Chapter 3: Inheritance
The hunger woke me.
Not the frantic need from last night—this was deeper, a low throb behind my eyes that promised to become urgent. I'd burned through blood reserves running from dawn. Now my tank sat at 98/220, and the system helpfully informed me that abilities would start degrading below 50.
First things first.
I sat up on the folding cot. Complete darkness, but my vampire senses didn't care. I could see shapes, outlines, the geometry of the storage unit resolving into useful detail.
Boxes lined the walls. Three of them, cardboard, taped shut. A duffel bag sat in the corner, military surplus green. A small folding table held what looked like paperwork. And leaning against the far wall—a wooden crate with Cyrillic lettering.
I started with the duffel.
Clothing. The original Sam had maintained a rotating wardrobe: jeans, shirts, two jackets, one suit still wrapped in dry cleaning plastic. The suit was dated—1990s cut, conservative—but serviceable. Everything else was generic enough to blend in.
The boxes held documents. Old ones. Land deeds from 1890, long expired. Bank statements from accounts that no longer existed. And letters—dozens of them, written in careful cursive, all signed Maria.
I read one.
My dearest Samuel,
The nights grow longer without you. Chicago is cold and you are not here to warm it. I understand why you must travel, why the hunters give you no rest, but please—return to me soon. I find myself listening for your footsteps in empty rooms...
The letter was dated 1927. The last one in the stack was from 1931.
Maria had died. Or left. Or been killed. The original Sam's memories offered nothing—just the photograph and these letters, preserved across decades of drifting.
I put them back. Someone else's grief. Someone else's story.
The wooden crate required more effort. The nails had rusted; I had to tear the lid off with vampire strength.
Inside: weapons.
Two handguns, wrapped in oiled cloth. A shotgun, disassembled. Ammunition in sealed containers. And a machete with a silver-edged blade, the kind designed for removing vampire heads.
The original Sam had been paranoid and prepared. Whatever killed him, it hadn't been incompetence.
I selected one of the handguns—a Glock 19, reliable, common—and checked its condition. Clean, loaded, ready. It went into my jacket.
The paperwork on the table proved most valuable.
Bank account records. The original Sam had maintained three accounts under different names, each containing between five and fifteen thousand dollars. Total liquid assets: approximately forty-two thousand. Not wealthy, but enough to establish a foothold.
Property records. He'd owned—still owned—a small building in downtown Monroe, Louisiana. Commercial space, rented to a failing pawn shop. Monthly income: eight hundred dollars, deposited automatically.
Vehicle registration. A 1998 Ford pickup, stored in a lot near the Shreveport airport. Paid through 2010.
I spread everything across the table, building a picture of the dead man's empire. Not much. A drifter's safety net, not a vampire's legacy. But I could work with it.
The system interface flickered in my peripheral vision. My Blood Reserve had stabilized at 95/220—low, but functional. I needed to feed before attempting anything significant.
Sunset first. Feed second. Plan third.
I checked my phone options. The burner from the safety deposit box was dead, but the original Sam had a backup in one of the boxes—a Nokia brick that still held charge. I powered it on and waited.
Service connected. March 20, 2008, 4:47 PM. Sunset at 7:23 PM.
Two and a half hours.
I used the time.
The dead man's ledger told a story.
Samuel Huffman had been turned in 1858 by a vampire named Constantine. The sire had been old, powerful, and uninterested in his progeny—he'd released Sam after a decade of basic training, then vanished somewhere in Europe.
Sam had drifted. Civil War, Reconstruction, the endless expansion of American territory. He'd never held position, never claimed domain, never drew attention. When vampires revealed themselves in 2006, he'd registered with Area Five's Sheriff—Eric Northman—and immediately retreated into obscurity.
No allies. No enemies. No ambition.
Until someone staked him and buried him in a Louisiana forest.
The ledger entries ended three days ago. March 17. The original Sam had visited Shreveport, met with someone whose name was recorded only as "M," and never returned.
M.
I circled the initial. A contact? A betrayer? Someone who'd set up the meeting that ended in Sam's death?
The name offered no clarity. The original Sam's memories held nothing—just static where that final night should have been.
Someone killed him. Someone who knew where he'd be, when he'd be there, how to neutralize a 150-year-old vampire.
That someone might still be looking. Might notice when Sam Huffman failed to stay dead.
I needed to move carefully. Establish myself without drawing attention. Build resources before making waves.
The system interface pulsed: Quest reminder: Establish Your Domain. Objectives remaining: 2.
Register with local Sheriff. Eric Northman. The thousand-year-old Viking who ran Fangtasia and commanded Area Five with absolute authority.
I knew him. Knew his story, his weaknesses, his arc across seven seasons of television. That knowledge was a weapon, but also a liability. Eric was perceptive, ancient, politically brilliant. If I revealed too much, he'd sense something wrong.
Play the part. Be the nobody Sam Huffman was supposed to be. Grovel, register, disappear into the margins until I'm strong enough to matter.
The second objective: establish income source. The Monroe property provided eight hundred monthly—enough to survive, not enough to grow. I needed more.
Ideas percolated. The original Sam's paranoia had limited his options. But I wasn't the original Sam.
Sunset painted the storage unit's thin wall seams with gold, then orange, then nothing.
I rolled up the door and stepped into the Louisiana evening.
The air smelled different after transmigration. Richer. Layered. I could detect individual humans within a hundred yards, their heartbeats forming a rhythm section to the night's symphony.
Feed first.
The storage facility sat on commercial property—warehouses, a trucking company, an adult bookstore with a parking lot that promised anonymity. I walked toward the bookstore, drawn by the cluster of heartbeats inside.
The man who emerged was perfect. Middle-aged, overweight, wedding ring he kept touching nervously. He'd parked far from the entrance, embarrassed by his presence. He was digging for keys when I appeared beside him.
"Evening."
He jumped. "Jesus, you scared—"
I caught his eyes. The glamour flowed smoother this time, my reserve only dropping to 88. "You'll stand still. You'll stay quiet. You'll remember this as a strange dream you don't want to think about."
His body went rigid.
I fed quickly—clinical, efficient, exactly twenty heartbeats. The blood filled me, pushing my reserve to 148/220. Not full, but functional.
The man slumped against his car when I released him. He'd wake in ten minutes, confused and tired. His wife would never know.
I walked away, wiping my mouth, already planning my next steps.
The truck was where the records said—a rust-colored Ford in long-term parking. The keys were in the ledger's hidden pocket. The engine turned over on the third try.
I drove toward Monroe.
The highway unreeled in the headlights, Louisiana darkness pressing against the windows. My new body handled the steering with muscle memory the original Sam had accumulated over decades. It felt wrong—wearing his skills like borrowed clothes—but efficient.
The radio offered country music and evangelical preaching. I settled on static.
Monroe appeared after an hour: a mid-sized city straddling the Ouachita River, population ninety thousand, economy based on healthcare and light manufacturing. The original Sam's property was downtown, a brick building wedged between a laundromat and a bail bonds office.
I parked across the street and watched.
The pawn shop was dark—closed at this hour—but lights glowed in the apartment above. The building had two floors: commercial space below, residential above. The original Sam had rented out both, content to collect passive income and drift.
Not anymore.
The pawn shop lease expired in six months. The apartment tenant was month-to-month. I could end both agreements, renovate the space, build something useful.
The question was what.
Monroe sat outside Shreveport's immediate sphere—still Area Five, still Eric's territory, but far enough to operate with minimal oversight. The population included enough vampires to support a social scene but not enough to create serious competition.
A bar. The idea crystallized as I watched the empty street. A vampire bar, but different from Fangtasia. Eric ran a tourist attraction—humans paying to ogle the undead. I could build something else. A legitimate business, a neutral ground, a place where vampires and humans mixed without the fetish aesthetic.
The Silver Dollar. The name came from nowhere, or maybe from some half-remembered fragment of the original Sam's past.
I wrote it down. First idea, first step.
The system pulsed: Quest progress noted. Recommended action: Register with Sheriff Northman before establishing visible business.
The system was right. Eric needed to approve any significant vampire activity in his area. Going around him would be suicide.
I pulled out the Nokia. Searched my inherited memories for the number. Found it: Fangtasia's business line, answered only after dark.
The phone rang three times.
"Fangtasia. Where the cold ones come to play." The voice was female, bored, probably Pam.
"I need to register with Sheriff Northman. Samuel Huffman, vampire, 150 years. Requesting an appointment at his earliest convenience."
Silence. Then: "Huffman. You're already registered. Area Five, 2006."
"I'm requesting a status update. I've been... traveling. I'm returning to the area and wish to establish a residence."
More silence. Paper shuffling. "He'll see you tomorrow night. Ten PM. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone. Twenty-six hours until I faced Eric Northman. Twenty-six hours to prepare a performance that would let me survive as a nobody in a world full of monsters.
The storage unit key sat heavy in my pocket. The pawn shop loomed dark across the street. Maria's photograph pressed against my chest, a dead woman held close to a dead man's heart.
One step at a time.
I drove back toward Bossier City, looking for a motel with light-tight rooms and a feeding opportunity. The night was young, my resources were limited, and tomorrow I'd begin the game that would determine whether I lived or died.
The system hummed quietly at the edge of my consciousness: Blood Reserve 143/220. Quest active. Tutorial in progress.
I'd been dead for thirty-four years and forty-eight hours.
Time to start living.
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