Fourteen - The bloodsuckers of New Orleans

The bloodsuckers of New Orleans

Carrie's eyes flew open, her breath steady despite the storm of adrenaline coursing through her veins. The moment she had been planning for weeks—months—was finally here. The house was shrouded in silence, save for the occasional groan of settling wood. She lay motionless for a beat longer, listening intently for any signs that her parents might still be awake. Satisfied, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her movements deliberate and noiseless.

The cool night air filtered through the slightly cracked window, brushing against her skin like a conspiratorial whisper. Shadows stretched across her room, cloaking her actions as she crept toward her bed. With a practiced motion, Carrie reached underneath it, her fingers curling around the familiar canvas of a large black duffle bag. She slid it out and unzipped it, the metallic sound unnervingly loud in the stillness.

Inside was the culmination of her secret preparation: a carefully packed collection of essentials. Carrie pulled out a dark hoodie and slipped it over her head, its fabric soft but utilitarian. Next, she traded her sleepwear for well-worn jeans.

From her nightstand, she retrieved her notebook, its cover scuffed from countless hours of research and planning. She flipped to the last blank page and tore it out, her hands steady despite the gravity of her actions. Leaning over her desk, she wrote a short note in her neat handwriting:

I'll be gone for a little while. Don't worry.

The words felt hollow, inadequate, but there was no time to agonize over them. Folding the note, she placed it on her pillow where her parents would find it in the morning. She doubted it would ease their panic, but at least they wouldn't think she had disappeared without a trace.

Carrie hoisted the duffle bag over her shoulder, its weight both a burden and a reassurance. She approached the window, sliding it open with practiced ease. A rush of cool air hit her face as she carefully climbed through, her feet landing soundlessly on the dewy grass below.

She straightened, turning to look back at the house she had called home for so long. The familiar outline of the roof against the star-strewn sky tugged at something deep within her, but she shook it off. Nostalgia had no place tonight. Without a sound, she turned away, stepping into the shadows that stretched like open arms to welcome her.

It wasn't long before Carrie arrived at the nearest bus stop. The air was cold and still, her breath visible in the faint light of the streetlamp above. She sank onto the bench, pulling out her notebook again. The worn cover and dog-eared pages bore the marks of weeks of meticulous research.

Flipping through her notes, Carrie stopped at the section she had memorized but couldn't resist reading again. The bold header at the top read Vampires: Weaknesses. Beneath it, a short but crucial list was scrawled in her careful handwriting:

SunlightVervainWooden stake through the heart

Her lips moved silently as she read the words, committing them to memory once more. She frowned. Were there other vulnerabilities she hadn't uncovered yet? The sources she had found were fragmented—old folk tales, obscure news clippings, and dusty books tucked away in the corner of a forgotten library. Still, it was enough to fuel her determination.

The hiss of air brakes broke the silence as the bus pulled up in front of her. Carrie snapped the notebook shut and slid it back into her bag. The door opened with a groan, and she climbed aboard, the faint scent of coffee and worn upholstery meeting her as she entered.

"What's a young girl like you doing out so late?" the bus driver asked, his voice weary but laced with genuine concern.

"Visiting my aunt. She lives out of town, and my parents thought it'd be better if I left tonight," she lied smoothly, offering a polite smile.

The driver studied her for a moment before nodding. "Alright, as long as you're safe."

Carrie made her way to the back of the bus, her heart steady but her mind racing. She settled into a seat, pulling her notebook out again. She turned to the first page, where a single word stood out in bold, circled letters: New Orleans.

This city wasn't chosen lightly. It was the result of endless hours of research, piecing together rumors, news articles, and centuries-old stories. New Orleans had a reputation steeped in the supernatural—witches, vampires, werewolves. Its dark allure had always been a draw for tourists, but for Carrie, it was something more. The city had seen an unusual number of animal attacks recently, the kind that never made sense upon closer inspection. Bite marks that didn't align with any known predator. Victims drained of blood.

The signs were clear to her, even if the rest of the world ignored them. This was where she would find them.

Carrie had considered searching closer to home, but she didn't know where to start. New Orleans, with its long history of supernatural lore, felt like her best chance. The old stories painted it as a haven for vampires, a place where they could blend in among the city's gothic charm and shadowy corners.

Her resolve hardened as she stared at the word on the page. The stolen money in her bag was enough to get her there. She would figure the rest out later. This was her mission now—to find the truth about the supernatural, to confirm what she believed with every fiber of her being.

The bus rumbled to life, and Carrie leaned her head against the window, watching the darkened streets roll by. She didn't know what awaited her in New Orleans, but she was ready to face it. This journey wasn't just about finding vampires; it was about finding herself in a world she knew was bigger and more dangerous than anyone else dared to admit.

As the bus roared forward into the night, Carrie clutched her notebook tightly, the weight of its secrets grounding her. She had no idea how far this path would take her or what she would find at the end. But she knew one thing for sure: there was no turning back now.

After three long days of traveling, Carrie finally arrived in New Orleans. The bus hissed to a halt, and as she stepped off, the city enveloped her in its vibrant chaos. Bright neon lights painted the streets in hues of red, blue, and gold, casting a surreal glow on the bustling crowd. Music spilled out from every corner—trumpets blaring, drums pounding, and voices raised in jubilant song. Groups of people danced in the streets, their laughter and movement creating a dizzying whirlwind of energy.

Carrie stood still, clutching the strap of her duffle bag tightly as she tried to take it all in. The atmosphere was electric, alive with a kind of magic she hadn't experienced before, and it overwhelmed her. She had spent days in the quiet solitude of buses and rest stops, her world reduced to the hum of engines and the soft rustle of notebook pages. This—this was a sensory onslaught.

Closing her eyes briefly, she breathed in deeply and let the humid air fill her lungs. The scent of fried food, perfume, and something earthy—like rain-soaked soil—swirled together in a heady mix. She exhaled slowly, grounding herself, and then reached into her bag, her fingers brushing past her notebook before landing on a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, she scanned the notes she had scribbled weeks ago: the name and address of the hotel she'd chosen.

After wandering the lively streets of New Orleans for a while, Carrie finally found the hotel she had carefully chosen from her research. Her steps slowed as she took it in. The building was small and weathered, its facade bearing the marks of time with chipped paint and a flickering sign that announced "VACANCY" in uneven neon letters. It wasn't exactly inviting, but it was within her budget, and it was enough for what she needed—a place to stay while she began her search.

Pushing open the creaky glass door, she stepped into the dimly lit lobby. The air inside was warm and carried an odd, lingering scent—fishy, almost like salmon, mixed with the unmistakable musk of old carpet. Carrie wrinkled her nose but said nothing as she scanned the room. The walls were lined with faded wallpaper, and a tired ceiling fan rotated lazily overhead. A chipped reception desk stood at the far end of the room, but it was empty.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice uncertain as it echoed faintly in the quiet lobby. She glanced around, but there was no immediate response. For a moment, she thought she might have walked into an abandoned building.

Just as she was about to call out again, an elderly man emerged from behind a partition, startling her slightly. He was tall and thin, with a weathered face that seemed to match the hotel's atmosphere. His red suit, though neatly pressed, looked like it had seen better days, the fabric slightly faded and frayed at the edges. He approached the desk with a deliberate pace, his sharp gaze taking her in from head to toe.

"Hello there," he said, his voice gravelly but polite. "How can I help you?"

Carrie felt the weight of his scrutiny, the lines of his face betraying a hint of judgment as he noted her youthful appearance and lone status. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and straightened her posture, trying to appear more confident than she felt.

"I booked a room here," she said, her tone steady.

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "You did, huh? Let's see about that," he replied, his voice tinged with doubt. He pulled a large ledger from beneath the counter, the worn leather binding creaking as he opened it. A faint cloud of dust rose into the air as he flipped through the pages, his bony finger tracing the names written in looping, old-fashioned script.

"What's your name?" he asked, peering at her over the rim of his glasses.

"Carrie. Carrie Daniels," she replied, keeping her voice firm.

The man hummed thoughtfully, continuing to flip through the pages. For a moment, Carrie felt a flicker of panic—what if her reservation hadn't been logged? She didn't have the luxury of a backup plan. But finally, he stopped and tapped a line on the ledger with his finger.

"Ah, here you are," he said, his tone softening slightly, though his expression remained wary. "Room 104. Paid in advance."

Carrie nodded, relieved. "That's right."

The old man grabbed a tarnished brass key from a hook behind the desk and set it on the counter in front of her. "Second floor, end of the hall," he instructed. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "We don't get many young travelers like you. What brings you to New Orleans?"

Carrie hesitated, unsure how to respond. She wasn't about to spill her real reasons for being here, so she forced a small smile and shrugged. "Just needed a change of scenery."

The man raised an eyebrow again but didn't press further. "Well, enjoy your stay," he said, his tone making it clear he didn't expect her to.

Carrie grabbed the key, her fingers brushing against the cold metal as she mumbled a polite "Thank you" and headed toward the staircase. As she climbed the creaking steps to the second floor, the scent of the lobby lingered in her nostrils, and she couldn't shake the feeling that this place had secrets of its own.

The room was a claustrophobic box, its walls yellowed from years of neglect, and the faint smell of mildew lingered in the air. A single window, streaked with dirt, let in barely enough light to cast shadows across the space. The bed—a lumpy mattress atop a rusted frame—looked like it hadn't seen fresh linens in decades. Carrie grimaced at the sight of suspicious stains speckling the threadbare sheets, their origins better left unknown.

"Well, what did I expect for ten bucks a night?" she muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with resignation. She knew this wasn't going to be a luxury trip, but the reality of her accommodations still made her stomach churn.

Despite her surroundings, Carrie reminded herself of her mission. She wasn't here for comfort; she was here for answers. Determined, she tossed her duffle bag onto the bed, causing the springs to creak ominously, and pulled out her notebook. The pages were a chaotic mixture of meticulous research and hastily scrawled notes, but they were her lifeline. Flipping through them, she stopped at a section titled in bold, deliberate letters: "French quarters, party."

The entry had taken her hours to piece together from various sources—old news articles, online forums, even overheard conversations. It detailed the underground party scene in the city, specifically the ones that locals had marked as sketchy. These weren't your typical tourist traps or college raves. No, these gatherings had a sinister reputation.

Several accounts had described them as "no-go zones," places where even the most daring locals hesitated to tread. The parties were known for their opulence but also their eerie rules. They started late and ended abruptly at midnight. Rumors circulated about strange occurrences—people disappearing, odd figures lurking in the shadows, and a sense of unease that hung over the revelers.

For anyone else, these warnings would have been enough to stay far away. But to Carrie, these descriptions were more than red flags; they were glowing neon signs pointing her straight to her goal. If vampires were hiding in New Orleans, these parties were where they would be. The risk didn't scare her—it thrilled her.

"This is where they'll be," she whispered, running her finger across the underlined words on the page. She leaned back, her mind racing with plans. She'd need to blend in, to look like she belonged, no matter how much the thought of mingling with a crowd of strangers made her stomach twist.

From her bag, she pulled out a neatly folded dress. It was black, simple yet flattering, something she had bought secondhand but had been saving for a moment like this. Laying it carefully on the edge of the bed, she then retrieved a small pouch of makeup. The collection was sparse—a few basics she had borrowed from her mother's stash without permission—but it would do the trick.

Standing in front of the cracked mirror mounted above a battered dresser, Carrie studied her reflection. Her face was pale and determined, her eyes reflecting a mix of nerves and resolve. She couldn't afford to look nervous tonight; she had to blend in seamlessly, to appear confident and carefree.

She slipped into the dress, its fabric clinging slightly to her skin in the humid air. With careful hands, she applied a thin layer of makeup, enhancing her features without overdoing it. A touch of eyeliner to make her gaze sharper, a dab of lipstick for color, and a dusting of powder to hide the faint sheen of anxiety on her face.

When she was done, she stepped back and assessed herself in the mirror. The transformation wasn't drastic, but it was enough. She didn't look like the girl who had just spent three days traveling in buses and cheap motels. She looked like someone who could belong at one of these parties. Someone confident, someone daring.

"Alright," she said, exhaling deeply as she grabbed her notebook again and scanned her notes one last time. The address of the party was circled in bold ink, along with the cryptic phrase: "Midnight is the key." She tucked the notebook back into her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and gave herself one final look in the mirror.

Steeling herself, she grabbed the room key from the nightstand and headed for the door. The stale air of the hotel was quickly replaced by the humid night as she stepped onto the streets of New Orleans, her heart pounding with anticipation.

Carrie left the hotel, her footsteps echoing softly in the humid night as she made her way toward the address she had scrawled in her notebook. The streets of New Orleans were alive with energy, the faint sounds of jazz spilling from open doorways and the distant chatter of locals blending into a symphony of city life. But as she drew closer to her destination, the atmosphere shifted. The sounds grew louder, more chaotic, and the unmistakable pulse of heavy bass thumped in the air, guiding her toward the so-called party she had read so much about.

The location was tucked away in an old courtyard, its entrance flanked by ivy-covered brick walls and dimly lit sconces that cast flickering shadows. A single bouncer stood at the entrance, his imposing figure blocking the way. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his sharp eyes scanned the small crowd of hopeful partygoers hovering near the entrance. Carrie's stomach tightened as she approached, her mind racing with possible excuses if he asked for ID. She clutched the strap of her bag tightly, forcing her expression into one of nonchalance.

To her surprise, the bouncer barely gave her a second glance. With a slight nod, he stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter without a word. Relief washed over her, though it was quickly replaced by unease. Why hadn't he stopped her? Was it luck, or something else entirely? She pushed the thought aside as she stepped through the gate and into the courtyard.

The scene that greeted her was overwhelming. String lights hung haphazardly above the open space, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the cracked cobblestone below. The music was loud and hypnotic, its heavy beats reverberating in her chest and drowning out any coherent thought. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spilled alcohol, cigarette smoke, and the faint perfume of the many dancers who filled the courtyard.

Carrie paused at the edge of the crowd, her breath hitching as she took it all in. The party was already in full swing, with dozens of people packed tightly together, moving to the rhythm of the music. Some danced with wild abandon, their laughter ringing out above the noise, while others lounged at the edges of the space, their gazes watchful and calculating.

She felt a pang of intimidation as she noticed the ages of the other attendees. Most of them were older, their confident movements and easy interactions highlighting her own inexperience. They moved with a grace and self-assuredness that Carrie couldn't quite muster, and for a moment, she hesitated. She wasn't here to party; she was here on a mission. But standing on the outskirts would draw attention, and the last thing she needed was anyone questioning why she was here.

Determined, she stepped forward and joined the fray, slipping into the crowd as seamlessly as she could manage. The press of bodies around her was suffocating at first, but she forced herself to relax, swaying awkwardly to the beat. The music's rhythm was infectious, and soon she found herself moving more naturally, mimicking the carefree movements of those around her.

Her gaze darted around the courtyard as she danced, searching for anything—or anyone—that might stand out. The atmosphere was charged with a strange energy, and Carrie couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this party than met the eye. She noticed how some of the partygoers seemed oddly detached, their movements precise but lacking the warmth of genuine enjoyment.

A man at the edge of the crowd caught her attention. He was leaning against a weathered pillar, his piercing eyes scanning the dancers with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine. There was something off about him, something almost predatory. Carrie quickly averted her gaze, not wanting to draw his attention just yet.

The music shifted to a faster tempo, and the crowd surged, pulling her deeper into the chaos. She stumbled slightly but regained her footing, her resolve hardening. This was what she had come for. Somewhere in this crowd, hidden among the revelers, was the truth she had been chasing. All she had to do was stay unnoticed until she found it.

Carrie continued to move with the crowd, her senses on high alert despite her efforts to blend in. She reminded herself of the risks and the stakes. If she was right, if this place was more than just a party, then tonight would bring her closer to her goal. But if she was wrong... well, she wouldn't think about that now.

As the music pounded through the air, Carrie felt her unease grow. The crowd seemed to pulse and move in unison, their energy shifting from lighthearted chaos to something darker, more ominous. Her instincts screamed at her, and her heart raced as she subtly edged toward the outskirts of the courtyard. Something was about to happen—something she had prepared for but still feared.

The lights dimmed abruptly, and the music cut off mid-beat, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The revelers stopped dancing, their movements freezing as if suspended in time. Carrie held her breath, her eyes darting around. That's when she saw it: one by one, the partygoers turned toward the center of the courtyard, their faces illuminated by the faint glow of the string lights.

And then it happened.

Smiles stretched unnaturally wide, revealing sharp, gleaming fangs. Hisses echoed through the air as eyes darkened and veins marred their skin. The crowd, now a sea of vampires, stood still for a moment, their predatory gazes sweeping over the space. Carrie's stomach dropped, but she forced herself to remain calm. She had read enough to know what would happen next.

The first scream shattered the silence.

Chaos erupted as the vampires descended on the few humans scattered among the partygoers. Carrie turned on her heel and bolted, her heart pounding as adrenaline took over. She shoved past the frenzied crowd, narrowly avoiding grasping hands and snapping jaws. She ducked through the narrow spaces between the vampires, keeping her movements unpredictable.

She clutched her bag tightly as she sprinted toward the courtyard's entrance. The bouncer who had let her in now stood motionless, his eyes glowing faintly as he blocked the gate. Carrie veered to the left, leaping onto a stack of crates and pulling herself onto a low wall. She scrambled over it, her breath ragged but determined, and dropped into the alley on the other side.

But her escape was short-lived.

A blur of movement to her right was the only warning she had before a cold, iron grip closed around her arm. She yelped, twisting and thrashing, but the vampire's strength was overwhelming. With a swift motion, he knocked her head against the brick wall, and the world went black.

When Carrie regained consciousness, her head throbbed, and her vision swam as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. The room was dimly lit, with flickering candles casting shadows on the walls. It was ornate, almost regal, with high ceilings and faded but intricate wallpaper.

She blinked, her focus sharpening on the figures surrounding her. Vampires. A lot of them. They lounged against walls, sat in chairs, or stood in tense clusters, their predatory gazes fixed on her. Despite their casual postures, there was an air of danger in the room, an unspoken tension that made her stomach twist.

At the center of the room, a man leaned casually against a grand armchair, his presence commanding despite his relaxed demeanor. His skin was a warm bronze, his features sharp and refined. He wore a fitted suit jacket over a dark shirt, exuding an effortless charisma that seemed to draw the room's attention.

Marcel Gerard.

Carrie had seen his name in her research—a vampire with a storied history, a king who ruled New Orleans' supernatural underworld with charm and iron resolve. Now, standing before her, he was every bit as intimidating as she had imagined.

"Look who's awake," Marcel said, his smooth voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. His dark eyes bore into hers, a mix of curiosity and amusement dancing in them. "We've got ourselves a little spy. Or maybe just a very unlucky party crasher."

Carrie forced herself to sit up, her muscles screaming in protest. Her throat was dry, but she swallowed the lump forming there and met his gaze with as much defiance as she could muster. "I'm neither," she said, her voice hoarse but steady.

Marcel tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, you're something, alright," he said, his tone as light as it was dangerous. "You didn't come here by accident. You knew what you were walking into. That makes you either very brave... or very stupid."

The vampires around him chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down Carrie's spine.

Marcel stepped closer, his movements deliberate and graceful, like a predator sizing up its prey. "So tell me, Carrie," he said, his voice dropping into a softer, more menacing register. "What exactly were you hoping to find tonight?"

Carrie's pulse raced, but she forced herself to think. She needed to buy time, to figure out how to escape. "I'm just... looking for answers," she said carefully. "About your kind."

Marcel's smile widened, his teeth flashing briefly. "Our kind? Sweetheart, you're standing in a room full of answers. But you should know by now—asking the wrong questions in this city can get you killed."

The room seemed to close in around her, the weight of Marcel's words sinking heavily into her chest. She clenched her fists, determined not to show fear. She had come to New Orleans for this exact reason, to face the danger head-on. Now she just had to survive it.

Marcel's gaze lingered on Carrie, his dark eyes narrowing as though he were assessing her worth. The vampires around the room shifted, their smirks fading as Marcel's expression grew more thoughtful. He studied her with the air of a king deciding the fate of a subject—calculated, deliberate, and impossibly calm.

"You're brave," Marcel said finally, breaking the tense silence. His voice carried the weight of a decision already made. "I'll give you that. Brave enough to crash one of my parties, brave enough to run from a courtyard full of vampires. But bravery like that? It's wasted on mortality."

Carrie's heart stuttered, the implications of his words crashing over her. She edged back slightly, her hands gripping the plush upholstery of the chair she had been unceremoniously dumped into. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, her voice sharp with a mixture of fear and defiance.

Marcel smirked, stepping closer. "It means you're not going anywhere. Not as you are, anyway. See, I could kill you." He said it so casually, as if discussing the weather. "And frankly, most of the people in this room would prefer it. But you've got guts, kid. And I've got a better idea."

The vampires in the room exchanged curious glances, the tension thickening as Marcel knelt down in front of Carrie, bringing himself to eye level with her. His expression softened, almost as if he were offering her a gift.

"Here's the deal," he continued. "You came here looking for vampires. Well, now you've found us. And I'm going to give you a crash course in what it really means to live in this world." His hand reached out, brushing against her cheek with a gentleness that belied the danger of the moment. "But first, I'm going to make you one of us."

Carrie froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her mind raced, searching for an escape, for something to say to stop him. "You can't just— I didn't ask for this!" she spat, her voice trembling despite her attempt at strength.

Marcel chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You didn't have to. You showed up here, uninvited, poking around in business you didn't understand. That makes you a liability as a human. But as a vampire? Well, you just might survive." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And trust me, you'll thank me for it."

Before she could protest further, Marcel's hand darted forward, gripping her chin to hold her still. His other hand reached for a small, ornate knife tucked into his jacket. The room went utterly silent, the other vampires watching with bated breath. The sharp glint of the blade caught Carrie's eye, her pulse hammering in her ears as Marcel used it to make a shallow cut across his palm.

Dark red blood welled from the wound, and Marcel brought his hand to her mouth before she could pull away. "Drink," he commanded, his voice low and firm. "Or this ends here, with your death."

Carrie hesitated, her lips trembling as the scent of blood overwhelmed her senses. Every instinct screamed at her to resist, to fight back. But the weight of the vampires' stares, the inevitability of Marcel's decision, and her own fear of dying all pressed down on her. Slowly, reluctantly, she opened her mouth and allowed the blood to touch her tongue.

It was electric. The taste flooded her senses, rich and metallic and impossibly addictive. She couldn't stop herself from drinking more, her hands gripping Marcel's wrist as though it were a lifeline. Heat surged through her veins, a searing fire that both terrified and exhilarated her.

Marcel pulled his hand away, leaving her gasping and disoriented. "Good," he said with a satisfied nod. "Now comes the fun part."

Before Carrie could process what he meant, Marcel moved with lightning speed. His fangs extended, and he sank them into her neck. The pain was brief, overtaken almost immediately by a dizzying rush of pleasure and power. Her vision blurred, and the room seemed to spin as her heartbeat slowed, each thump growing weaker and weaker.

Darkness crept in around the edges of her consciousness. She barely registered Marcel pulling back, his lips stained with her blood. His voice was distant, echoing in her fading awareness. "Welcome to the family, Carrie. You'll wake up soon enough."

And then, everything went black.

When Carrie awoke, the world felt different. Her senses were sharper, her body thrumming with an unfamiliar energy. The musty scent of the room was suddenly overwhelming, the faint candlelight almost blinding. She sat up slowly, her muscles moving with an ease and strength that startled her.

Marcel stood nearby, watching her with a satisfied grin. "There she is," he said, his voice warm but teasing. "How does it feel to be immortal?"

Carrie blinked, her mind struggling to reconcile the changes she felt with the reality of what had happened. She touched her neck, where Marcel's bite had been, and found no wound, only smooth, unblemished skin. "What did you do to me?" she whispered.

"I gave you a gift," Marcel said, spreading his arms as if to emphasize the grandeur of the moment. "A new life. A better life. You wanted to know about vampires? Well, now you are one." His smile turned sly. "Lesson number one: you're going to feel hungry soon. And trust me, you won't be craving pizza."

Carrie's stomach twisted, and she realized with dawning horror what he meant. Hunger gnawed at her, sharper and more primal than anything she had ever felt. Her new life had begun, and there was no turning back.

Carrie's newfound clarity was like a slap to the face. She bolted upright, her eyes narrowing as she took in the sight of Marcel standing casually near the window, arms crossed, his posture exuding smug satisfaction. The realization hit her like a freight train—he had taken her life and twisted it into something unrecognizable, without her consent, without a shred of remorse.

"You had no right!" she shouted, her voice raw with fury. She shot to her feet, the strength in her movements startling her for a moment. "You turned me into this—this thing! You played with my life like it was some kind of joke!"

Marcel raised an eyebrow, his grin unfaltering. "Oh, sweetheart, you were in over your head the second you decided to crash my party. I just made sure you'd survive your poor life choices."

"Survive?" Carrie spat, advancing on him. "You think this is survival? You took everything from me! My life, my family, my humanity!" Her fists clenched, her new strength coursing through her. "I didn't ask for this!"

Marcel's grin faded, replaced by an expression that was equal parts stern and mocking. "No, you didn't," he said flatly. "But you don't get to march into my world and expect to walk away unscathed. You wanted to play with fire, kid. Well, now you're burned."

Carrie's rage boiled over, and she lunged for him, her movements fueled by adrenaline and raw anger. But Marcel moved faster, effortlessly grabbing her wrists and holding her in place. "Careful," he warned, his voice dropping an octave. "You don't want to start a fight you can't win."

Breathing heavily, Carrie yanked herself free and stumbled back, glaring at him with a mix of defiance and fear. Her chest heaved, and she could feel that gnawing hunger growing stronger with every passing second.

"You're not keeping me here," she snapped, her voice trembling with determination. "I'm leaving. Right now."

Marcel chuckled, shaking his head as though she'd said something amusing. "Be my guest." He gestured toward the door. "But you might want to check the time before you go running out into the big, wide world."

Confused, Carrie stormed over to the window and pulled back the heavy curtain. The moment sunlight spilled into the room, her skin began to burn, a sharp, searing pain that made her cry out. She stumbled backward, clutching her hand where the light had scorched her.

Marcel moved swiftly, snapping the curtain shut. He crossed his arms and leaned against the window frame, his expression smug once more. "Lesson number two," he said. "The sun isn't your friend anymore. You're going to have to learn to live without it."

Carrie cradled her hand, glaring at him with pure venom in her eyes. "You planned this, didn't you? You knew I wouldn't be able to leave!"

"Of course I did," Marcel admitted with a shrug. "You're not exactly ready to face the world, Carrie. You're a newborn, and trust me, this life is a lot more complicated than you realize. If I let you run off now, you'd either die within a day or end up killing someone you didn't mean to. Probably both."

Her stomach twisted, the hunger now a gnawing void she couldn't ignore. "I'll figure it out," she muttered, though her resolve wavered.

Marcel stepped closer, his tone softening slightly. "I know you're angry. I know you feel like I've taken everything from you. And maybe I have. But like it or not, this is your life now. You're going to stay here for a little while—long enough to learn how to survive it."

"I don't want to stay here!" she yelled, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions.

"And I don't care what you want," Marcel shot back, his patience fraying. "You're going to stay because I say so. End of discussion."

Carrie turned her back on him, staring at the floor as her chest heaved with shallow breaths. She hated him. She hated everything about him—his smugness, his control, his ability to take her life and reshape it as if she were a pawn in his game.

But beneath the anger, beneath the fire that burned so brightly within her, was fear. Fear of the unknown, of the hunger clawing at her insides, of the life she no longer understood. And, reluctantly, she realized Marcel might be the only person who could help her survive it.