Danny Lucci

“Now,” he said, clapping his hands once, “I don’t have time to give you the two weeks they’ve already had.” A few of them glanced at me.

He didn’t. “So you’ll get the short version.”

He stepped closer. “Three things,” he said. “That’s enough to keep you alive tonight.”

A pause.

“After that, I’ll arrange… personal tutelage.” His eyes flicked over me, measuring. “You’ve probably already killed someone.” He said it like a fact. “Someone close.”

Silence.

He gave a small shrug. “We all do.” Another beat. “The first feed is the most… diabolical.”

Not dramatic. Just precise.

“Your body takes over. It doesn’t ask. It doesn’t care. It finds the easiest source—the one you trust, the one that trusts you—and it drains them.”

He let that sit.

“Rule one,” he continued, “distance. Don’t stay near anyone you care about. Not yet. Not until you can stop yourself. If you think you can—you can’t.”

He started pacing slowly. “Rule two: feed deliberately.”

“Choose. Don’t react. The moment you lose control, you become predictable. Predictable things get found.”

He stopped in front of me.

“And rule three…” A faint shift in his tone. “Leave more than you take.”

He held my gaze. “You don’t have to kill.” A pause.

“But if you do—” Another, smaller shrug. “Be clean about it.” He straightened. “That’s enough for now.”

Then, almost as an afterthought—

“And Enrique?” It was the first time he used it. “Try not to make the same mistake twice.”

“Less than I take?” I asked.

“Take,” he repeated. “Less than you take.” He didn’t miss a beat. “Eight pints,” he said. “That’s what a human carries, give or take.” He held up two fingers.

“You take no more than two.”

A few of them nodded like they’d heard it before.

“They’ll be weak,” he continued. “Dizzy. Disoriented. But alive.”

He stepped closer. “And they won’t remember.”

I frowned. “What?”

“The bite,” he said. “What we inject—it’s not just for feeding. It induces euphoria. Intense. Overwhelming. It keeps them still.” A pause. “It also cleans up after you. The wounds heal. Usually before sunrise. Sometimes just after.” He shrugged lightly.

“They wake up thinking they had too much to drink. Maybe a little regret. Nothing more.” He let that settle.

“Three pints,” he added, “and you’ll feel it. Full. Strong.” His tone flattened. “They’ll still live. Usually. Unless they’re already weak.”

That “usually” lingered.

He turned slightly, pacing once. “And stay away from the ones that smell… off.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

“          You’ve noticed it already,” he said. “Stale. Wrong.”

A few in the room shifted subtly.

“It makes us sick,” he continued. “We don’t know why yet.”

A small pause.

“We’re working on it.”

That didn’t sound reassuring.

He stopped again. “And lastly—this one matters.”

His tone changed. Sharper. “Never cross a sanctified threshold.”

The room went still.

“No churches. No cathedrals. No synagogues. No mosques.” He looked directly at me. “You step into one of those—properly consecrated—you die.” No shrug this time. No softness. “Immediately.” A beat.

 “So if you’re religious…” He tilted his head slightly. “Stop.” Then, almost casually—“You’ve missed that bus anyway.”

“Now,” he said, already turning away, “I’ll find you.”

I frowned. “Find me how?”

He glanced back, faintly amused. “We all have a scent,” he said. “Distinct. You won’t notice it yet.” A small pause. “But you will.” His eyes held mine just long enough.

“And when you do—you’ll never mistake one of us for anything else again.”

That didn’t feel comforting.

He waved a hand dismissively, like the conversation was over. “Have a good night.”

Then, with a quick look over me— “And get something to eat. You look a little pale.” A beat. He chuckled to himself. “Vampire humor.”

No one else laughed.

I stood there for a second. Then exhaled. And sighed.

“Wait,” I said. “How do I know when it’s two pints?”

He didn’t hesitate. “You’ll know.”

That wasn’t helpful. He watched my expression, then added—

“You’ll feel it. The flow changes.” He mimed it with his hand, slow and deliberate. “It starts strong. Easy. Then it thins out. Slows. Like there’s resistance.” His eyes sharpened slightly. “That’s your line.”

A pause. “Stop there.”

I swallowed. “And if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change. “If you go past it… really past it…” He let the silence stretch. “…and you stop just before they die—” Another beat. “They turn.”

The room felt colder.

“You already know what that feels like,” he added quietly.

I did.

I left. I think I was starting to annoy him. Didn’t mean to. It’s just—being told you’re a vampire and need some kind of crash course in how not to kill people… it takes a minute to process. Still… he was right.

I had to learn.

I walked. What else was there to do? I wasn’t tired. Not even a little. The smells hit me first. Everything was sharper. Louder, somehow. Flowers. Trees. The city itself. People. Each one distinct. Each one… alive.

Then I saw him. About my age. Cute. Easy smile. He caught my eye and held it just long enough. And I felt it. That pull. Not overwhelming—but there. Persistent.

He gave a subtle nod toward the alley. I knew what that meant. Fine. Might as well get a little.

After, everything shifted. The air around him changed. Or maybe I did. The scent hit me all at once—warm, sweet, impossible to ignore. I leaned in without thinking. He laughed softly, like it was part of the moment—

Then my teeth found his neck.

The reaction was immediate. That same overwhelming calm. That surrender.

And then—the taste. It flooded in, richer than before. Alive in a way I didn’t have words for. I held on. Too long. The world narrowed again. Just that feeling. That pull.

Then—the flow changed. Slower. Thinner. I felt it. I remembered the rule. And ignored it.

A hand pushed weakly against me. That’s what broke it. I pulled back. Too fast. Too late? I stared at him. He was still upright. Barely.

“Is he—”

“He’s fine.”

The voice came from the end of the alley. I turned.

The teacher stood there, like he’d been there the whole time. “Told you I’d find you,” he said.

I looked back at the guy. “Why is he just… standing there?”

“You took about three,” he said, glancing at him, then casually checking his watch. “He’ll live. Just shock.”

A pause.

He counted under his breath. “Three… two… one…” The guy collapsed.

I flinched.

“Relax,” he said. “He’ll wake up in an hour. Maybe two.” He looked back at me.

Measured. “Come on, Enrique.” That name again. “You almost failed your first test.”

“You have to learn the rules,” he said, walking beside me like nothing had happened. “We don’t just go around emptying people.” He glanced at me briefly.

“If we did, we’d run out of food in about ten years.”

A beat. “That’s bad for business.”

He let that sit.

“Control isn’t optional,” he continued. “It’s survival. For them—and for us.”

We turned out of the alley. Then his tone shifted.

“Also—this one matters.” More serious now. “Never a child, Enrique.” No shrug. No humor. “Ever.”

I looked at him. “Because it’s wrong?”

“It is,” he said. “But that’s not the problem.” He stopped walking. “They can’t control themselves.”

A pause.

“Impulse. Hunger. No restraint. No patience.” His expression hardened slightly. “You’ve heard of Jack the Ripper?”

I nodded.

“He wasn’t human,” he said. “He was turned at thirteen.”

That hung there.

“We had to deal with him ourselves.” A long second. “We don’t tolerate messy vampires.” He started walking again, like the subject was closed.

“What happens if someone breaks the rules?” I asked. “Like the guy who turned me?”

He didn’t even slow down. “Who said he broke one?”

I frowned. “He turned me without—”

“Without what?” he cut in. “Permission?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

He gave a small, almost amused exhale.

“You humans,” he said. “You talk too much. Say things you don’t understand. Offer things you don’t mean.” We kept walking. “An invitation is an invitation,” he continued. “We don’t force them. We don’t have to.” He glanced at me. “All we need is consent.”

A beat. “And you gave it.”

My jaw tightened. “That was a joke.”

“Not to us.” Silence stretched for a moment. Then he added, quieter—

“And not all thresholds are doors.”

I looked at him. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept walking. Finally—

“It means,” he said, “you should be very careful what you offer… and who you offer it to.”

“And one more thing,” he added, almost like an afterthought. “Consider it… useful information.”

I glanced at him.

“          Did you notice anything different?” he asked. “Earlier.”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He smirked slightly.

“Of course you did.”

We kept walking. “For humans,” he continued, “being with one of us is… heightened. Everything feels stronger. More intense. It’s part of what we are.”

A pause. “And for us—same thing.” He looked at me, just briefly. “It can be… distracting.”

I exhaled. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

He gave a small nod. “Just don’t get careless with it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, “you can still pass as human. You can still blend in.”

A beat. “But when it’s over—there’s no evidence.”

That sat for a second.

“No fatigue. No… aftermath. Nothing that lines up with what they expect.” He shrugged lightly. “People notice patterns, Enrique. Even if they don’t understand them.”

He looked ahead again. “So enjoy it if you must.” A faint, dry edge to his voice— “Just don’t make it obvious.”

He added, “With your looks… and what you are now?” he said. “You’ll become… noticeable.”

I glanced at him.

“It happens,” he continued. “Humans are drawn to us. They don’t know why. Something in the eyes. Something just beneath the surface.” A faint pause. “It calls to them.”

We passed a couple on the sidewalk. I could feel it—attention lingering a second too long.

“And when that lines up with what they already find attractive?” he added. “You’ll need to be careful.”

I exhaled. “Great.” A thought hit me. “…Human-vampire babies?”

He stopped. Actually stopped. Then shook his head, almost annoyed.

“This isn’t television.” We started walking again. “That doesn’t happen.” He continued, “The only way to make more of us is to turn someone.” His tone sharpened slightly.

“Which you should not be doing casually.”

I looked at him. “Why not?”

“Two reasons,” he said. He held up a finger.

“First—consent.”

A glance at me.

“You’ve already learned how serious that is.”

Another finger. “Second—our numbers are controlled.”

That word stuck. “Controlled?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Deliberately. Intentionally.” He looked ahead, voice steady. “We don’t want just anyone becoming one of us. Immortality isn’t a gift you hand out because someone’s pretty… or convenient.” He glanced back at me.

“It’s a decision. And one you’ll earn the right to make. Eventually.”

What now?” I asked. “When I go home?”

He stopped. Looked at me like I’d missed something obvious. “What home?”

The word landed wrong.

“Your roommate is dead,” he said. “Under your floorboards.” No emotion. Just fact. “It’s been a day. People have noticed he’s missing.” A small pause. “Or they will. Very soon.”

I didn’t say anything. He stepped closer, placing a hand lightly against my back—not comfort. Just… guidance.

“Your life is over,” he said. Not cruel. Just final. “Welcome to your new one.”

I stared ahead. “My friends… my family—”

“Gone,” he said. “As far as you’re concerned.” His voice stayed even. “You don’t go back. Ever.” He sighed, shrugged. “That’s the hardest part.”

We started walking again.

“We see it all the time,” he continued. “New ones think they can manage it. Keep one foot in both worlds.” A faint shake of his head. “You can’t.” He glanced at me. “They age. They weaken. They die.” A pause. “You don’t.”

I swallowed. “I wouldn’t—”

“You would,” he said, cutting me off. Not harsh. Certain. “You’ll tell yourself you won’t. Everyone does.” He looked straight ahead. “But the moment you’re close to them… the moment you smell their blood…” A small shift in his tone. “It will be the sweetest thing you’ve ever known.”

Silence.

“And eventually,” he added, “you’ll make a choice you can’t undo.”

We walked a few more steps. Then he said it. Quiet. Definitive.

“Andres is dead.” Then he looked at me, “Forever.”

We continued down Christopher Street. “I’m giving you the crash course,” he said. “Tonight only.” A glance at me. “Remember this one.” We slowed as we walked. “You will never age.” Simple. Direct. “Everyone else will.” A beat. “They won’t notice at first. People don’t. They explain things away.” He gestured lightly. “Good genes. Lighting. Luck.” Another step. “But time doesn’t stop.”

His eyes flicked toward me. “Five years. Ten. Twenty.” A pause. “They’ll start to look at you differently.”

I didn’t like that.

“That’s why we stay together,” he continued. “Why we build… our own circles.” He let the word sit. “It’s easier that way.”

I exhaled. “So I just… don’t have human friends?”

“You can,” he said. “For a while.” A faint, almost sympathetic edge. “But when you’re still twenty-two… and they’re fifty-two—” He didn’t finish it. Didn’t need to. “You’ll understand.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

He didn’t hesitate. “I was turned at twenty-nine.” A step. “In 1745.”

I stopped walking. He didn’t.

“You’re—”

“Older than you,” he said simply.

I stared at him. He looked… perfect. Untouched. Like time had never even brushed past him. “How long does it take?” I asked quietly. “To… get like you?”

He thought about it. “Control?” he said. “A few years.” A pause. “Detachment?” Another step. “Longer.” He glanced back at me.

“Perspective?” A faint, almost humorless smile. “Centuries,” he said.

“Do you remember them?” I asked. “From before?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept walking. “Plain as day,” he said finally. No hesitation. No softness. “Every face. Every voice.” A pause. “You don’t forget.”

I swallowed. “Ever?”

He shook his head once. “Never.”

We walked in silence for a few steps. “That’s the part no one tells you,” he added. “You lose them… but you don’t lose them.”

I looked at him.

“They stay exactly as they were.” Another step. “And you keep going.”

“Does the pain ever go away?” I asked.

He considered that. “For the most part,” he said. Not comforting. Just accurate. We walked a few more steps.

“The longer you’re around,” he continued, “the more you start to wonder about death.” A pause. “What it feels like. If there’s anything after. If you’d see them again.” His voice stayed even. “If it would finally… stop.”

That word lingered.

“Then,” he added, almost dry, “you catch a scent.” A faint glance at me. “Something warm. Alive. Perfect.” He shrugged. “You feed.” Another step. “And suddenly all that… sentiment disappears.” Just like that.

I frowned. “So it never really goes away.”

“No,” he said. A beat. “It just gets interrupted.”

We walked in silence for a moment.

Then he added—“You’ll hate immortality.” No hesitation. “But you’ll never want to lose it.”

We stopped. “This building,” he said, “is The Alcove.”

I looked up.

From the outside, it didn’t stand out. Just another structure folded into the city. Nothing that hinted at what it really was.

“It’s ours,” he continued. A pause. “There’s a room waiting for you.”

I glanced at him.

“If there’s anything you want from your old place, we’ll have it brought here. Quietly. We have people for that.” He stepped closer to the entrance.

“But everything you actually need—” A slight nod toward the interior. “—is already upstairs.”

That landed heavier than it should have. He stopped at the doorway. Didn’t go in. Just turned, gesturing for me to step forward.

“Your new life awaits, Enrique.”

The name didn’t feel foreign anymore. Not entirely. “Make of it what you will.” A beat. Then, quieter— “You won’t escape it.”

I stood there for a second. Looking past him. Into the dark.

“Oh—one more thing,” he interjected.

I paused in the doorway.

“You’ll notice the room is… sparse.” A faint gesture upward. “No bed.” I frowned slightly. “We don’t sleep,” he said. “Not really. Not like humans do.” A beat. “The coffin myth? Fiction. Something to make it easier for them to understand.”

He stepped back, giving me space. “Your body never died.” That felt wrong. Then he finished— “Only you did.” Silence. He didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t need to.