It was two a.m. when Riley pushed open the door to the bar, and the whole damn place exhaled like it didn't want her there.
A rusted bell above the frame gave a half-hearted jingle. The hinges whined. Inside, the lighting was bad—dim enough to hide your face, bright enough to count the bruises. Booths clung to the shadows like they were afraid of being seen, and the air was thick with stale beer, cigarette ghosts, and something sweet beneath it—clove maybe. Or old blood.
She stepped in.
Her boots left faint red prints on the cracked floor. The blood on her jeans had started to dry, but the gash across her right shoulder was still wet, pressing through the fabric of her coat like a warm, pulsing reminder of how close she'd come. Close, but not close enough. The bastard had slipped into the sewers.
Behind the bar, a man looked up.
He didn't say anything right away. Just stared at her with eyes that had no right to be that calm this late at night. Dark jacket, sleeves rolled, fingers wrapped loosely around a half-polished glass. He looked like the kind of guy who knew how to break a bottle and use it, but wouldn't. Not unless you asked nicely.
"Hell of a night," he said, voice smooth as the bourbon she suddenly wanted.
Riley didn't answer. She walked to the bar, took the stool nearest the wall, and sat with the ease of someone used to keeping her back to it. Her fingers twitched near the hilt of her knife—silver-coated, stained, still warm from the kill that didn't happen.
The bartender's eyes flicked to the blade, then back to her face. He didn't ask.
"What'll it be?" he said instead.
She tilted her head just slightly. "Something strong. No umbrellas. No stories."
His mouth tugged at one corner. "Got just the thing."
He turned, and for the briefest moment, she watched his reflection in the mirror behind the shelf.
No. Not his reflection.
Only the bottles stared back.
But when he turned again, there he was. Solid. Smiling. Pouring a drink.
Maybe she was just tired. Or concussed. Hard to say.
The glass landed in front of her with a satisfying weight.
She raised it to her lips.
And the moment the drink touched her tongue, her shoulders started to unknot—for the first time all day.
"Name?" he asked casually, wiping down the counter where her blood had dripped.
She didn't look up.
"Trouble," she said.
"You bleed on all the furniture," he said mildly, "or is this just a special occasion?"
Riley tilted her glass, swirling the amber liquid inside. "You charge extra for that?"
Lucien smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes.
He leaned against the bar like someone who'd mastered the art of looking lazy while keeping one hand near something dangerous. Probably a bat. Maybe a gun. Definitely not a Bible.
"Usually people come in here to drink away bad nights," he said. "You look like you brought yours with you."
Riley glanced at him, one brow lifted. "You always this nosy with bleeding women, or am I just lucky?"
He shrugged. "Only when they smell like silver and regret."
That made her pause just for a second. It was subtle, but the kind of thing trained hunters notice. She didn't move. Didn't blink. But she filed it.
"Must be a hell of a cologne you wear," she said. "You sniff all your customers?"
He laughed. Quiet. Low. Honest, maybe. "Only the interesting ones."
She studied him openly now. There was something a little too clean about his messiness. Hair deliberately tousled. Shirt rumpled in a way that suggested it took effort. Even the smudged bar glasses looked like part of the aesthetic. Grunge with intent.
She'd seen vampires dress like that before. Like they were playing human from memory. But he was too good at it.
Too warm. Too casual. Too fast with the charm.
Still, no signs. His skin wasn't pale. His pupils weren't dilated. No visible tremor. Not hungry, at least not the kind of hungry she hunted.
She leaned forward, rested her elbow on the bar. Close enough for her to smell the faint spice on him clove, cinnamon, something darker.
"I bet you give a fake name to girls like me," she said.
He poured himself a shot, didn't drink it. Just held the glass. "Depends. Are you the type to give me a fake number after?"
She didn't smile, exactly. But something twitched at the corner of her mouth.
"Try me."
Lucien's eyes lingered on her a second too long. Then: "Vale. Lucien Vale."
She rolled the name on her tongue like tasting it. "Pretentious. European. Possibly fictional."
He lifted the shot. Toasted her in mock salute.
"Trouble," he said, repeating what she'd called herself earlier. "Fitting."
The moment hung between them, amber-lit and razor-edged.
Riley knocked back the rest of her drink and set the glass down with deliberate calm. The silence afterward wasn't awkward—it was baited.
Lucien watched her fingers. Callused. Not from typing or guitar strings. These were from grip—on blades, maybe. Guns. He knew those hands. Not hers, specifically, but the type.
"So," she said lightly, dragging the word out like smoke, "this place always this dead, or did I kill the mood when I walked in?"
"Dead's relative," Lucien replied. "Depends who you ask."
She gave him a long, unreadable look.
He took his time polishing the next glass. Useless, really. He didn't even serve wine. But it gave him something to do with his hands.
"You get a lot of weirdos through here?" she asked, too casual.
He snorted. "Lady, I'm the weirdo. I serve gin to divorcees and bourbon to men trying not to cry about it. At two in the morning, everyone's either looking for a ghost or running from one."
"What if they're hunting one?"
His hand slowed just enough to notice.
Riley smiled—just a flicker of teeth. Not friendly.
Lucien set the glass down. "Ghost hunting's not really in season."
"No," she agreed, "but blood's been turning up in gutters. Kind of ruins the ambiance."
He met her gaze. Calm. Curious. Just slightly amused.
"You a cop?"
"Do I look like a cop?"
"You look like someone who gets to places first and leaves when they're worse."
That shut her up a beat longer than she meant it to.
Then: "So, you hear anything? About disappearances? Strangers? Night things?"
Lucien tilted his head. "You mean besides the beautiful woman bleeding at my bar and asking questions like she's writing a very niche horror novel?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I mean actual missing people."
"And if I had?"
"I'd be grateful."
"Dangerous thing to be in a place like this."
She leaned in. "So's lying to me."
He chuckled softly. "Noted."
She reached into her coat—slow, deliberate. Lucien watched without blinking. But instead of a weapon, she pulled out a small notebook. Slid it across the bar. A few names were written on the page.
He scanned them. Didn't react.
Too quickly.
She noticed.
"You recognize any?" she asked.
He handed the book back.
"Can't say I do," he lied.
Riley didn't move. Neither did Lucien.
Something was happening in the silence. Not comfort. Not trust. But attention. Sharp, mutual, and layered.
He glanced at the blood staining her shoulder again. She didn't wince. Didn't flinch. She wasn't the type who let pain do the talking.
"Whoever did that," he said softly, "you get a piece of them back?"
She drummed her fingers once on the counter. "Not enough."
Lucien nodded, slow and thoughtful. "Maybe next time."
She noticed the way he said it. No smirk. No cleverness. Just… regret. Like he'd meant it.
Riley shifted in her seat. "You talk like someone who's seen a lot of next times."
"I talk like someone who's run out of them."
Something flickered in her expression—curiosity? No. Something quieter. Recognition, maybe.
But then she caught it—tiny. Subtle.
The barest twitch of his fingers, pressing against the edge of the bar. Not nervous. Not impatient.
Resisting.
It was instinctive. Reflexive. She'd seen it in addicts, fighters, monsters. That pulse between wanting and not.
She watched his eyes—still, too still. No darting. No surprise. Because he already knew what she was seeing.
"You get many hunters in here?" she asked.
Lucien smiled. It was the kind of smile that people mistake for warmth. But it didn't touch the parts that mattered.
"Not unless they're thirsty."
Her hand drifted near her coat again.
Not a threat. Just a gesture. Like checking the weight of what was still hidden.
Lucien caught it.
"You planning to stab me, Trouble?"
"Not unless you're asking."
That earned an honest laugh—low, rough, real.
She stood suddenly, testing the shift between them.
Lucien didn't move.
They were nearly eye to eye now, only the bar between them. Close enough to smell the iron beneath her jacket. Close enough to hear the soft hitch in her breath when he leaned just a hair forward.
"You ever wonder," he murmured, "if you're the monster in someone else's story?"
Riley tilted her head.
"All the time," she said.
The scream cut through the moment like a bone saw.
High. Wet. Too close.
Riley was already moving—her stool tipping back with a wooden crack as her hand found the hilt of her knife beneath the coat. Lucien's hand darted under the counter—not for show this time.
"What the hell was that?" she asked, already halfway to the door marked Employees Only.
"Back alley," Lucien said. "Trash run. Staff entrance. Nobody's out there this late—"
Another sound.
Not a scream this time.
Wet chewing. Fast.
Riley didn't wait.
She slammed through the swinging door and shoved past mop buckets and sour bleach stink, boots echoing off concrete until she hit the rusted emergency exit. Lucien was right behind her, moving silently despite the urgency.
He wasn't supposed to go with her. He knew that. He should've stayed behind the bar, played the part.
But his skin was crawling.
And that smell—
It hit her first.
Rot. Not old. Fresh. Mixed with something sweeter. Like synthetic syrup poured over meat. Her stomach turned.
She threw the door open with her shoulder.
The alley was lit by a single buzzing bulb above the dumpster. In its flickering light, something hunched and pale crouched beside the trash.
It turned toward them, jaw distended, mouth dripping something dark and stringy. The thing hissed—not vampire, not quite—but something in between. Eyes wild. Fangs jagged, uneven. A junkie, maybe. A half-turned.
The body beneath it was still twitching.
Riley didn't hesitate. Her knife was out and spinning in her grip. She launched herself forward.
Lucien didn't move.
For a heartbeat, he just watched—the flicker of hunger twisting behind his calm. That blood. That smell. It was in his throat already.
He tasted it.
Then he saw her—the way she moved, fast and practiced, not hesitating as she drove the silver into the creature's side. It shrieked, flailed, and Riley spun behind it, dragging the blade across its throat.
It collapsed in a wet heap.
Lucien finally exhaled.
Riley looked at him. Her face was flushed. Alive. Beautiful, in the way wild things are beautiful.
"You gonna help next time, bartender," she said, "or just stand there and look pretty?"
Lucien blinked.
Smiled.
"Depends," he said. "Do I still get your number?"