Enthralled - 12. Chapter 12

12

The descent into starvation was not a sudden, dramatic cliff edge for a three-hundred-year-old apex predator. It was a slow, creeping greyness that settled into the marrow of his bones.

For the first time since his arrival in this aggressively cheerful suburban purgatory, Andy was trying to be noble. It was a terrible, itchy, deeply uncomfortable sensation. Historically, when the dark thirst arose, he would simply stalk the cobblestone streets of whichever European capital he was currently haunting, find a morally questionable aristocrat, and relieve them of a pint or two. He was the Scourge of the Carpathians. He did not ask permission. He did not ration. He simply took.

He could go weeks between feedings, he took his time. Hunting his prey, building trust, and then taking just what he needed. One victim could last him years, convinced of his love while he coldly dissected their world, and milked them like cattle.

But things were different now. He was legally registered as "Andy Cooper" on a high school football field plaque. He was dating a hyperactive mascot who tasted faintly of BBQ potato chips and chaos. He was somehow the reluctant, brooding centerpiece of a pack of teenage werewolves who communicated primarily in grunts and TikTok references.

Andy was terrified.

He was terrified that if he fed—if he let the monster out, even for a moment, to hunt the local wildlife or raid a neighboring town—he would lose the tenuous grip he had on this fragile, beautiful, mundane life. What if he slipped? What if the bloodlust took over and he looked at Lucas, not with the overwhelming, exasperated affection he usually felt, but as prey?

So, Andy simply stopped eating.

By week four of his self-imposed fast, the physical toll was impossible to hide. The pristine, aristocratic pallor of his skin had shifted to a sickly, translucent grey, making the veins beneath his eyes starkly visible. His movements, usually a blur of terrifying, supernatural grace, had become sluggish and deliberate. He spent most of his time sitting in the driver’s seat of the rusted 1972 Impala, parked in the Cooper garage, with the air conditioning blasting at full volume just to keep his body temperature from dropping into a state of absolute rigor mortis.

He was trying not to worry about the approaching full moon, and what it would mean for Lucas.

Hunger!

It wasn’t like an addiction, the movies painted it as a fundamental lack of control. Reality was far from it, it was starvation. Hunger could be controlled; it was just uncomfortable. It was the blood lust he was afraid of, what happened when he got drunk on the blood when he was too hungry to stop.

He was currently staring blankly at the dashboard, his hands gripping the steering wheel, when the driver's side door was unceremoniously yanked open.

"You look like a tik-tok model that’s going through a juice clense," Lucas announced, leaning into the car. He was holding a violently blue slushie in one hand and a half-eaten soft pretzel in the other. He was also, tragically, wearing an aggressively itchy, navy-blue argyle sweater vest and stiff khaki pants. The silver True North chastity ring on his finger caught the garage light.

He stepped fully into the garage, set his snacks on the hood of the Impala, and violently yanked the sweater vest over his head. He threw the wool garment onto the concrete, revealing a wrinkled, chaotic graphic tee underneath.

"I hate them," Lucas seethed, picking his pretzel back up and taking a vicious bite. "I hate the Dravens, I hate this purity pledge, and I especially hate that scrawny little homewrecking pinecone, Ronan."

"What are you doing out of bed?" Andy asked, ignoring the rant. He glanced at the 7/11 logo on the slushie cup. "And you’ve been outside, alone!"

"Relax, I just went to the store, I feel fine… chill out. Have some more juice!"

"I am a creature of the night," Andy murmured, his baritone voice lacking its usual resonant power. It sounded thin, like dry leaves scraping against pavement. "I do not go on juice clenses. I am merely... conserving energy."

Lucas narrowed his eyes. He took a long sip of the slushie, his gaze locked onto Andy’s grey face. "You haven't eaten anything in a week. And by 'eaten anything,' I mean you haven't sneaked off to do whatever spooky, neck-biting stuff you should do to keep your cheekbones looking sharp. And it's making you weak, which is making Ronan think he has an opening!"

Andy slowly blinked his heavy eyelids. "I assure you, no one thinks I have an opening."

"I saw him in the cafeteria, Andy!" Lucas pointed a slushie-stained finger at him. "He was practically vibrating! Just shrinking down, making those big, terrified doe eyes, and aggressively baring his neck at you like some kind of cheap, flannel-wearing tramp!"

Andy closed his eyes, a headache throbbing behind his temples. "Lucas, the boy is a werewolf. He was exposing his jugular because he is paralyzed by submissive prey-terror. He thinks I am going to murder him."

"Oh, please. He's throwing himself at you!" Lucas huffed. "And thanks to this stupid purity ring, I can't even make out with you by the lockers to establish dominance! I look available, Andy! He's just waiting to swoop in and offer you a juice box. I'm not going to let some hipster werewolf steal my boyfriend just because you're on a diet."

"I am fine, Lucas," Andy lied, refusing to look at the boy’s neck. The pulse there was beating a frantic, erratic rhythm that made Andy’s fangs ache furiously against his lower lip. "I am practicing restraint. It builds character."

"It builds a corpse," Lucas countered, entirely unimpressed by the gothic stoicism. "You're literally vibrating. You look like you're about to pass out, and you're already dead. I don't even know how that works biologically, but I don't like it."

Before Andy could formulate a suitably dismissive, arrogant response, heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete floor of the garage.

Marty strolled in, flanking the Impala. He was wearing his blue-and-gold varsity letterman jacket, despite the sweltering July heat, and holding a massive, rolled-up piece of poster board. Close behind him was Buzz-Cut Tight End and Linebacker Dave, both looking equally serious.

"Moo-Juice is right, Edwina," Marty grunted, slapping his heavy hand against the Impala’s roof. "You look like crap. You’re dragging down the pack’s aesthetic. And worse, you're making me look bad in front of the new guys."

"I am not part of your pack," Andy hissed softly, the effort of glaring taking more energy than he possessed. "And I am not soft. I am a lethal instrument of darkness."

"Marcus and Declan think they can just waltz into my territory with their perfectly tailored suits and their old-school, corporate lycanthropy bullshit," Marty continued, completely ignoring the vampire. He unrolled the poster board and slapped it onto the hood of the car, securing it with a pair of lug wrenches. "They think I'm a weak Alpha who can't provide for his own. Well, screw that. We're going to show them how this pack operates."

Andy slowly turned his head to look through the windshield.

Drawn on the poster board in thick, aggressively scented blue marker was a crude, top-down map of a building. It was littered with X's, O's, and swooping arrows that looked exactly like a football playbook. In the center of the building, Marty had drawn a large, dripping red blob and labeled it: THE JUICE BOX.

"What is this?" Andy asked, his brow furrowing.

"This is a tactical briefing," Marty declared, pulling a telescoping pointer out of nowhere and tapping the poster board. "The pack has convened. We have assessed the situation. Our vampire is broken. Therefore, the pack is going to the grocery store."

"The... grocery store," Andy repeated, his ancient brain struggling to process the absurdity.

"The municipal county blood bank, actually," Buzz-Cut supplied cheerfully, cracking his knuckles. "It’s three miles away. State-of-the-art refrigeration. Mostly for the regional hospital, but they process donations there. Marty says we’re running a spread offense on it tonight."

Andy stared at them. The blood drained further from his already grey face. "You are planning to break into a medical facility."

"We are running Operation Capri Sun," Marty corrected, his voice dropping into a deadly serious, gravelly rumble. "You’re starving because you’re being all weird and noble and refusing to hunt. We respect that. It’s dumb, but we respect it. So, we’re going to hunt for you. We’re going to procure the payload."

"You will do no such thing," Andy commanded, trying to inject the terrifying authority of the Scourge of the Carpathians into his voice. It sounded more like a weary substitute teacher. "That is grand larceny. That is a federal crime. If you are caught—if Lucas is caught—Mrs. Cooper and Marcus Draven will use the True North probation rules to separate us permanently. I forbid it."

"The authorities are asleep, bro," Linebacker Dave said, waving a dismissive hand. "We checked the patrol routes. It’s an in-and-out job. Omaha! Omaha! Red Zone!"

Lucas, who had been quietly chewing on his soft pretzel, suddenly perked up, his eyes widening with absolute, chaotic delight. "Wait. Are we doing a heist? Are we literally doing a heist?"

"You're the payload specialist, Moo-Juice," Marty nodded solemnly, pointing the telescoping rod at Lucas. "You're the smallest. You’re going in through the vents. Or the drop ceiling. Whichever looks cooler."

"No!" Andy snapped, gripping the steering wheel so hard the old plastic groaned. "Absolutely not. Lucas, you will not participate in a felony. You’re supposed to be in bed drinking orange juice by the bucket load. Fighting off Werewolf herpa-gona-scyphil-aids!"

Marty gaped at Andy’s description of lycanthropy as a particularly stubborn strain of the clap.

Lucas looked at Andy, then looked at the poster board, and then looked back at Andy. He offered a blinding, utterly unapologetic grin.

"I have to go, Andy," Lucas said solemnly, placing a hand over his heart. "If I don't get you this blood, that scrawny little harlot is going to try and play nurse. It’s for the pack. And my relationship."

"It is for a juice box!" Andy protested.

"Rest up, Edwina," Marty commanded, rolling up the poster board. "We roll at zero-two-hundred hours. Keep the engine warm. The Wolfpack provides. And when you’re better we’re taking you out hunting with us again, and you’re going to feed, no feeling ashamed!"

Buzz-cut nodded, “Yeah dude. You should see us during a hunt, we go nuts, it’s blood, guts, gore everywhere…”

“Cool!” Lucas murmured chewing on his pretzel. “Can I watch?”

“No!” Andy snapped at him.

“If he turns, he’s going to be doing it too,” Marty placed a calming hand on Andy’s shoulder. “It’s not video game violence Moo-juice, it’s really embarrassing. Let us go and do our thing, and trust me you’ll understand. We’ll take care of the feeding needs. You get to take care of his other needs.” Marty gave Lucas an exaggerated wink.

Lucas shrugged, “I was planning on doing that anyway, we’re up to twice a day. The work-outs are helping with my stamina… when I can escape that total NARC bastard, Declan who watches my every move and reports it back to my mom.”

“Moo-juice the Anal Destroyer!” Buzz-cut flashed him an impressed thumbs up.

“All right, let’s get this done… come along MJ!” Marty jerked his thumb at Lucas. “You’re small, we’re going to need you.”

“Wait!” Andy choked out, realizing they were intending to go without him.

“You’re not going to be able to help in this condition,” Marty said looking at him. “Let us do this for you, bro. We’re pack, and the pack provides.”

The three massive teenagers jogged out of the garage, leaving Andy trapped in the driver’s seat, utterly powerless, starving, and acutely aware that his boyfriend was about to commit a major crime using football terminology solely to spite a terrified werewolf.

---

At exactly 2:00 AM, the municipal county blood bank was a quiet, unassuming brick building bathed in the amber glow of suburban streetlights. It looked completely secure, thoroughly mundane, and entirely unprepared for the sheer volume of athletic incompetence about to descend upon it.

The werewolf pack approached through the rear alleyway, sticking to the shadows with the stealth of a marching band.

They had made a half-hearted attempt at tactical gear. Marty, Buzz-Cut, and Dave were all wearing black knit beanies pulled low over their foreheads, and they had smeared thick lines of black eye-black across their cheekbones. However, they had completely neglected to take off their bright, reflective, blue-and-gold varsity letterman jackets.

Lucas was wearing his usual oversized graphic tee, but he had wrapped a completely unnecessary, thick coil of neon orange extension cords around his torso like a bandolier.

"Hold," Marty hissed, raising a massive, leather-clad fist into the air.

The pack stopped dead. Lucas bumping into Buzz-cut.

"Visual on the infiltration point," Marty whispered, pointing toward the rear of the building.

It was a standard, heavy-duty steel loading dock door. Next to it was a keypad and a reinforced deadbolt.

"Dave, disable the external security," Marty ordered.

Linebacker Dave nodded, stepped forward, and placed a piece of black electrical tape precisely over the lens of the single, motion-activated security camera mounted above the door.

"Camera is blind," Dave confirmed. "We have a sixty-second window before the night watchman does his rounds. Allegedly."

"Alright," Marty cracked his knuckles, approaching the steel door. "I’m going to jimmy the lock. Buzz-Cut, get the payload specialist ready."

Lucas enthusiastically began unspooling the neon orange extension cords from his chest. Buzz-Cut produced a bundle of frayed, brightly colored jump ropes that had clearly been stolen from the high school gymnasium. He began aggressively tying them around Lucas’s waist in a series of knots that defied all known laws of physics and maritime safety.

Marty reached out, his massive hands gripping the handle and the edge of the steel door. He narrowed his eyes, summoning the raw, primal strength of his lycanthropic bloodline to perform a delicate, subtle manipulation of the locking mechanism.

He gave a sharp tug.

There was a sound like a submarine imploding.

The reinforced deadbolt didn't snap. The lock didn't give way. Instead, the entire three-hundred-pound steel door, along with the heavy metal frame and a significant portion of the surrounding brickwork, was violently ripped directly out of the wall.

A cloud of red brick dust billowed into the night air.

Marty stood there, holding the massive slab of steel in his hands, looking mildly surprised. A gaping, ten-foot hole now existed where the loading dock entrance used to be.

"Well," Marty grunted, entirely unfazed. "We're in."

"Subtle, bro," Buzz-Cut whispered, hoisting Lucas up by his jump-rope harness.

They stepped into the dimly lit, aggressively sterile hallway of the clinic. Marty gently leaned the stolen steel door against a vending machine.

"Target is the central refrigeration unit," Marty whispered, tapping the side of his head as if he were wearing an earpiece. "It’s down the hall, but there’s a laser grid. Or a motion sensor. Whatever. Moo-Juice, you're up. Through the drop ceiling. You bypass the sensor, drop down, open the fridge, and secure the O-Negative."

"Copy that, Ghost Rider," Lucas saluted, wondering how a small-town blood bank managed to wrangle a laser grid, or anything beyond a motion detector bought from RadioShack in the nineties.

Buzz-Cut and Dave hoisted the teenager up toward the ceiling. Lucas pushed aside a cheap, foam ceiling tile, sending a shower of accumulated dust and dead spiders raining down onto the werewolf pack. With a grunt of effort, Lucas scrambled up into the dark, cramped crawlspace, dragging the tangled mess of extension cords and jump ropes behind him like an incredibly dangerous tail.

"Keep comms open," Marty whispered toward the ceiling.

"It's really dusty up here," Lucas’s voice floated down, muffled by the acoustic tiles. "And I think I just crawled through fiberglass insulation. I'm going to be so itchy."

"Focus on the mission, soldier!" Dave hissed.

Above them, the sound of scraping sneakers and hollow thuds echoed loudly as Lucas navigated the aluminum grid. He was not a stealthy creature. He was a chaotic teenager fueled by sugar and misplaced confidence.

"Okay, I'm over the refrigeration room!" Lucas called out loudly. "I'm dropping in!"

There was a scuffle, a grunt, and then the unmistakable sound of a complex knot failing catastrophically.

CRASH.

A massive section of the drop ceiling completely caved in.

Fluorescent lights flickered wildly as Lucas plummeted through the gap. However, the haphazard web of jump ropes and extension cords caught on a load-bearing beam in the crawlspace. Lucas’s fall was abruptly halted midway down.

The harsh, blinding overhead lights of the refrigeration room flicked on automatically, triggered by the sudden influx of falling debris.

Hanging upside down, exactly two feet off the linoleum floor, suspended by his ankles in a cocoon of neon cords, was Lucas Cooper. He spun lazily in a slow circle, the nylon jump ropes squeaking in protest against the metal beam above.

"Well," Lucas’s voice echoed in the brightly lit, freezing room. "That was less Tom Cruise and more... trapped squirrel."

The werewolves rushed into the room, boots crunching on the broken ceiling tiles.

"Payload specialist is compromised!" Buzz-Cut yelled as he reached out and tore the only motion detector off the wall before it could complain.

Before Marty could issue a command to untangle the boy, a sudden, freezing drop in temperature hit the room. It wasn't the ambient chill of the medical refrigerators. It was an ancient, predatory cold that made the hairs on the back of the werewolves' necks stand up.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the shattered loading dock entrance, was Andy.

He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his vintage leather jacket. He had tracked them. It hadn't been difficult; six teenage boys radiating adrenaline, Axe body spray, and wet-dog aura were effectively a lighthouse beacon to a starving vampire.

Andy’s grey, translucent face was twisted into a mask of profound, aristocratic exhaustion. He looked at the shattered masonry in the hallway. He looked at the werewolves in their ridiculous beanies. And finally, he looked at his boyfriend, who was currently rotating like a clearance-rack piñata in the center of the room.

The silence stretched on for ten agonizing seconds, broken only by the squeaking of the jump rope.

"What," Andy whispered, his voice vibrating with 300 years of suppressed rage and absolute bewilderment, "in the name of everything unholy, are you doing?"

Lucas, slowly spinning to face Andy, offered a sheepish, upside-down wave. "Hey, Mr. Cooper. The tactical infiltration hit a snag. The structural integrity of the ceiling grid was compromised."

"You destroyed a municipal building," Andy hissed, stepping into the room. "You have committed multiple felonies. You are wearing letterman jackets with your names embroidered on the front!"

Marty, completely unbothered by the ancient terror radiating from the vampire, strolled over to the massive, glass-fronted medical refrigerator. He ignored the alarm that beeped quietly as he yanked the door open. He reached inside, grabbed three thick, plastic bags filled with dark crimson liquid, and turned around.

Without a word, Marty tossed one of the cold bags directly at Andy’s chest.

Andy’s supernatural reflexes flared to life, despite his starvation. He caught the bag smoothly, the cold plastic slapping against his palm. He looked down at it.

O-NEGATIVE. RED BLOOD CELLS.

"You look like crap, Edwina," Marty grunted, crossing his massive arms over his chest. He wasn't joking anymore. The casual, bro-tier humor was gone, replaced by the fierce, uncompromising loyalty of an alpha. "You’re starving. You’re making the pack look bad, and you're making Moo-Juice worry. We protect our own, even if our own is a stubborn, brooding idiot who refuses to eat his dinner. Dravens don't get to tell us how to survive."

Andy froze. His ancient, sophisticated mind, which had navigated the complex political courts of the French monarchy, ground to an absolute halt.

He looked at the werewolves—creatures that, historically, should have been attempting to tear his throat out. Instead, they had orchestrated a deeply incompetent, highly destructive heist just to make sure he was fed. It was absurd. It was illegal. It was the most aggressively affectionate thing anyone had done for him in three centuries.

Andy felt the rigid, icy walls of his aristocratic pride completely shatter. He was caught between profound horror at the crime scene and an overwhelming, undeniable wave of gratitude.

Lucas, spinning lazily toward the pack, clapped his hands together—a difficult feat while upside down.

"Okay, show’s over, Wolfpack," Lucas commanded, his face flushing a bright, concerning shade of tomato red as the blood rushed to his head. "Mission accomplished. Give the man some privacy to eat. Go... guard the perimeter. Or sniff a fire hydrant. Whatever you guys do on guard duty."

Marty grunted in agreement. He clapped Buzz-Cut on the shoulder. "Move out, men. Secure the perimeter. Let the bat have his juice box."

The three werewolves jogged out of the room, their cleats clicking loudly against the linoleum, leaving Andy entirely alone in the harsh fluorescent glow with his suspended boyfriend.

Andy stood there, gripping the cold plastic of the blood bag. His fangs ached. The overwhelming, metallic scent of the preserved blood was hitting his starving senses like a physical blow, demanding that he tear the plastic apart like a wild animal. But he was fighting it, clinging to the last shred of his dignity.

He looked up.

Lucas offered a small, crooked smile. "Sorry. I'd leave too if I could, but I need you to get me down after your lunch..." He spun slowly, facing the shattered refrigerator, before rotating back. "...take your time, though. I'm getting a really great stretch in my lumbar."

Andy let out a long, rusty sigh. It was a sigh that contained three centuries of fatigue and a deep, reluctant surrender to his current circumstances.

He didn't run to the shadows. He didn't turn his back.

Instead, Andy gracefully lowered himself onto a stack of wooden medical pallets. He looked at Lucas, his dark eyes softening. Then, with a fluid, precise motion, he brought the plastic bag to his lips. His fangs extended, gleaming in the harsh light, and he easily pierced the thick medical-grade plastic.

It wasn't fresh. It tasted faintly of anticoagulants and industrial preservatives—the culinary equivalent of stale saltines—but to a starving vampire, it was absolute nectar.

Andy drank deeply, his eyes closing as the life force flooded into his system. The icy, hollow ache in his chest vanished instantly. The sickening, translucent grey faded from his skin, replaced by the smooth, pristine alabaster pallor that drove the high school girls crazy. The sluggishness evaporated, his supernatural strength reigniting like a furnace.

It was a deeply undignified feast. The terrifying Scourge of the Carpathians was sitting on a pallet, drinking a stolen medical supply like a high-schooler with a Capri Sun, while watching his chaotic, neon-t-shirt-wearing teenager rotate like a slow ceiling fan.

It was perfect.

When he finished, Andy neatly folded the empty plastic bag and tucked it into his leather jacket pocket to dispose of the evidence. He stood up, rolling his shoulders, feeling the power thrumming through his veins.

He looked up at Lucas, who was now a very alarming shade of purple.

With a blur of motion, Andy stepped forward, reached up, and effortlessly snapped the thick cluster of extension cords and jump ropes.

Lucas plummeted.

Andy caught him smoothly in his arms, cradling the teenager bridal-style against his chest, completely unfazed by the sudden weight.

"Thanks, sexy," Lucas wheezed, throwing his arms around Andy's neck and resting his head against the vintage leather. He didn't seem to care that he had just witnessed an apex predator consume human blood; he just seemed relieved to be right-side up. "You got a little something on your fang, by the way. Now kiss me."

Before Andy could protest, Lucas leaned up and planted a firm, aggressive kiss on the vampire's cold lips, deliberately rubbing his cheek hard against the collar of the vintage leather jacket.

"There," Lucas declared, looking deeply satisfied as he pulled back. "Make sure you don't wash this jacket. I want Ronan to smell me on you from three hallways away tomorrow. Let's see him try to bare his neck at you now."

Andy simply shook his head, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. "Let us exit this establishment before the local authorities arrive to investigate the missing steel door."

They walked out of the refrigeration room, stepping carefully over the mangled remains of the loading dock entrance, Andy stuffing the two extra blood bags into his pockets. The cool night air hit them, a welcome relief from the sterile clinic.

Andy expected to find the werewolf pack standing in a defensive perimeter, their senses heightened, scanning the shadows for approaching sirens like the fierce, territorial beasts they claimed to be.

Instead, they found the pack huddled at the far edge of the asphalt parking lot, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a streetlamp, gathered around a rusted red fire hydrant.

Marty was standing next to the hydrant, aggressively adjusting the zipper of his denim jeans, while the rest of the pack nodded in solemn, furious agreement.

Andy froze. His newly revitalized brain stuttered, struggling to comprehend the visual. "What... what in the name of all that is unholy were you just doing?"

Marty turned around, completely unabashed. He looked at Andy, then pointed a massive, accusatory finger at the fire hydrant.

"Leaving a message," Marty grunted, crossing his arms over his letterman jacket, his jaw set in a hard line. "There’s a St. Bernard two blocks over. Barnaby. Guy’s an absolute menace. We’ve been arguing all week."

Lucas tilted his head, rubbing the back of his neck where the blood was finally draining away, allowing his normal skin tone to return. "You're beefing with a dog?"

"It’s a philosophical debate, Moo-Juice," Buzz-Cut Tight End chimed in, looking deeply offended on Marty's behalf. "Barnaby thinks synthetic nylon chew toys offer better dental resistance than actual, marrow-filled beef bones. It’s an insult to the canine palate. It’s practically heresy."

"He’s delusional," Marty scoffed, shaking his head with disgust. "I had to lay down the law. You can't just let a take like that go unanswered in your own territory. I told him if he wants to talk synthetic, he can chew on a tire."

Andy stared at them. He looked at the fire hydrant. He looked at the massive, muscular teenager who had just committed a major medical heist, ripped a steel door out of a brick wall, and procured a stolen blood bag—only to immediately get distracted by a pee-mail argument with a neighborhood pet over the structural integrity of pet store merchandise.

"You scent-marked public infrastructure," Andy whispered, his voice hollow, his 18th-century dignity withering into fine, powdery dust, "to argue with a dog... about bones."

"It's about respect, Edwina," Marty said solemnly, staring Andy down. "You wouldn't get it. You don't have the nose for it."

Lucas patted Andy's rigid leather shoulder. "He makes a fair point, babe. Barnaby is kind of a snob. Now come on, let's get back to the Impala before the cops show up and arrest us for grand theft plasma."

"Hang on, bro," Buzz-Cut said, jogging back toward the ruined loading dock. "Gotta secure the perimeter. Leave no trace, right?"

Andy watched in stunned, helpless silence as the teenage werewolf reached down and casually hoisted the three-hundred-pound reinforced steel door that Marty had previously discarded. With his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in a mask of deep, scholarly concentration, Buzz-Cut gingerly lifted the massive slab of metal and attempted to slot it back into the mangled, shredded frame.

He stepped back, dusted off his hands, and gave the steel a gentle, encouraging pat.

The door immediately shifted two inches to the left with a loud, horrific metallic groaaaan, hanging precariously by a single, violently bent screw that had somehow survived the initial breach.

"Good as new," Buzz-Cut declared proudly, nodding at his handiwork. "If the cops ask, it was wind damage. A micro-burst."

"A micro-burst," Andy repeated, staring at the blatantly destroyed government property, feeling a headache building behind his eyes.

"Nature is crazy, Edwina," Marty agreed solemnly. "Let's roll."

Andy did not move. He closed his eyes, tilting his perfectly pomaded head back toward the starless suburban sky. He had survived the Inquisition. He had been a one-hit wonder who wrote a billion-stream bass line. And now, his getaway driver was locked in a turf war with a St. Bernard.

He let Lucas grab his hand and drag him toward the rusted land yacht, fully accepting that his life of dark, mysterious terror was officially, permanently over.

Fifty yards away, buried deep within the prickly, aggressive embrace of the blood bank's decorative azalea bushes, Kevin was having the greatest night of his life.

"I told you," Kevin hissed, his cheap synthetic trench coat rustling loudly against the foliage as the Impala’s taillights faded into the distance. "I told you! The municipal blood bank! It is the classic infiltration point for a starving creature of the night!"

Beside him, Toby was furiously mashing the shutter button of a decade-old digital camera. Gary was crouched in the dirt, clutching his holy tap water squirt gun to his chest, trembling so hard the plastic reservoir rattled loudly.

"Did you get it?" Kevin whispered feverishly, grabbing Toby’s shoulder, his eyes wide with the thrill of unearned victory. "Did you capture the beast consuming the stolen plasma? Did you document the familiars suspended from the ceiling in their dark ritual?"

"I got it all, Commander," Toby breathed, his glasses completely fogged over from the humid summer air. "I even got a shot of the alpha familiar desecrating that fire hydrant to mark their unholy territory."

"Show me," Kevin demanded, his voice cracking with excitement. "The internet needs to see the truth. The veil is about to be lifted."

Toby proudly angled the small LCD screen of the camera toward Kevin.

Kevin squinted.

The screen was entirely, uncompromisingly black, save for a single, blurry, neon-yellow smear that might have been a distant streetlamp, or possibly a passing moth.

Kevin stared at the image. "Toby. Why is it completely dark?"

"I turned off the flash," Toby whispered defensively, clutching the camera to his chest. "If I used the flash, the beast would have sensed our presence and swooped over here to drain our life force. Stealth is key, Commander."

"It’s a digital camera from 2012, Toby!" Kevin whisper-yelled, aggressively swatting a mosquito away from his face. "Without a flash, we just took thirty pictures of the concept of darkness!"

"Look closer," Gary whimpered, pointing a trembling, dirt-smudged finger at the blurry yellow smear on the screen. "You can see its dark aura. It's... it's moving so fast the camera can't even perceive it."

Kevin stared at the useless, pitch-black photograph. He looked back up at the parking lot, where the terrifying undead monster had just been dragged away by a scrawny teenager, leaving absolutely zero verifiable evidence behind.

Kevin took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Yes," Kevin breathed, his delusion safely snapping back into place, rejecting reality with practiced ease. "The aura is too powerful for mortal technology. We must retreat immediately and enhance these images on the mainframe."

(The "mainframe" was Gary’s mother’s desktop computer, which was currently running Windows 8, but nobody mentioned it.)

"Fall back, Night Watch," Kevin commanded, crawling backward through the dirt. "We have the evidence we need. We just need to examine the breach point to confirm."

The municipal blood bank’s exterior security cameras had been purchased in 2008 on a strict municipal budget. They were motion-activated, prone to glitching, and possessed a catastrophic reboot lag of roughly forty-five seconds.

Because of this technological failing, the digital hard drive recorded absolutely nothing of the werewolf pack’s infiltration. It missed Marty ripping the steel door out of the brick. It missed Andy carrying Lucas bridal-style. And it entirely missed the heated, cross-species debate regarding chew toys.

The cameras finally flickered back to life exactly forty-six seconds after the rusted 1972 Impala had departed.

The motion sensors were triggered by Kevin.

Emerging from the azalea bushes, Kevin was executing what he believed to be a flawless tactical roll across the asphalt. In reality, he looked like a thirty-year-old man in an undersized trench coat awkwardly tumbling over a discarded soda cup. Toby and Gary followed closely behind, crab-walking with intense, unnecessary caution.

"Move in," Kevin hissed, pressing his back flat against the brick wall of the loading dock, entirely unaware of the glowing red recording light on the camera directly above his head. "We must examine the breach point. We must find physical evidence of the creature's passage."

Gary, clutching his plastic squirt gun, crept toward the massive steel door that Buzz-Cut had delicately balanced back into its mangled frame.

"Commander," Gary whispered, his voice trembling as he looked at the destruction. "The door... it's closed. But the lock looks completely shredded. It looks like it was torn open by a bear."

"A beast of the night," Kevin corrected, stepping forward. He narrowed his eyes, reaching out with a leather-clad finger to inspect the damage. "Look at the sheer, demonic force required to..."

Kevin’s index finger gently tapped the steel surface.

Groooooan.

The single, violently bent screw that Buzz-Cut had relied upon finally gave up.

The three-hundred-pound reinforced steel door detached from the frame entirely. It hung suspended in mid-air for a fraction of a second before slamming down onto the concrete loading dock with a deafening, apocalyptic CRASH that echoed through the empty suburban streets like a localized earthquake.

The vibration rattled Gary’s teeth. Toby dropped his camera, the plastic casing cracking on the pavement. Kevin shrieked, a high-pitched sound of pure terror, and leaped backward into a stack of empty wooden medical pallets.

Alarms immediately began blaring—a piercing, mechanical wail that lit up the entire alleyway in strobing, aggressive red light.

"It's a trap!" Kevin screamed, scrambling frantically over the wooden pallets, snagging his trench coat on a rusty nail. "The beast set a snare! Retreat! Retreat to the sanctuary!"

They didn't make it to the sanctuary. They barely made it to the edge of the parking lot before two county cruisers, lights flashing and sirens screaming, boxed them in against the azalea bushes.

At 3:15 AM, Sheriff Jamison sat in the cramped, aggressively fluorescent security office of the municipal blood bank. He was fifty-four years old, two years away from a pension, and currently holding a lukewarm cup of gas station coffee like it was a religious artifact that might save his soul.

He stared blankly at the security monitor on the desk.

The clinic manager, a nervous, balding man in a plaid bathrobe who had been rushed out of bed by the alarm company, was pointing a shaking finger at the screen.

"Look at this, Sheriff," the manager sputtered, his voice pitched high with panic. "Look at the sheer coordination. They disabled the locks, collapsed the steel door, and tripped the alarms. These are professional thieves. Black market plasma dealers!"

Sheriff Jamison sighed. It was a deep, rumbling sigh that originated in his very soul and resonated outward through his badge.

He leaned forward, squinting at the frozen frame of the security footage.

On the screen, frozen in high definition by the rebooted camera, were three men. One was hopelessly tangled in a wooden pallet, his coat hiked up to his armpits. One was attempting to hide behind a severely pruned azalea bush, exposing his entire lower half. And the third was holding a neon-green, plastic water gun with a brightly colored price tag still dangling visibly from the trigger guard.

Jamison took a slow, painful sip of his terrible coffee. He pulled a crumpled notepad from his uniform pocket, flipped it open, and looked at the notes from the previous day's shift.

· Incident Report: 0830 Hours. High School Security Officer Stan reported three unidentified males trespassing near the cafeteria.

· Suspect Descriptions: Overly dramatic trench coats, tactical fingerless gloves, extreme public loitering.

· Confiscated Items: One bent tin throwing star. Loose garlic.

· Additional Notes: Suspects attempted to assault a varsity linebacker with a squirt gun. Suspects were subsequently shaken upside down for smoothie money.

Jamison looked at his notepad. He looked at the security footage. He looked through the glass window of the office to where his deputies had handcuffed the three "professional thieves" to a long, metal holding bench in the hallway.

Kevin was currently trying to explain to a deeply unamused deputy that the steel handcuffs were disrupting his "spiritual chi" and blocking his connection to the astral plane.

"They aren't black market plasma dealers, Greg," Sheriff Jamison said flatly, rubbing his temples to stave off a brewing, catastrophic migraine.

"Then who are they?" the manager demanded. "Domestic terrorists?"

"They're edgelords, Greg," Jamison muttered, closing his notepad with a soft thud. "They're thirty-year-old men who spend too much time on the internet and think they live in a comic book."

"But the door!" The manager gestured wildly toward the loading dock outside the window. "They ripped a three-hundred-pound steel door off its hinges! How did three scrawny guys in trench coats do that?"

Jamison paused. He looked at the mangled frame on the monitor. He looked at Kevin, who was currently struggling to push his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose with his handcuffed wrists.

The physics simply didn't make sense. There was absolutely no way these three aggressively unathletic goobers had the upper-body strength to dent a tin can, let alone rip reinforced steel directly out of a brick wall. For a brief, fleeting moment, the seasoned detective residing deep within Jamison wondered if there was a missing piece to the puzzle. Was there a fourth man? An industrial crowbar they hadn't found? A tow cable?

Then, out in the hallway, Gary started crying loudly because the handcuffs were scratching his wrist, and he wanted to call his mom.

Sheriff Jamison’s detective instincts immediately evaporated, replaced entirely by a wave of profound, existential exhaustion. He didn't care. He was too old, and the coffee was too bad, to investigate the structural integrity of the clinic's masonry at three in the morning.

"Greg, your building is old and your hinges were completely rusted through," Jamison lied smoothly, standing up and adjusting his heavy gun belt. "These idiots probably leaned on it trying to peek inside, and the whole thing just gave way. It’s a deferred maintenance issue."

Jamison walked out of the office and approached the metal bench. He towered over the Night Watch, his expression radiating pure, unfiltered dad-disappointment.

"Sheriff," Kevin said, trying desperately to puff out his narrow chest and project an aura of authority. "You have to listen to me. We are not the criminals here. We are the vanguard! We were tracking a creature of the night. A beast that drinks the blood of the innocent!"

Jamison stared at him, his face completely deadpan. "You were tracking Dracula. At a municipal county blood bank."

"Yes!" Kevin nodded furiously, his eyes wide with desperate conviction. "He was here! And he has familiars! A whole pack of aggressive, highly athletic youths in matching jackets! They threw a tennis ball at me!"

"Uh-huh," Jamison said, pulling the heavy radio from his belt. "Dispatch, we have the suspects in custody. Go ahead and charge them with trespassing, destruction of municipal property, and... whatever the penal code is for being profoundly annoying in a public space."

"You're making a mistake!" Kevin yelled as two burly deputies hauled him to his feet. "The shadows are moving! The town is under siege! You have to check the fire hydrant in the parking lot! It's covered in alpha pheromones! The beast marked his territory!"

"Put him in the soundproof cruiser," Jamison instructed his deputies, rubbing his tired eyes.

As the Night Watch was dragged away, shouting warnings about vampires, werewolves, and the structural integrity of chew toys, Sheriff Jamison walked out into the cool night air of the parking lot.

He took a deep breath, looking up at the stars. He didn't know anything about creatures of the night. He didn't know anything about werewolf packs protecting their territory. But he did know that the high school football team had a newly renovated field, and that he finally had a rock-solid excuse to ban those trench-coat-wearing weirdos from the city limits for the foreseeable future.

All in all, it was a solid night for the local authorities.