The Blood Collector: I

Chicago City, 2010.

The warehouse was cavernous, empty, metal racks casting long shadows. An employee crept between them, carrying a small box. His footsteps were soft, careful.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the silence.

“Hello.”

The man froze. Heart hammering. Box trembling.

Joseph emerged from the darkness, calm, deliberate. No footsteps, yet he was closer than possible. His lips parted slightly—just enough to reveal sharp fangs.

“You… shouldn’t be here,” the employee stammered. Panic creeping in.

Joseph tilted his head, eyes cold and patient. “I know.”

The man backed away, chest tightening. His grip on the box faltered. Sweat dampened his palms. Fear prickled through him, rising fast.

The box hit the concrete first, thudding softly, sliding across the dusty floor. Camera—low, inches above the ground—followed its slow, unnatural bounce.

Blood pooled quickly, crimson droplets hitting the concrete with quiet, wet splashes. It ran toward the box, smearing the dust into sticky streaks.

Joseph lifted a clean, white handkerchief from his coat, dabbing his lips and fingertips with deliberate care. No haste. No regret. Just the quiet ritual of composure.

He straightened, adjusted his coat, and walked toward the exit. The warehouse swallowed the sound of his footsteps. Outside, the night waited.

Camera lingered on the fallen box, smeared red at the edges, a quiet testament to the sudden, unstoppable violence that had just passed.

Joseph moved. Shadows froze. Fear followed.

Chicago. Neon flickered across glass towers, jagged reflections slicing the streets below. The hum of the city pulsed, alive, hungry. Tonight wasn’t cold. It was charged.

Boots clicked against polished marble. Coat collar up. Hands tucked. Every sense sharp. Every instinct screaming.

The executive floor of Schmidt Enterprises waited. Cameras pivoted. Guards blinked too slow. Joseph passed them as if born here—silent, deliberate, untouchable.

At the end of the hall: Schmidt. Empire of secrets. Hands steeped in blood. He looked up. For the first time, arrogance faltered. Fear seeped.

Joseph placed the briefcase on the desk. Leather straps hiding decades of corruption. Human trafficking, offshore accounts, names politicians wished buried. Schmidt’s eyes widened. Sweat gleamed.

“Not bad,” a voice hissed behind him. Gun pressed to his skull. Sardonic. Dangerous.

Joseph tilted his head. Smirked. Calm as the storm outside.

“I’ve been called a lot of things… careless isn’t one.”

“Untouchable?” the man sneered. “A myth hiding in shadows. Seven souls… that’s your claim?”

Joseph’s eyes locked. Cold. Certain.

“Bye, Schmidt.”

Windows shattered. Concrete groaned. The city screamed. Flames licked the skyline. Chaos erupted.

BOOOOMMM.

The upper floors erupted in fire and glass. Flames licked the night sky. A tower of destruction. Schmidt’s scream was drowned in the roar. Joseph moved. Swift. Fluid. Coat flaring, eyes locking on the street below.

The BMW cut through the northern highways, rain streaking the windshield like liquid glass. The city behind them still burned in memory, orange flames licking the night sky. Viktor’s hands gripped the wheel; Joseph’s eyes scanned the horizon, calculating, alert.

Northfield came quietly. Streets slick, lined with trimmed hedges and wrought iron gates. The house rose ahead, European luxury cloaked in darkness, its windows reflecting nothing but shadow.

They drove through the driveway, tires crunching over gravel. Viktor killed the engine. Silence pressed against the car, heavy, expectant.

Joseph pushed the door open first, stepping onto the polished stone steps. The air smelled faintly of cedar and aged oak, familiar. He reached the door and hesitated.

It was open.

A voice, soft, deliberate, almost casual:

“Welcome home.”

Joseph froze. Viktor’s eyes narrowed.

By the hearth, Stellan leaned back in a high-backed chair, a glass of wine cradled in his hand. The flames flickered across his face, casting long shadows, highlighting the sharp curve of his smile. He didn’t rise. He didn’t move. He simply waited.

Joseph’s hand brushed the hilt of his dagger. Viktor stepped forward, steady, protective.

Stellan tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. “I do hope I’m not intruding,” he said, voice calm, precise.

Joseph didn’t reply. He scanned the room—silence, save for the faint crackle of the fire.

“Curious,” Stellan continued. “I could smell the chaos from miles away. Schmidt’s little empire… gone. And here you are, safe, untouched. How quaint.”

Viktor’s jaw tightened. “You’ve been watching.”

“Of course,” Stellan said lightly, swirling the wine. “I never miss a thing. Especially when the fun comes knocking at your door.”

Joseph stepped forward, dagger raised, shadows curling around him. “What do you want?”

“Wine,” Stellan said, mockingly casual. “And conversation.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “But mostly… answers. About the Stone.”

The air shifted. Viktor felt it too—a weight pressing, subtle but undeniable. Magic, quiet, potent. Renee’s presence lingered like a phantom around Stellan, invisible but heavy.

Joseph’s eyes locked on Stellan’s, measuring, calculating. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “You know that.”

Stellan smiled. Slow. Unhurried. Predatory. “And yet… here I am. You invited me, whether you know it or not.”

The firelight danced over the wine, over the polished wood, over weapons half-hidden in Joseph’s coat. The room was quiet, taut, alive. Every heartbeat, every breath felt amplified, as if the walls themselves were holding their silence.

Stellan took a slow sip. Set the glass down. “I’m patient,” he said softly. “But patience has limits. You have something I want. And I do enjoy a little… persistence in my guests.”

Joseph and Viktor exchanged a glance. They knew this was no casual visit. This was a hunt disguised as civility.

And in the corner, the shadows seemed to shift. Renee’s presence was there—watching, waiting, amplifying the danger, unseen but undeniable.

Stellan leaned forward, eyes glimmering. “So… shall we talk, or shall I wait for you to make a mistake?”

The fire crackled, filling the room with warmth that belied the tension.

Stellan’s eyes glimmered, predatory, as he leaned slightly forward. “Where… is the Stone of Guinevere?” His voice was soft, deliberate, but the threat behind it was palpable.

Joseph’s hand tightened around his dagger, pulse steady but fast. Viktor shifted beside him, protective, ready. Neither spoke. Neither moved.

Stellan’s smile widened, slow and unhurried. “Ah… silence. I like it. But silence won’t save you.”

Joseph swallowed. A surge of defiance pushed him forward. “We don’t tell you anything,” he said, voice low, edged with controlled anger.

Before Viktor could respond, a sudden pressure slammed into them both—sharp, invisible. Magic. Force that twisted the air itself.

The world jerked violently. Joseph and Viktor slammed into the wall behind them, wood splintering under their backs. Pain flared along their ribs, muscles burned, and yet—both men remained conscious, cursing under their breaths.

Renee’s presence hummed in the room, invisible tendrils wrapping around them like iron chains. Her control was quiet, absolute. Neither Joseph nor Viktor could move freely.

Stellan rose slowly from his chair, eyes never leaving the two vampires pressed against the wall. Each step measured, predator-like, deliberate.

He stopped a few feet away, letting the silence stretch. Then he lowered himself to one knee, eyes glinting, lips curling in amusement. In his hand, a small, sharp knife glinted in the firelight.

He spun it idly between his fingers, the movement elegant, casual… deadly.

“I could do this all night,” Stellan murmured, voice soft as silk. “But I have little patience for games. The Stone… belongs to me.”

The knife caught the light again, reflected in Stellan’s sharp gaze. Every motion was calm, composed, but beneath it simmered a lethal intent that made the air itself tremble.

Joseph strained against the invisible force, dagger raised, mind racing. Viktor’s jaw clenched beside him, eyes locked on Stellan. Yet the magic held—unyielding, omnipresent.

Stellan’s grin widened, enjoying the display, savoring the moment. “You’ll give it to me,” he said, voice calm, almost conversational, “or… things will get very, very unpleasant.”

The fire flickered, casting jagged shadows across the walls, over the trapped men, over the small knife spinning lazily in a predator’s hand.

The room waited. Every heartbeat was loud. Every breath a countdown.

Stellan rose, the small knife still glinting lazily in his hand. “I think that’s enough for tonight,” he said, voice smooth, almost teasing. “Though… I must apologize—Viktor, that wine? My bad.”

A smirk curved his lips, sharp, cruel. Viktor and Joseph felt the invisible pressure lift. The magical chains released with a subtle snap, muscles relaxing, lungs finally drawing full breaths.

Renee hovered silently beside him, her presence lingering, powerful yet restrained.

Stellan and Renee began moving toward the door. Calm. Composed. Deadly.

Then Stellan stopped. Head tilted slightly. Eyes glinting. “Wait.”

Before anyone could react, he vanished.

A heartbeat later, he reappeared directly in front of Viktor. With a fluid motion, he slammed him into the wall, Viktor’s back colliding with a loud crack. Viktor grunted, knees buckling under the impact.

Joseph lunged instinctively—but Stellan’s boot caught him square in the chest. He stumbled, went down hard, skidding across the polished floor. Pain lanced through his ribs.

Stellan crouched slightly, knife spinning idly in his hand, predator calm and amused. “Consider this… a friendly reminder,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Find the Stone of Guinevere before I do. Or… I will.”

Renee’s presence pulsed behind him, a quiet hum of power—but silent, restrained. Even she didn’t intervene.

Stellan straightened, eyes glinting one last time. Then he turned, gliding past them, the shadows swallowing his form.

The air still vibrated with menace. Viktor groaned, rubbing his back, while Joseph pushed himself upright, jaw tight, eyes burning with restrained fury.

The warning lingered: the hunt had begun.

Texas

Morning sunlight spilled across the kitchen, warm and almost cheerful, but its brightness only amplified the shadows in Alejandro’s mind. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams, glittering like innocent sparks, ignorant of the danger creeping through the air. He poured coffee, steam rising, curling as if it were a living thing. Every instinct told him something was off.

Rachel had gone into town for groceries, leaving him alone. The house, a sprawling ranch with whitewashed walls and neat wooden beams, felt suddenly smaller, heavier. He set his mug down and scanned the room—the polished counter, the humming refrigerator, the radio playing soft jazz. Everything was too normal. Too perfect.

Then came the knock.

Three slow taps at the door. Firm. Patient. Almost polite.

Alejandro’s heart skipped. No one was expected.

He approached cautiously, eyes flicking to the clock. Nine-fifteen. Morning light streaming in, but the shadows behind the door seemed thicker than they should be. He opened it.

A man stood there. Mid-forties, broad shoulders, worn denim and a plain button-up shirt. A leather tool bag rested at his feet. His face was ordinary, forgettable, but his eyes were precise, calculating, unsettling.

“Morning, sir,” the man said, tipping his cap.

Alejandro’s mouth went dry. “I… I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Sometimes requests get… mixed up,” the man replied casually, smiling faintly. “Name’s Matthews. Plumbing service.”

Alejandro hesitated. “Coffee’s fresh, if you’d like some.”

Matthews stepped inside without waiting. Each movement was calm, controlled. Nothing forced, nothing hurried—but Alejandro felt the weight of those eyes on him like a physical pressure.

They moved through small talk—weather, work, the mundane rhythms of life—but each word carried a subtle undercurrent, a tension Alejandro couldn’t name.

“You know,” Matthews said softly, leaning against the counter, “some houses lie. Yours doesn’t. Every floorboard, every stain, every crack… tells a story. And stories like yours… they interest me.”

Alejandro tried to smile politely. The coffee cooled in his hand. He felt exposed, raw, as if every movement, every thought, had been cataloged and judged.

Matthews moved to the table and pulled a small notebook from inside his coat. Pages filled with names, carefully written and meticulously ticked: Lorenzo… Gerard… Enrique. Each name a victim, each name a mark. Matthews flipped the pages deliberately, the scratch of pen against paper loud in the quiet room.

Alejandro’s eyes widened as Matthews circled a new name—his own. And then he whispered the next names, almost to himself: Viktor Arlene… Joseph Hale…

The air shifted. Even the sunlight seemed thinner, sharper, as if Matthews had pulled the warmth from it. Alejandro’s chest tightened. Fear, real and heavy, crawled over his skin.

“You see,” Matthews said, voice low, conversational, “there are creatures in this world who survive by pretending. Ordinary lives, ordinary manners. Yet they always forget something. Something small… and human.”

Alejandro tried to speak but could not. His throat felt dry, his lips heavy.

Matthews smiled faintly. “Fear,” he said softly. “Real fear leaves marks, and it fascinates me.”

He reached into his tool bag—but not for tools. Small vials, a Luger pistol, and a stack of notebooks slid into view. Alejandro’s stomach twisted.

“You will find,” Matthews continued, tilting his head as if thinking aloud, “that creatures of habit are predictable. That guilt and arrogance leave tiny cracks. And I… notice them.”

Alejandro’s pulse raced. He backed toward the wall, but Matthews did not move. He simply observed, cataloged, waited. Every second stretched longer, sunlight spilling across the room like a bright, merciless eye.

Suddenly, Matthews opened the notebook again. One by one, he ticked names. Lorenzo. Gerard. Enrique. Alejandro. Then he paused, circling Viktor Arlene and Joseph Hale with precise, almost reverent care.

Alejandro swallowed hard. “Why… why me?” he whispered.

Matthews’ smile deepened, pleasant and terrifying. “Because you are a target, sir. And I am… thorough.”

A sudden movement—Matthews drew the Luger. The silver gleamed in sunlight. He raised it casually, like adjusting his coat, yet Alejandro felt its presence like a blade pressed to his mind.

“You will remember,” Matthews said softly, almost kindly, “what it feels like to be hunted. Every sound, every shadow, every heartbeat.”

Three shots rang out. Alejandro collapsed, a fire burning through his veins. The pain was precise, almost surgical—titanium rounds. Minimal blood, maximum terror. Rachel screamed behind him, hands over her mouth.

Matthews wiped the gun, placed it back inside his coat, adjusting his hat with slow precision.

“Titanium,” he said conversationally. “Doesn’t kill… immediately. But it reminds you. It reminds you who owns pain. And fear.”

He left the notebook open on the counter. Checkmarks beside names. Next targets: Viktor Arlene… Joseph Hale.

Alejandro writhed on the floor, aware of every nerve, every muscle screaming. He realized—Matthews had been here before. He had always been watching. Waiting. Calculating.

Outside, the sun continued to shine. Bright. Cheerful. Ordinary. But the farm, the house, the world itself now felt contaminated with dread.

Matthews walked slowly down the dirt road, notebook in hand, ticking off another name.

And somewhere, in Chicago, the names on the next page would begin to move.