgotten—but he still couldn’t open his mouth to ask where she’d gotten it.

She stood in the doorway, letting him get a good look before she left. *** Klark slept on the couch, and Nora never came back. She was a workaholic, writing, pitching, and filming side projects all through the weekend. It was a mystery how he had ended up immortal before her, considering that she had twice the connections and was willing to sleep her way to the top. It was Nora who had introduced him to Devron back in college. After Klark had helped him film a few music videos for some dead rockstar’s estate, Devron recruited him as his first scion.

Nora had been ecstatic to hear the news that her fiancé was a Zenimount, but as the years passed, and she traded chokers and ripped denim for pearls and pencil skirts, resentment chipped away at the pride she’d once held for her immortal husband.

Klark dreamed of napping in their old dorm house with his head in the lap of that artsy, aloof girl he’d met in Intro to Neo-Gothic Poetry.

Sometime before dinner, he dragged himself into a cold shower and dressed himself in a gray tuxedo. The coat fit like he’d had it tailored yesterday, but there was a rusty stain on the backside of his white tie. Twenty years ago, when he’d worn the tie last, Devron had wiped his face on it after biting into his neck.

Klark didn’t need an address for the Hadron Mars Headquarters because it was the tallest building on the planet and placed in the direct center of Old Chryse. The tower’s needle tip glowed a dim violet against the crimson sun and streaks of umber clouds outside of the hab dome.

Limos and imported convertibles lined the street, and each time the chauffeurs opened a car door for a decadently costumed guest, a hundred cameras flashed. Klark had been around celebrity culture long enough to know that the real players would slip in through a back entrance.

“Excuse me, Mr. Zenimount?” A girl in a rabbit mask stepped out from the crowd by the tower’s entrance. She wore the Ambrose family’s twelve-fanged brand on her neck. He cleared his throat and offered a deep bow. “Klark Zenimount.”

She presented and opened a case containing a silk scarf and a tragic-looking jester’s mask.

“You are a first-time guest, no?”

“I am.” Klark tied the scarf around his neck to hide his scar and then donned the intricate mask, painfully aware of how cheap his best suit looked compared to its gilded ribbons.

“Then for the rules of the event.” She lifted a card from the gift box. “Many families feast at our banquet, but none wear their name. We are anonymous immortals tonight, mindful of the game.”

“Okay...” Klark was still nursing a dehydration headache from Stellaire, which put this riddle solidly outside his bandwidth.

“Your new benefactor will find you.”

With that, she slipped into the crowd, leaving Klark a choice.

Yeah, he could turn to Devron and beg for a massive loan that’d take half a century to pay off, but if a higher-up noticed Devron was floating a dead-weight scion, there’d be repercussions for them both. The Zenimounts had an image to protect, and he was a walking shit smear on their name.

He couldn’t go to Devron—couldn’t bear to look at his smug face ever again. It was all or nothing tonight. He either cut a deal with this star vampire, or he didn’t go home. *** The midnight-blue ceiling of the Hadron lobby soared like the arches of a cathedral, and holograms of satellites and lightships twinkled among its steel rafters. Masked guests met with their evening companions, introducing their dates and protégés with air kisses before filing onto the magnificent staircase. They seemed blissfully indifferent to how hard the stock had crashed the night before, but what were a few millions to a crowd of billionaires?

Klark hovered near the bottom of the stairwell where the trickling stone waterfall that covered the back wall emptied out, though no one bothered approaching him. Had the vampire invited him here just to stand him up? He decided to give it a few more minutes, since searching a masquerade ball for a guy he’d met once sounded like a nightmare.

Klark absent-mindedly tore a leaf off one of the fake ferns tucked into the grooves of the waterfall, crushing it between his fingers. Down to the moisture and herbaceous smell it released, it was incredibly lifelike.

A woman behind him said, “That was needlessly cruel.”

Klark whipped around. “It’s actually alive? Sorry. I thought it was fake.”

The woman’s red-bottom stilettos made her taller than him, but she was very slender in her ivory brocade suit. A gold coronet adorned her short, crystal-white curls, and a royal-purple mask hid everything but her pale lips. Her eyes were red as beating hearts, and her smile held six fangs on the top row of her teeth. “I expect tonight will be the first of many things for you.”

With fangs like that and skin as smooth and bright as a pearl, her bloodline was unmistakable.

“You’re an Ambrose, aren’t you?” Klark asked.

“Unmasked so soon...” She snapped her tongue, then leaned in to whisper, “Though that balances the field, Zenimount.”

He stepped back, bumping into the ferns and getting their droplets on his sleeves. “Did the man from Stellaire send you?”

“Don’t fret. He is observing with great interest. I could assist you in uncovering his disguise, if you like.”

Klark straightened his coat, mustering the decorum fit for dealing with an immortal from another family. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

“Then the game is on. Try to keep up.”

The Ambrose spun on her heel and then darted up the first flight of glass stairs, pausing for a moment on the landing to let Klark realize she expected him to chase her.

“You’re kidding me...” he murmured as she slipped out of sigh like a stream of mist given womanly shape.

Klark bounded up the stairs, pushing his legs and lungs to work harder than they had in decades. He barreled through the crowd with the vigor of a man in his twenties—with more vigor than any human man.

“Excuse you!” An older gentleman shouted.

“You’re fine.” Klark ducked around a woman’s audacious, dangly headdress, getting a handle on his dexterity—which he immediately lost when his toe caught on the tassels of the fancy rug laid over the stairs.

As he stumbled onto the next landing, someone hooked their arm in his and tugged him back from a pair of suited security guards who did not look amused by Klark’s aerobic activities.

His chest bumped into Ambrose’s as she held him steady.

“I can’t believe you thundered up the grand stairs of a gala.” She brushed a bit of tinsel that’d shed from that lady’s hat off his shoulder. “How uncouth. I should have you removed.”

“Are you ribbing me?” A breathless laugh escaped Klark. “You ran up them first.”

“Oh, I positively flew.” Giggling, she walked him into a ballroom with onyx floors so polished that the guests appeared to dance over a dark sea of stars. With the pomp of a period film and budget of a summer blockbuster, the ball was a genuine fantasy brought to life.

“Fix your jaw, darling. I won’t be seen dancing with a mouth breather.” Ambrose offered her arm.

“I thought that was what the masks were for.” Klark took her hand and tucked it under his arm. “One of your greeters said I’d find a new benefactor here. Do you know what she meant?”

“Something painfully dull, I’m sure. No more talk of business. Why don’t you ask about my outfit instead?” Ambrose released him and twirled.

Gold-stitched filigree ran up her ankles to her shoulders, tracing the long curves of her legs, and strings of topaz and pearls clinked together in the lace ruffles covering her neck. Even her white eyelashes were tipped with gold flakes. She was as brilliant as a shower of sparks, and Klark had no doubt that she’d sent countless men’s lives up in flames.

“You look great, but I’m in a serious situation here. A hint about what’s going on would really help me out.”

“Fine, then; you are under consideration.” She drifted to a banquet table stacked with champagne and parfaits.

“Consideration for what?” He followed.

Ambrose poked her finger in the chocolate fountain, popped it into her mouth, and smiled; that was too red to be chocolate. “Dance with me, and I might tell you.”

He reached for her hand, but she wrapped it around the small of his back and whisked him to the floor. And, damn, she was strong. She took the lead dancing role, but Klark hadn’t stepped on a dance floor since college, so he wasn’t about to complain.

Ambrose spun him in formation with the others and then tilted him to the side with a steady arm. “How are you enjoying the event?”

“It’s honestly impressive. I’ve always wanted to go to one of these.”

“Have you not received an invitation before?”

“Well—” Klark caught himself before he admitted he was a bottom-tier Zenimount with no shot at getting into an event like this on his own. That piece of information was valuable in a negotiation, and she was clearly fishing for it.

“I’ve never had anything to wear,” he said. “I hope I don’t look out of place in this old suit.”

Ambrose pulled back slightly, keeping her hand on his hip and looking him up and down.

“A beauty such as yours is uncommon at an affair like this.”

“My wife says this color washes me out.” The air between Klark’s face and mask got stuffy.

He hadn’t been complimented like that in ages, much less held close enough to feel someone else’s warmth, so he couldn’t help how his body reacted when she pulled him back to her chest.

“You said you’d help me find the man I met earlier?” he asked.

“Apologies for the discretion, but if he were to arrive on the main floor, they’d pester him as relentlessly as Seiyo over there. I understand the need to network, but for God’s sake, this is a party.”

Klark observed the unmasked guest that Ambrose nodded towards. The stern-faced immortal was unable to take a step without trampling one of the half-a-dozen fledglings crowded around him.

“Where is his disguise?” Klark asked.

“He refuses to participate in the family’s more fanciful affairs. I suppose it’s that latent Yasutake blood that makes him so austere.”

“He was re-blooded from another family?” Klark swiveled his head to keep an eye on the tall immortal as Ambrose took him round and round.

Adoptions weren’t unheard of, but adoptees who’d taken blood from another bloodline were always considered a little unclean. There was a limit to how far they were allowed to rise, not unlike how the Zenimounts treated immortals who lacked genetic ties to the family; immortals like Klark.

“Seiyo seems popular,” Klark said. “Is he high ranking?”

“He has a direct line to the Hierarch. In fact, it took our founder’s own blood to revamp him.”

Ambrose giggled at her terrible joke.

“Interesting. And how often do the Ambroses adopt from other bloodlines?”

She slowed her step, ignoring the pace of music, and her hot breath passed over Klark’s scar.

“We would not need so many fangs if we weren’t in the habit of marking over lesser family’s brands.”

A chill raced down Klark’s spine, and as if Ambrose felt it on her palm, she released him from their dance. “Allow me to introduce you. Seiyo can speak on the diversity of our recruitment.”

“I appreciate the opportunity, but he’s definitely out of my league.”

“Oh, I assure you, everyone here is.” Ambrose laughed lightly, walking towards the drink table.

Klark cursed under his breath and followed before he lost track of her again.

He hadn’t come here to mingle, and he doubted she had either; no, the negotiations had begun, and she wouldn’t bring him to her leadership until she had measured exactly how desperate he was. They knew he was financially destitute, so all that was left to assess was how low he was willing to go to have their support. Klark wasn’t sure himself, but if the Zenimounts had taught him anything, it was how to bullshit his way through a negotiation.

“I see you neglected to prepare a mask,” Ambrose said to Seiyo.

Seiyo waved his hand, and the fledglings around him bowed and dismissed themselves.

“It’s bad enough that you forced me to attend this pageant.”

“Ah, but how could we reject dear Ephi’s invitation? Come, let us explore the entertainment she has prepared for us on the upper floors. My friend is on the lookout for a particular guest.”

“Friend?” Seiyo crossed his arms and peered over her shoulder at Klark.

He bowed deeply. “It’s my humble pleasure. I’m Klark Z—” Ambrose shushed him. “Keep that to yourself, dear. We’d hate for news of tonight’s debauchery to make it back to anyone’s sire.”

“Debauchery?” He laughed. “No offense, but this gala is pretty tame compared to the parties my family throws.”

Ambrose’s smile shifted with a mean twist in her nose and a dark glint in her eyes. “Then to the next floor we go.” *** The second floor held a tenth as many attendees as the first, but many of them were part of the entertainment. A pair of humans lay on a lit dias in the center of the room, gently caressing each other’s nude bodies. Occasionally, a guest approached the edge of the raised platform to offer them an empty tasting glass, and they both poured a shot of mingled blood from the ports embedded in their wrists into it.

“Scandalous.” Ambrose made a feminine gasp.

“I thought blood taps were banned.” Klark averted his gaze from the lewd display.

“Seriously illegal.”

“Oh, those two are imports. Earthlings, I’m sure. But mixing fresh blood...” Ambrose shook her head. “I hope it doesn’t clot.”

“They are of compatible type.” Seiyo looked on at the exhibition with complete indifference.

“Still, it’s the principle.” Ambrose strolled through the party, admiring the displays of white roses, red carpets, and gilded candelabras.

A man in a charcoal-gray lion mask seated at a nearby table whistled. “It’s a grand view, but you put it to shame, sweet thing.”

Klark turned and, before he’d measured the rank of who he was addressing, blurted out, “Did you really just catcall her?”

“She’s not yours, is she?” The asshole raised his chin at Klark, speaking with a Martian drawl. “No, sir. Clearly not.”

Seiyo balled his gloved fists and rolled his head back, loudly cracking his neck, but Ambrose

pinched his sleeve, signaling him to stay by her.

She asked, “Do you gentlemen mind if we join you?”

The three men sitting together gave Seiyo a cautious look, but then the one wearing a lion mask stood to pull out a chair for Ambrose. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Ambrose sat, and the lion tucked in her chair with a bit of trouble, apparently underestimating her weight. Klark waited for Seiyo to take his seat before settling into his own.

“Don’t give yourself away, son,” a man wearing a tarnished elephant mask said. “We’re all equals tonight. Nameless nobodies.”

“Tell that to the bloodbags guarding the elevators.” The third man in a colorful hummingbird mask huffed. “I thought they were about to run a credit check to let me up here.”

Seiyo raised a brow. “You don’t understand why the upper floors are not for general admission?”

“That’s obvious,” Hummingbird said. “What I don’t get is why I’m not good enough for the third floor.”

Ambrose scootched her chair closer to Klark’s and whispered, “My guess would be that gaudy Daytona on his wrist. He might as well have come dressed as a peafowl with all that cocking about.”

“Jester,” Lion butted in. “Since you’ve gone and declared yourself the youngest at the table, why don’t you fetch us some drinks?”

“Get them yourself,” Klark said. He’d lost the majority of the fucks he had left to give back at Stellaire, so he definitely wasn’t going to waste his last night alive being this jackass’s busboy.

Lion scowled and opened his mouth, but Ambrose cut in, touching Klark’s leg under the table.

“Would you be so kind?”

He hated to relent, but he’d play nice if that’s what Ambrose wanted. She probably dealt with guys like this too frequently to bother correcting each one, and Klark knew from personal experience that they rarely learned.

“Alright. For you, I will.”

Ambrose pointed to the nude humans across the room. “A round from them will do nicely. And don’t mix the blood.”

Klark nodded, and heat crept up his neck as he crossed the room. He hadn’t planned on breaking interquadral law tonight, but he had attended company events at hostess clubs before, so he wasn’t completely out of his depth. He picked up two glasses in each hand from a banquet table, but then bumped into a woman’s back as he turned.

She grunted and pulled her mouth off the shoulder of the waiter in her arms. “Watch yourself.

Now you’ve gone and ruined his pretty skin...”

With a crooked, fang-drawn gash in his shoulder, the droopy-eyed mortal moaned, too rapt in envenomed pleasure to realize he should be screaming.

Klark swiveled back to the table, dropped his wine glasses, and pressed his palms flat on the linen. Alright, time to admit he was neck-deep in quicksand and sinking fast. He might pass out if he tried taking blood from the couple finger-banging each other on stage.

Fuck—what was he doing again? Getting blood to impress Ambrose to put himself in a stronger negotiating position when they met her sire—he assumed the man he had spoken to was her sire. He could not afford to crack like this in front of her, not when Nora’s future depended on his performance tonight.

Klark took a deep breath, acclimating to the scent of human blood, and raised his head to face another gloopy blood fountain. Close enough.

He messily filled four glasses at the fountain, wiped them clean with the edge of the tablecloth, and brought them to the others.

“I thought we’d see the turn of another century before you came back,” Elephant said.

“Was there a line?”

“Yeah.” Klark quickly laughed and offered Ambrose and Seiyo their glasses first. “The Ambroses certainly know how to throw a party.”

Seiyo promptly passed his glass to Hummingbird, who appeared relieved to receive one. Klark gave the other two to Elephant and Lion, and they raised the lower portion of their masks to drink.

“Ugh, that’s foul.” Lion put his glass down. “What have they been feeding their donors?”

Elephant finished his glass. “Ah, humans all taste like sucking on a bag of pennies.”

Ambrose swirled the glass under her nose, narrowing her eyes at Klark. “No, this one was not properly prepared.”

“Here we were, pomping around, trying to figure out who the biggest dog at the table was, and then you show up.” Elephant gestured at Seiyo. “How many scions do you have? I’d wager at least a hundred.”

“None.” He leaned back in his chair and looked across the room, overtly bored to death by everything and everyone here. That explained why Seiyo lacked his bloodline’s signature fangs; he may not have earned them yet.

“Really?” Elephant furrowed his brows at Ambrose and Klark. “I would have sworn these two were yours.”

“I have ten scions,” Hummingbird said eagerly, but Klark didn’t buy it for a second.

Despite the wealth on his wrist, there was no way this kid was much older than Rhys.

“I have about a dozen, but back in my heyday, they each had a few themselves.” Elephant sighed. “But when the directors got to a-pruning, it was their heads that went a-rolling.”

“I have three,” Lion said, “but scions are not a measure of an immortal’s worth.”

Ambrose intertwined her fingers. “Au contraire, they are the measure.”

“Did your sire tell you that, darling?” Lion flashed his brilliant fangs. “Scions are foot soldiers: Most of them die before they make it to admiral. I learned that the hard way when my sire got herself exsanguinated and left me and my siblings orphaned. Thankfully, I took my clients with me, and now I have a bloodline of my own.”

“A renegade-made-patriarch?” Elephant exclaimed. “Now that’s a story of real red-blooded Martian success.”

Seiyo looked mildly impressed, and Hummingbird appeared downright star-struck. Klark was not; he’d seen leeches like this guy claw their way into leadership before, and it always ended with them sucking the life out of every team they got put on.

“So you doubled down on your old bloodlines’s back-stabbing bullshit?” he asked.

“Doesn’t sound like you learned a thing.”

“Do you expect me to tuck my scions into bed every night with a goodnight kiss? Teach them how to put on training fangs?” Lion mounted his elbows on the table and leaned over, daring Klark to pop one in his highly punchable face. “C’mon, boy, tell me how to run my bloodline.”

“Your foot soldiers have families that depend on them—aging spouses—aging kids.”

Klark raised his chin, trusting his words to do the damage. “If you weren’t sure your business could support every scion you made, you shouldn’t have blooded them at all.”

“Your age is showing, son,” Elephant said. “You got a new family when you took your brand.

Leaving a couple of mortals behind is part of growing up.”

Lion smirked and leaned back in his seat; he didn’t need to respond when Klark had so obviously embarrassed himself.

“The young Martian has a point.” Seiyo broke the silence, tilting his head towards Ambrose.

“Tell me, Sire, would you consider us disposable?”

“Each of my progeny is priceless.” Ambrose chuckled, and the air around them felt a little colder as her voice dropped to a velvety, masculine tone. “And a hierarch who does not nurture the foundation they stand upon will soon crumble. Continue on the same path as your failed sire, young one, and you’ll find yourself resting beside her in the grave.”

The men raised their posture as the locus of power at the table shifted from Seiyo to the beautiful girl they had dismissed on sight.

Klark examined her fully, recognizing the roguish smile of the man he’d met at Stellaire. “You—it was you the whole time.”

Ambrose flourished his hands, letting his voice soften again. “I planned to make a grander entrance, but I simply could not resist. I pray my misdirection did not offend.”

“No, it’s fine, but why pretend to be a different gender?”

It wasn’t necessarily Klark’s business, but he found himself desperately curious. The way Ambrose’s lovely figure contrasted with his commanding tone had crossed Klark’s wires and sent them lighting up at all ends.

“Pretend? Darling, I am what you see, and I dress how I like.” Ambrose stood, raising his head with grace fit for a prince, and his lessers maintained their deferential silence. “Now that my game is spoiled, I think it’s time we move on to the final floor.”

“He’s not made out for the third floor, Sire,” Seiyo said.

“Oh, but I am afraid that is exactly where he belongs.” *** The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, inviting them into a terribly dark room. Klark did not step out.

It seemed like a mistake. There was no sound of music or lull of chatter, and the bright lights from the elevator spilled onto an empty red carpet. Or mostly empty. A crusty scalpel and a few empty baggies were scattered at the fading edge of the light.

Ambrose took Klark’s arm and stepped forward. “I have something spectacular prepared for you; a genuine treat.”

Klark had half a mind to resist, but the vampire’s strength was uncontestable. “Dear Zephyr—should I even ask?”

Ambrose laughed quietly. “Your patriarch holds no power here. Don’t wander off now.

We aren’t alone.”

Klark grunted and stared straight ahead, trying not to listen too closely to the murmurs and shuffling in the darkness around them.

The crude shapes of figures formed at the edges of the room as his eyes adjusted to the crimson lamps. Some guests were locked in embrace—coupling lips and limbs—while others were engrossed in themselves. Mumbling and giggling, a woman in a torn gown sucked on her own wrist. She gnawed and slurped at her torn flesh like a wild-eyed beast. When they passed by her, she lifted her nose into the air, scenting out the fresh blood.

Seiyo came up along their side, subtly blocking the creature off before she got any ideas.

Klark pulled closer to Ambrose and whispered, “What is this? What the hell was she doing?”

“Wasting her gifts.” A slight sneer curled his lips. “Disregard the degenerates; they are not what I wish to share with you.”

In a deeper crevice of the winding rooms, they approached a disheveled banquet table with its glassware strewn across the floor. Illuminated by a dim spotlight, an amalgam of bodies mounted the table—a dozen predators digging their fangs into one limp victim.

Like fat leeches in their shiny gray suits, the vampires latched onto their prey from arm to ankle. One pushed the victim’s head aside to get at his neck, seeking out the scar he wore on

his jugular,and then bit over it.

Klark inhaled sharply. “That’s a perennial. They can’t drink from him.”

Ambrose watched on, tracing his glassy nail over his bottom lip. “But that is why they want him. The pleasure of drinking the blood of our own is matched only by its danger.”

Ambrose approached a bald man lying back on a vinyl couch. With black blood covering the lower half of his face, the immortal’s jaw hung open as he stared unblinkingly at the ceiling.

He wasn’t breathing.

“H—he’s dead?” Klark recoiled, nearly stumbling, but Ambrose kept a grip on his arm.

“It’s only a small death. If his blood is strong, he will be resurrected—transformed.”

Ambrose was trembling, holding Klark tightly, but it wasn’t from fear. The vampire’s body was taught, engrossed in the outcome of this demented experiment.

The dead immortal’s chest convulsed. His orange eyes jerked to Klark, pulsing with swollen, black veins.

“More...” the corpse groaned as it pushed itself up. It slowly rose to its feet, but then collapsed back with a rush of coppery breath, dead a final time.

“Hm.” Ambrose nudged it with the toe of his bow-adorned boot. “Another thinblood. Shame he didn’t recognize his place before taking the leap.”

As Klark took in the scene—its participants—his blood chilled in his veins. There wasn’t a single human on this floor, and yet the feeding continued; the old on the young.

“This is what you brought me here for...?” He backed up, bumping into Seiyo. “I can’t let you do it. I’ll be excommunicated—made a renegade.”

“What a fiend you take me for.” Ambrose stepped towards him, and Seiyo caught his

shoulders, trapping him between the taller vampires.

Ambrose slipped a stiletto dagger from his suit pocket, then tested the sharpness of its tip. “I am not asking you for anything; I’m offering you the opportunity to partake.”

He snapped his fingers, and a rabbit-masked girl brought out an undisguised victim. With his stringy blonde hair falling to the side, his sleeves rolled up, and dried blood sticking to his wrists, he kept his eyes fixed on the ground, but Klark recognized him immediately. The victim was Rhys.

Ambrose took Rhys’s hand, gently pulling him in. “I was glad to hear we had a second Zenimount in attendance. This will allow you to sample the pleasures of our cursed blood without risk.”

Klark turned away, pretending to watch the vampires feeding on the table. Whether he accepted or refused, Rhys would recognize his voice, and—marsdamn it—it was obvious Ambrose was testing him. For what purpose, he didn’t have a clue, but he had already failed the simple task of fetching a glass of blood. He couldn’t afford a second strike.

Klark looked back at Rhys, and the recognition in his blood brother’s pale blue eyes was instant; the fear, however, was slower.

Rhys offered a weak smile and raised his arm. “Go ahead. Don’t worry, I won’t kiss and tell if you don’t.”

He leveled his eyes on Klark, willing him to understand. Drinking from a sibling was forbidden, but to be drunk from by anyone other than one’s sire was unforgivable.

“I need a minute to talk to him,” Klark said to Ambrose.

“I told you he wasn’t fit for this.” Seiyo sighed, leaning against the wall. “Honestly, what are we doing here?”

Klark straightened his back. “You would deny me the right to speak to one of my own blood?”

Seiyo snorted. “You may sound like a vampire, but you are not one. Not by a century.”

“He has never been allowed to prove himself, to take blood as we do, but that changes tonight.” Ambrose offered the knife. “The carotid artery provides the best drinking experience.

Take your time.”

Klark weighed the emerald-encrusted handle in his palm, forcing his breath to steady, and the vampires receded to a table out of human earshot. This wouldn’t be a private conversation, but Klark would make do.

He turned to Rhys. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His face flushed. “Me? What are you doing here?”

Klark threw his hand. “That’s a good question, but you’re clearly in much deeper shit than I am.

These people eat people, and you were blooded so recently, you probably still taste human.

Why would you agree to something so dangerous? I need to get you out of here before one of these psychopaths kills you.”

“They’re paying me, Klark. A lot of money.”

He winced. “Devron will find out about this.”

Rhys gripped Klark’s shoulder and leaned in. “Not if you do it. These other vamps might brag, but I trust you.”

“Your wrists.” Klark shook his head. “They’ve already bled you...”

“They had me fill a few cups, but no one got their teeth into me. I think they were saving me for someone. For you.”

Klark shot a glance back at Ambrose. The vampire had planned this, and Klark couldn’t decide if saving Rhys like this was merciful or downright diabolical.

“I can’t do it,” Klark said. “You know how I am with blood.”

“If you don’t, one of these other vamps will.” Rhys loosened his tie and then pulled Klark’s knife up to his neck. “It won’t be too bad. Just pretend you’re drinking a really shitty, salty coffee.”

Klark cracked a smile, but it tasted bitter on his lips. Joking about this was wrong, but Rhys’s optimism was a damn force of nature. If going through with this would save him—if it would save Nora—Klark could force himself to feed from a living person.

He took his mask off and tossed it on the corpse’s lap. “I’m sorry I gave you shit back in Stellaire. You’re a good guy. The type of guy who should never end up in a place like this.”

Rhys swallowed, pushing his Adam’s apple against the blade. “They’ll want to see more than a sip. Make it count, brother.”

Rhys pressed the knife into the side of his neck, but his skin caught and tugged on its narrow tip. Klark pushed with him, and the blade slid in, cutting a deep gash into Rhys’s artery. Blood gushed over Klark’s hand, but he didn’t give his human stomach the time to realize what was about to happen—he pressed his mouth to Rhys’s throat.

The first swallow was so dense and briny, he had to dam the flow at his teeth, but then the fluid ran down his chin. He didn’t dare stop. Klark opened his throat and let it pour down like hot, metallic liquor.

As he drank to the rhythm of Rhys’s heartbeat, an odd warmth blossomed in his stomach, spreading to his limbs. He felt... powerful. He was faintly aware of Rhys struggling in his hold, but keeping him still was effortless. Pressing his teeth into the wound to widen it was natural. With each swallow, his head lightened and his heart beat harder until he was weightless. His stomach ached and his tongue was numb from the sting of metal, but he refused to let go of the feeling. He was starving—he had been starved his entire life, and this was his first taste of living blood.

When the flow began to dampen, someone grabbed the back of Klark’s collar and dragged him off of his meal. Sticky with blood, he floundered on his back, arms searching for that warm body. The lights burned his eyes, and his lungs—all of the lungs breathing around him were too loud.

Grinning like a demon, Ambrose dropped to his knees and clasped Klark’s face. “Superb! How does it feel? Like hellfire in your veins, no? Do you feel as if you could fly?”

He swallowed and stared up at Ambrose; the star vampire was brilliant. Klark could count his every icicle-white eyelash and name a thousand colors shimmering on his opaline eyelids.

He held Ambrose’s face and nodded, struggling not to burp up the blood sloshing in his stomach.

Seiyo knelt beside Rhys, careful not to lower his knee into the dark pool forming on the floor.

“He cut too deeply, Sire.”

Ambrose released Klark and swiftly dropped his mouth to Rhys’s wound, swabbing his tongue over it. Rhys’s blood coagulated, forming a thick seal, but the young immortal was completely still.

Ambrose lifted Rhys into Seiyo’s arms. “Resuscitate him. I want him alive.”

“As you command.” He dipped his head and whisked Rhys away.

“Did I kill him?” Klark stumbled to his feet, propping his hand on the dead man’s bald head to steady himself.

It hurt to think Rhys was dead, and it was awful that so much of his blood had been wasted on the floor. Though it may still be good to drink... Klark’s tongue ran along the back of his teeth.

“I expect he will see another dawn.” Ambrose dabbed a handkerchief to his face. “You two were well-acquainted?”

“We were blood siblings.” Klark flexed his blood-tacky hands as a strange calmness washed over him.

He should have been appalled by his actions, but he wasn’t. From his aching teeth down to the marrow of his bones, he simply felt sated.

“To drink this deeply from one’s own brother. You set out to prove yourself.”

“Did I succeed?”

Ambrose’s eyes glittered in the dark. He picked up Klark’s mask and handed it to him. Klark took it and then tucked the bloody knife into Ambrose’s breast pocket. “Good, because I’m done with your tests.”

“Well, then.” Ambrose’s nose wrinkled as he observed his ruined coat. “Let’s freshen up and move to matters of business.” *** Ambrose sat on the edge of an extravagant bathtub, drawing his hand through the rosebuds and almond oil floating on the steamy water. Klark could watch him stir those petals for hours, dissecting the hidden language that formed in the swirls of foam. Rhys’s blood was still buzzing through his veins, and it left him restless and wanting. The way the bath’s sweet perfume blended with the spice of Klark’s cologne and sweat smelled like his bedsheets the night after his wedding. Ambrose was as intimidating as Nora in all white, her legs crossed with cool confidence.

Ambrose unbuttoned his coat, lazily looking Klark over. “This was drawn for me, but I suppose you need it more.”

He pulled his blood-soaked shirt over his head and dropped it into the sink. “It can fit us both.”

Ambrose touched his collar and laughed. “How bold. You tempt me, but I will not be disrobed that easily.”

Klark’s already bulging ego swelled a bit more, though his high was tapering off. His senses weren’t as sharp, and he was hungry again. The craving to have his teeth on someone’s skin was clouding his mind, and Ambrose’s smooth, tender throat was only a few steps away.

Ambrose nodded towards the bath, letting a few of his loose curls fall over his forehead. “It isn’t getting any warmer, love.”

Klark turned aside, hiding the state of his arousal, and undid his belt. He undressed and slid into the tub with his back facing Ambrose, but a gasp slipped past his lips as the hot water embraced him.

He hadn’t been prepared for how sensually opulent soaking in a million dollars’ worth of water would be, but it was pure indulgence. He leaned back on the headrest, relaxed his body, and let the blood coating his chest diffuse into the bath in lacey tendrils.

“What a splendid event this was. I have never seen someone your age drink a man like that before.” Ambrose sighed and offered Klark a bar of saffron-infused soap. “The memory alone makes me shiver. Do you take your wife so ferociously?”

Klark laughed bitterly. “I haven’t touched her in years.”

“Truly? I can’t imagine what would cause a woman to lose interest in a...passion such as yours.”

He took the soap, working it between his hands. “She doesn’t need me. She has other men to do it.”

“Ah. Personally, I could never share a donor. I get terribly jealous. I sense that you and I are alike in that way.” He poked the top of Klark’s spine and then tapped his sharp nails across his shoulder.

A long shiver ran down Klark’s body, and he resisted the urge to grab Ambrose’s wrist and pull the vampire down on top of him. He had to focus—he wasn’t here to get high and fuck celebrities.

Klark threw some water on his face and shook the droplets off. “Yeah. I’m trapped in a broken marriage with a shit job and my head stuck in a guillotine. You promised a solution, and in case you forgot, I don’t have much time left to hear it.”

“I think you’ll find my offer quite generous. I’d like to help you cut out these leeches that have been anemiating your career. Your wife, your sire—be done with them.”

“End my relationship with my sire?” He looked up at the vampire. “That’s not possible.”

“Oups, I let that one slip. But you are correct; we have leisured enough time away.”

Ambrose moved to open a nearby linen closet. “Now what to dress you in... My day clothes aren’t your size, so I suppose a robe will have to do.”

“It’ll be chilly getting home in that.” He reached for a towel on a nearby rack.

“Then stay the night.”

Klark hesitated. He kept telling himself he was here for Nora’s sake, but could he justify crossing that line? Put in his situation, she’d throw herself at Ambrose, and not just to improve her negotiating position; the vampire was so charming that he had Klark debating acts of infidelity without ever showing his face. Of course, Klark would never actually go that far, not if he didn’t have permission first, but it was bullshit Nora hadn’t asked about opening their relationship before stepping out. Complete bullshit.

“We’ll see.” He finally took his towel.

“Now that was an ominous silence.” Ambrose turned back, pinched the corner of his mask, and lifted it over his head, gracing Klark with a face fit for a Venetian masterwork.

Ambrose couldn’t have been over twenty when he had been turned, and Klark couldn’t take his eyes off him. Stopping someone’s aging that young was beyond criminal—it was indecent—yet the taboo of his youth made his beauty all the more unique. Whatever sick creature had blooded him must have known that there would never be another immortal like him. He would forever stand apart from his kind, perfect in his isolation.

Ambrose arced a regal eyebrow, basking in Klark’s shock. “If you prefer to imagine me as a woman, I pass for somewhat older.”

“Are you... Is it rude to ask?”

He released a glittering laugh. “My true age or my sex?”

“Never mind.” Klark tied his towel at his hip. “It’s not important.”

“My age may be, regarding whether my blood is old enough to overpower yours.”

Ambrose handed him a night-black satin robe. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

Klark quickly dried off and pulled it on while Ambrose left the room.

That had been a hint, and his mind raced at its implications. If the vampire could overpower his Zenimount blood, he could remake him as an Ambrose. A fucking Ambrose! He’d be out from under Devron’s thumb and free from the entire Zenimount bloodline. If that was on offer, he couldn’t imagine what it would cost. Even his undying loyalty was nothing compared to a gift like that.

Klark tied his sash and stepped into the luxury apartment on the top floor of the Hadron Tower. The suite was equipped with a fully stocked blood cooler, carved mahogany furniture, and an outrageously large bed—the thing could easily fit a couple of couples.

Ambrose stood on the balcony, observing the starless sky. He turned and leaned back on the banister. “I hope you’re not frightened of heights.”

Klark laughed nervously, eyeing the balcony’s glass floor. “No, but I don’t like to tempt fate.”

Ambrose’s expression lost its humor, and he held out his hand. “But you must. Tonight of all nights, you must.”

Klark had come this far, so it would be a shame not to see the view. He took a deep breath of the thin, frigid air, took Ambrose’s hand, and stepped on to the glass.

Chryse city arced out before him, a web of golden streets sprawling outward from the city’s core where even the tallest skyneedles were blades of grass compared to the Hadron Tower.

The people were less than ants. They were blood cells flowing through Chryse’s veins, fuel for the planet’s beating heart.

“My family founded this city. Without us, there would be no life on Mars.” Ambrose reached over the edge and spread his hand, grasping the motes of light between his ghost-white fingers. “But what man has done with our gift...it’s breathtaking.”

Klark propped his arms on the banister as the breeze whispered over his hair. “For a family of vampires, your bloodline has an interesting take on humanity.”

“They sustain us, thus it is our duty to shepherd them. What do your sires say of mortals?”

“I work with kids; we treat them like content factories, unless they’re someone important’s, then they’re a trophy. Our founder had so many made that he probably couldn’t name them all.”

“Zephyr is a little obsessed with his reflection, isn’t he? But that isn’t how a family should operate. It’s more than blood that ties a line; it’s love. While other families bicker amongst themselves, Ambroses lift one another up, united in our mission for the betterment of mankind. I think you could play a role in that mission.”

A prickle of gooseflesh passed over Klark’s arms; he knew it. This was going to be the most important pitch of his life, and he hadn’t even prepared a slide deck—tragic—but Ambrose seemed like the type that appreciated candor.

He faced the vampire. “I think I know why you brought me here tonight.”

“Oh, really?” He smirked, narrowing his eyes to garnet slivers.

“You see potential in me, and you’ve been testing my loyalty to the Zenimounts.”

“Maybe so. But to what end?”

Klark pulled an arrogant look, exploiting what was left of his high to tamp down the anxiety running wild in his stomach. “You want to recruit me.”

“I must admit, you have a quality about you I quite like: a hunger you have been chaining.”

Ambrose touched Klark’s cheek, brushing across its hollow. “But do you have what is required to be truly immortal? Not a perennial, but an everlasting vampire?”

He stepped closer to Ambrose, eyeing the soft contours of his throat. Klark’s teeth ached, and hunger dug its claws into him. He wanted to taste Ambrose—to feel his powerful blood pulsing in his veins.

“What do I need?” he asked.

“Ambition, patience, cunning...” Ambrose took Klark’s face in his hands and moved in, speaking onto his lips. “The mark of one’s maker.”

He held Ambrose’s wrists and raised his chin. “Make me again.”

Ambrose brought his breath down to Klark’s brand, desecrating it. “But what of your sire?”

“That bastard is fucking my wife.”

He wrapped his arms around Klark’s ribs, pulling him against his firm body. “And what of her, to whom you profess such devotion?”

“It’s like she’s stopped seeing me as a person. I’m a status symbol—her ticket to immortality until she finds someone better. I—” Klark gripped Ambrose’s shirt in his fists. It hurt to cleave the tie of his heart to hers, yet as he broke those bonds, he released himself from the toxic, one-way worship that had been draining him of self-worth. “I loved her, but she hasn’t loved me in a long time.”

“Then my offer is revenge.”

“Revenge?” Klark raised his head.

“Why prostrate yourself to a deceitful sire? Why serve the demands of an ungrateful woman? Why not, for once, satisfy yourself?”

Bearing every fang in a wicked grin, Ambrose lifted Klark onto the balcony ledge, nestling himself between his legs. “Revenge, love. Bed a vampire she would dream of being used by. Spill the blood your sire entrusted you with. Feed it to me.”

The heat in Klark’s chest ignited to a brazen flame—fuck Nora, fuck his sire, and fuck the Zenimount name.

He locked his ankles around Ambrose’s waist and tauntingly lowered his lips to his. “Shut up and bite me.”

“Gladly.” Ambrose gripped the back of Klark’s head and callously jerked it to the side.

He grimaced at the pain and flinched when Ambrose ran his tongue up his jugular. The vampire kissed him once, delicately, while rocking his hips into him with a deliciously slow roll; then he bit down.

Klark managed half a shout before his body locked up. As if struck by lightning, one flash of pain shot down his spine, but it left a tender sensation in its wake. Ambrose curled his fingers against Klark’s scalp and took a swallow, sending a thrum of pleasure pulsing from the wound.

Ambrose sucked gently, tugging on Klark’s veins, and the exquisite pressure trickled into his chest. Another draw and release; it felt like Ambrose was caressing Klark’s heart in his palm.

Klark had heard the Ambroses’ venom was good, but this was transcendent. Even the breeze against his cheek was insanely erotic, but he’d need some blood left in him to take this further.

He pushed Ambrose back, and the vampire released his bite, blinking blearily. Klark kissed him, diving into his mouth to drink the blood from his tongue. Ambrose chuckled, letting Klark explore his teeth, then he nipped at his lower lip, cutting into it as he kissed brutally back. The pain emboldened Klark. He pulled his mouth away, then brought it down to Ambrose’s jugular and bit down hard, but his teeth weren’t sharp enough to break through to the luscious blood held within.

“Garçon coquin.” A growl bubbled up Ambrose’s chest. “You cannot touch me there.”

He wrapped his hand around Klark’s throat and bit into the other side of his neck. Klark cried out, pleasure wracking him mercilessly from head to toe. Ambrose crushed him against himself and bent his back out as he drank and drank, pulling harder until Klark went woozy. As Ambrose’s grip grew stronger, and his pulls hungrier, numbness crept up Klark’s fingertips.

The pain was fading, and Ambrose wasn’t stopping. Was this part of the process? Would he receive Ambrose’s gift only after he had lost all of his Zenimount blood? Klark would have

asked if he had the strength, but even keeping his eyes open was a struggle.

“Mmh—” Ambrose pulled off of him with a wet smack. Holding Klark at arm’s length, he sucked the blood off his teeth. “You’ve gone a little sour, love. Something the matter?”

“I can’t... I need your blood.” Klark gingerly touched his new brand. It didn’t have the right number of holes—the wound was as ragged as a lynx’s bite.

Ambrose swallowed. “You didn’t think I was making you one of mine, did you? No, our prospects must undergo years of evaluation, years you do not have. I thought I might make you a spy in exchange for handling your debts.

A spy? He’d have to see Devron again, pretend everything was okay with Nora, and go back to the same shitty cycle he had risked everything to break free from. Klark’s head was already swimming, but that bomb blew the world out from under him; he clung to Ambrose to keep from slipping off the balcony ledge.

“I see you are eager to show your gratitude.” Ambrose nuzzled Klark’s shoulder, blood-drunkenly grinding into him. “I am eager to receive...”

“No—I must have misheard you. If I spy for you, then I can be your scion, right?”

He abruptly laughed. “I think not. Loyalty is an Ambrose founding tenant, and you have proven to be lacking in it.”

“So I spy on my family until I get caught and they kill me?” Klark tried to scoot back, but he had little room to move while seated over a mile-high drop. “That deal’s bullshit.”

“I’m afraid you have already broken your oaths.” Ambrose smirked, grazing his claws over Klark’s wounds. “You’re mine now.”

“Fuck. You.” Klark uselessly shoved him.

He kept hold of Klark’s waist, licking his lips. “Where was this fire when I sold that block trade at Stellaire? I think I like this side of you even more.”

“You did what? Why the hell would you tank your own stock?”

“To capture my capital gains for tax purposes. The losses are temporary, darling. I see why you are disappointed, but I assure you, this is an excellent proposition. I have arranged for you to replace your sire.”

Klark raised his posture, letting Ambrose pull him in again. “If you had ties that deep with the Zenimounts, you wouldn’t need me.”

“Ah, but you are the key to the plans I spent the night laying. With a little assistance from my end, you will have your next rank by sunrise.”

“So you’ll what? Ask nicely for my greater sire to promote me? I’d be a pretty shit-obvious spy.”

“No, nothing so crass. Tell me, what if your grandsire were to hear of tonight’s escapades?

What if you were to tell him of how your incompetent sire allowed your blood brother to fall into financial ruin and whore his neck out to none other than yourself?”

“Devron would be done...but so would I.” “Quite the contrary. You would be the natural choice for his replacement. You took your brother’s blood to prevent another line from having it, thus protecting the Zenimount’s honor without insulting your hosts, the Ambroses. In fact, we were so impressed that we would like to offer you another contract; let’s film a set of those youth-targeted ads for each planet.”

Klark touched his mouth, piecing together the upside of Ambrose’s plan. “They’d give me a studio for that and at least half-a-dozen scions to staff it...”

“My thoughts exactly.” Ambrose stepped back, pulling Klark onto his feet. “And I will see to it that you continue to rise in rank, so long as you preserve the Ambroses’ interests.”

“You’re planning a hostile takeover, aren’t you?” Anything less wouldn’t have been worth this level of effort, but something still didn’t add up. “Why not just buy us out? Or acquire one of our competitors and grind us into the dust? You’re the Ambroses—our market cap is pocket

change to you.”

“It’s not about the Zenimounts—it’s about your bastard patriarch, Zephyr.”

Ambrose stamped his stiletto on the glass tile, sending fractures splintering under his heel.

“Zephyr forced the private sale of the rights to the Bowie Estate before they went to auction when they should have been mine. I’ve offered to pay him any price if he’d simply stop butchering the man’s legacy, yet he still refuses! He thinks it’s some show of power to thumb his nose at us, but I’ll have those damn rights after I see a knife buried in his back. And what more succinct revenge than to have the blow delivered by one of his own?”

Ambrose grinned like a spoiled princeling, unabashed at the pettiness of this scheme.

He kept talking about AI pop hits and the “human soul” of art, but Klark barely registered any of it. He still couldn’t get past how ludicrous this was. His, Rhys’s, Devron’s, and Nora’s lives were all play pieces in a feud between two incredibly ancient and unfathomably powerful...children.

“You want me to risk my life for the rights to some Brit rock? No—they will catch me eventually. You want me to throw my life away for a meaningless grudge.”

“Ah—you have a point. I may have overlooked that part, so allow me to present your exit strategy.” Ambrose produced the bloody knife from his breast pocket. “You want my blood? All you need is a drop. Take it, and I will adopt you. I won’t pretend this is a simple challenge, but if you can manage to deceive or seduce me before your kin discovers our scheme, you will have earned the Ambrose name.”

This deal would give Klark enough rank to make Nora immortal, but it would be a death sentence for Devron and Rhys. Could he really sell out his brother for this? Could he even stomach bringing Nora into such a vicious, shallow world? She wanted to become a vampire so desperately, but only because she didn’t understand what it meant.

Klark hadn’t before tonight either. He’d bought the ad line that immortality was about living the Martian dream: two kids, one dog, and a green lawn—not getting high off of perennial blood, cheating on his wife, and fucking over his subordinates. A vampire’s life was a constant

search for new victims to drain, growing more detached as the people around you slowly died.

Nora didn’t want that, but Klark could never convince her to accept death. He’d been running from it himself.

“Well, mon co-conspirateur, do we have a deal?” Ambrose held the knife by its blade and offered Klark the emerald-encrusted handle.

He curled his fingers around the steely banister, releasing a slow breath. His mouth still tasted like blood. His and Rhys’s stale, tainted blood.

He shook his head. “No. I don’t want to end up like you, dead inside and addicted to power.”

Ambrose scowled, returning the knife to his pocket. “I am very much alive. You, however, are living on borrowed time.”

“I’m still breathing.”

“Just barely.” Ambrose pressed a finger to Klark’s chest, pushing him back against the railing.

“Who will you turn to now? Your sire won’t help you, not that I suspect he ever would have.

Will you run off to your whore of a wife to compare love bites? She’ll be embarrassed that you didn’t even get dinner out of me before lifting your chin. Face it: Without me, you’re dead within the month.”

Klark gripped Ambrose’s coat to catch his balance. “Don’t call her that.”

“Ugh, now we’re in love again?” Ambrose slapped Klark’s hand aside. “Pathetic. After all the trouble I went through to sort out your career, you toss my plans to the flame. What do you even want?”

“What everyone wants—” He tried to push Ambrose back, but the vampire was immovable. “I just wanted to be happy!”

“Happy?” Ambrose’s nose wrinkled. “It seems I was wrong about you; you were born to die like the rest of them.”

“So what? What’s the point of living forever if you’re bitter and alone? My life was fine before I was a perennial. The moment Devron bit me was when it went to shit! The artists I exploited, the junior staff I lied to, the endless corporate bullshit—even Nora changed. We weren’t equals anymore, and her self-esteem tanked. We ruined everything, trying to chase the bullshit lifestyle you assholes sold us when we could have just been happy.” Warm tears fell down Klark’s cheeks as he pressed his fists to Ambrose’s cold chest. “And now it’s too late.”

Ambrose released a heavy sigh. “You’re ambitious, Klark. Such a life would not have been enough for you, but there is still time. No one will give you the happiness you seek; you must take it. If it comes at the expense of the weak, so be it.”

“I said no. I won’t be a part of the system that fucked me over. And now that I know the truth, I’d rather eat a bullet than wear your brand.”

Ambrose pursed his blood-smeared lips. “I’m afraid you can’t afford one of those. Fortunately, there are more economical ways to end your suffering.”

“No.” Klark glanced over his shoulder at the city bowing beneath them. “Get back.”

“You obviously don’t have the stomach for these things”—Ambrose grabbed a fistful of his robe—“so consider this a mercy.”

He threw Klark over the banister.

Klark’s stomach rolled back as he careened off the ledge, but he didn’t try to catch himself.

Ambrose was right about one thing: There was no other way out. He couldn’t go back to being mortal, and it had cost him everything to realize he never wanted to be a perennial. All he’d been after was one good life with someone who loved him, but he’d spent so long chasing the ambitions of others that he’d lost track of his own.

The disappointment on Ambrose’s face was mild as it slipped behind the tower’s black glass, and then the rush of air swallowed Klark.

Klark watched for a while. He watched the figures grow until the wind hurt his eyes.

That high up, people lost their shape; they stopped being human.

Asher and J, boyfriends of ten years, write about blood-sucking capitalists and disaster gays. The duo draws on their life experiences with the struggles of familial rejection, financial insecurity, and selfacceptance to bring grounded emotions to fantastical settings. The couple live in the same town they first met with their two dogs in their little house filled with thrifted furniture.