The exit was less a glorious emergence and more a violent breach. Lyra erupted from the maintenance duct, tearing through the rusted metal sheeting and fibre optic conduits that had once lined the ventilation shaft of the Scale Up Laboratories. She landed silently on a greasy, rain-slicked ferroconcrete walkway in the Aeternum Underworld.
Above her, the actual sky was a distant, forgotten memory, replaced by a dense ceiling of smog-choked, overlapping habitation towers known as the "Sprawl." Down here, in the shadows beneath the Sprawl, the air was heavy with the stench of synthetic food, human sweat, cheap intoxicants, and decay.
But for Lyra, the newly transformed predator, the world was a canvas of agonising, mesmerising sensation.
Her eyes, still glowing faintly crimson, tracked the pulsing heat signatures in the crowd—hundreds of individual lives, each a dazzling, irresistible core of vitality. The ambient noise—the blare of illegal street commerce, the low thrum of gravity-defying mag trains, the distant, distorted sound of music—was a deafening, painful symphony.
And everywhere, the Blood.
It was in the air, a faint, copper scent she could taste on her tongue. Every passing citizen was a vessel of the perfect, vital essence she craved. The Thirst was no longer a knot; it was a physical entity in her core, demanding to be sated. It was a beautiful, terrible addiction born in the moment the vial shattered.
Control, Lyra. The Voice of the Aether Fragment was calm amidst the chaos, a steady hand gripping her flailing mind. Do not gorge yourself like a common beast. You are a Queen. We accept what is offered and take only what is necessary to maintain our strength. Waste is vulgar.
"I can't," Lyra gasped, clutching her head. The pain of the sensory overload was incapacitating, and the Thirst was a hunger that bent her knees. "It's too much. The sound, the scent…"
It is the sound of your domain. You must learn to filter it, to silence what is irrelevant. Focus on the core beat—your heart. Let the rest become background static. And as for the hunger…
The Voice lowered, becoming intimate, seductive. We will satisfy it now. We need the power. But we will not kill. We will command.
Lyra forced her mind into the singular focus Dracula demanded. She filtered the chaotic city noise, allowing the internal resonance of her own powerful, slow beating vampiric heart to take precedence. The city noise receded to a manageable hum.
Her gaze, now less panicked and more calculating, swept the masses. She needed an isolated subject, someone desperate enough to go unnoticed.
She saw him: a young cyberscavenger huddled in the recess of a defunct datalink kiosk. His jacket was patched with blinking LEDs, his face smeared with grease, and his eyes were hollow with malnutrition and debt servitude. He looked close to collapsing from exhaustion.
Lyra approached, her movements gliding and silent, a ghost in the neon rain. The scavenger looked up, his eyes widening in alarm—but before he could even register fear, Lyra's Bloodlink snapped into action.
She didn't push a direct command like she had with Kael. Instead, guided by the Aether Fragment's ancient finesse, she pushed a wave of pure compulsion—a feeling of absolute, consuming devotion and a sense of profound relief that his search for meaning was finally over.
"I… I saw you," the scavenger mumbled, his eyes glazing over with a beatific expression. "The Crimson Mother. You are here."
Lyra knelt before him, the raw power of the moment flooding her with an intoxicating arrogance. This was not a weapon; this was seduction. This was absolute control, freely given.
"Look at me," Lyra commanded, her voice soft but absolute.
He obeyed instantly.
"You are tired. You are weak. I can give you strength. I can give you peace." She ran a cool, newly elongated finger along the curve of his throat. "Give me your essence. A small amount. A pledge of fealty."
The scavenger offered his neck without hesitation, tears of gratitude welling in his eyes. "Take it all, my Queen. I am yours."
Lyra hesitated for only a fraction of a second. The Thirst was a screaming beast. She focused on the precise, surgical action, guided by the predator inside. With a low, soft hiss, two tiny, razor-sharp points of bone—not fangs in the traditional sense, but small, retractable bone needles—descended from her upper jaw.
She bit.
The feeling was electric, a searing, immediate jolt of power. The scavenger's blood was warm and rich, flooding her system with raw, vital energy. It wasn't just physical nourishment; it was a potent, spiritual cocktail that momentarily fused her consciousness with his pathetic, desperate mind, sharing his pain, his gratitude, and his overwhelming devotion.
She pulled back quickly, the bone needles retracting. She licked the coppery residue from her lips, feeling the sheer, exquisite rush of power and satiety. The world snapped back into clear, beautiful focus. The Thirst receded to a manageable hum, a pleasant, addictive warmth.
The scavenger didn't slump or weaken significantly. Instead, he radiated a euphoric calm, his shallow cuts healing rapidly as her essence mixed with his blood—a dark gift she hadn't intended.
"Sleep now," Lyra commanded softly. "And wait for my call."
He closed his eyes, a serene smile on his face, a newly minted, absolute devotee.
See, Lyra? Power without destruction. We create followers, not corpses. Dracula's voice was full of pride.
The act of taking life force had been terrifying, exhilarating, and absolutely, fundamentally correct. It was the most natural thing she had ever done.
Lyra knew she couldn't stay on the open streets. The Federation would be combing the Underworld, using heat scanners and neural network trackers. She was searching for a hole, and found it in a forgotten quadrant of the cyber ghettos—a derelict corporate spire, half collapsed from a forgotten war, its lower levels fused with a massive, pre-Federation sewer network.
She scaled the decaying structure, her nanite-augmented grip finding purchase on smooth concrete and rusted rebar, moving vertically with silent, terrifying efficiency. She found a large, lightless server room several stories up, its internal networks long dead, its reinforced concrete walls thick enough to block most surveillance.
She was finally alone. Lyra slumped onto the cold, dusty floor, letting out a trembling breath. The exquisite rush of the feeding was gone, replaced by the profound, unsettling weight of what she had become.
You are free, the Aether Fragment whispered, its voice sounding pleased and tired. Now, rest, Lyra. Your new body must stabilise. And prepare yourself. The hunt for you is just beginning.
She closed her eyes, trying to find sleep, but the rest was brief. Even through the concrete and static, her new, enhanced senses could perceive the faint, high-pitched whine of Federation surveillance drones passing high overhead.
And then, a different awareness. A cold, focused pressure on the edge of her consciousness. It wasn't a Bloodlink; it was a pure, intense focus.
Rheon Vale.
He was still hunting her. Lyra felt his unrelenting presence like a laser beam fixed on her location, his discipline and purpose a cold anchor in the vast, swirling chaos of the city.
Lyra smiled into the darkness, the smile a chilling hybrid of technician Lyra's desperate freedom and ancient Dracula's predatory thrill.
Good. Let him hunt. She thought, a seductive challenge ringing in her mind. I want him to.