Eternal Leash

The alley smelled like piss and old blood. My blood, mostly. I pressed my palm against the gash on my ribs and felt the warmth leak between my fingers. Three of them. Three guys with a crowbar and a grudge and absolutely no idea who they were dealing with.

I mean, neither did I, really. But I knew I wasn't dead yet, and that counted for something.

The moon hung fat and yellow above the fire escapes. I counted my breaths. One. Two. Three. The pain sharpened everything, made the world feel real in a way it never did when I was sober. I liked that. Liked the way the edges of things cut clear and bright.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Not the stumbling gait of the guys who'd just worked me over. Those assholes had scattered when the sirens got close. Cowards, the whole lot of them.

I looked up.

He stood at the mouth of the alley, backlit by a streetlamp that flickered like it couldn't decide if it wanted to work. Tall. That's the first thing I noticed. Tall in a way that seemed wrong, like someone had stretched him out on a rack and left him there for a few centuries. Broad shoulders. Hands in the pockets of an overcoat that probably cost more than I'd made in the last year of running numbers for Santo.

"Looks like you've had a rough night." His voice was low, smooth. The kind of voice that belonged in a recording booth or a confessional.

I spat blood onto the asphalt. "Looks can be deceiving. I've had worse."

"I know."

He stepped closer. The light caught his face. Fifties, maybe. Hard to tell with the shadows. Silver at his temples, deep lines around his mouth. Handsome in that ruined way some men get, like a building that's been through a fire and still stands.

"You're bleeding out," he said. Matter of fact. Like he was telling me the price of milk.

"I'm aware."

"You need help."

"I need a cigarette and a bottle of whiskey. The rest I can handle."

He laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. It was the kind of laugh that said he knew something I didn't, and he was enjoying the gap between us.

"You can't handle this." He nodded at my ribs. "That's a deep cut. You've got maybe an hour before you're too weak to stand. Two before you're dead."

"Optimist."

"I'm a realist." He crouched down. Close enough that I could smell him. Old books. Cedar. Something metallic underneath, like copper pennies on the tongue. "I can fix this. But there's a price."

"Of course there is." I laughed, and it hurt, and I liked it. "There's always a price with guys who show up in alleys at 2 AM offering help. What do you want? My wallet? My firstborn? A blowjob in a bathroom stall?"

His eyes went dark. Not figurative dark. Literal dark. The irises swallowed the whites like ink bleeding through paper. I watched it happen. Watched the black spread until his eyes were two empty holes in his skull.

I should have been scared. I wasn't. I'd been scared of my father's belt. Scared of Santo's knife. Scared of the foster homes and the group homes and the streets. I was so goddamn tired of being scared.

"You're a vampire," I said. Flat. Like I was naming a breed of dog.

"Very good." The black receded. His eyes went back to normal, whatever normal meant for a thing that old. "Most people faint."

"Most people are idiots."

"They are." He smiled, and I saw his teeth. The canines were longer than they should have been. Sharper. "You're not. That's why I'm interested."

"Interested in what?"

"In you." He tilted his head. Studied me like I was a painting he was thinking about buying. "You're a thief. A runner. A fighter. You've got a record longer than my arm and a death wish you don't even know you're carrying."

"Flattering."

"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to recruit you."

I stared at him. The blood had stopped leaking through my fingers. That was bad. That meant I was running out of it.

"Recruit me for what?"

"Protection." He said it like it was simple. "I have enemies. Old ones. They're getting bold. I need someone who can move through the world I can't move through anymore. Someone who knows the streets. Someone who isn't afraid to get their hands dirty."

"And what do I get?"

"Immortality. Power. Money. Whatever you want."

"Whatever I want." I let the words sit. Let them roll around in my head like loose change. "That's a big promise."

"It's a big offer."

"What's the catch?"

He stood up. Towered over me. I felt small, and I hated it. Hated the way he looked down at me like I was a bug he could crush or spare on a whim.

"You belong to me," he said. "Completely. For as long as I see fit. You eat when I say. Sleep when I say. Fuck when I say. You don't make a move without my permission. You're mine."

I should have said no. Any sane person would have said no. But I'd never been sane. I'd been hungry and angry and desperate for something I couldn't name, and here was a man offering me everything I'd ever wanted on a silver platter with a side of chains.

"One condition," I said.

He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not going to be a good pet. I'm going to fight you. Every step. Every order. I'm going to make you work for it."

He laughed again. That same knowing laugh. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Then we have a deal."

He reached down. Grabbed my chin. His fingers were cold, so cold, like he'd been holding ice. He tilted my head back and I saw his teeth coming closer and I thought, this is it. This is the moment everything changes.

I didn't close my eyes. I wanted to see it.

His mouth pressed against my throat. Not a bite. A kiss. Soft. Tender. It made my skin prickle in ways that had nothing to do with fear.

"You're going to be difficult," he murmured against my pulse.

"Extremely."

"I'm going to break you."

"You can try."

His teeth sank in. The pain was sharp and hot and electric, arcing through my body like I'd grabbed a live wire. I gasped. Grabbed his coat. Held on.

The world went red. Then black. Then something else entirely.

When I woke up, I was in a bed that cost more than my mother's house. Silk sheets. A canopy. Candles flickering on a nightstand that looked like it belonged in a museum. And him, sitting in a chair across the room, watching me.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

I took stock. My ribs didn't hurt. The gash was gone. I felt strong. Stronger than I'd ever felt. Like I could punch through a wall and keep going.

"Hungry," I said.

He smiled. That slow, predatory smile that promised nothing good.

"Good. We have work to do."

I sat up. Looked at my hands. They were the same hands I'd always had, but they felt different. Like they belonged to someone else. Someone who could take what they wanted.

"What's your name?" I asked. "If I'm going to belong to you, I should at least know what to call you."

"Marcus."

"Marcus." I tested it. It felt old. Heavy. Like a name that had been around for a long time. "I'm Leo."

"I know who you are." He stood up. Walked to the door. "Rest. Tomorrow, we start your training."

"Training for what?"

He looked back at me. His eyes caught the candlelight and threw it back, gold and black and ancient.

"For the war that's coming."