Night Watch
The hospital changed after midnight.
By day, St. Damaris Medical Center hummed with fluorescent anxiety — ringing phones, squeaking gurneys, families clinging to hope in plastic chairs. But at night, it breathed differently. Slower. Deeper. Like something ancient had settled into its bones. The oncology and hematology floor was the quietest floor in the entire hospital after midnight. Machines beeped softly, IV pumps clicked with mechanical patience, and the faint antiseptic scent hung in the air like a permanent fog. It was a place where blood diseases, transfusions, and fragile hope lived side by side.
Mara preferred it that way even though she had other floors to patrol.
She adjusted the collar of her security jacket as she stepped out of the elevator onto the twelfth floor — Restricted Access the part of the hospital under renovations. The overhead lights were dimmed to a low glow, enough to see but not enough to feel safe. Her boots made soft, deliberate sounds against polished tile.
Most guards avoided the upper floors.
Mara volunteered for them. "Twelfth floor clear,” she murmured into her radio.
A soft crackle answered. “Copy that.”
She continued down the corridor, passing frosted-glass doors with keycard scanners and subtle silver inlays along the frames — new additions to an old building. Most people didn’t notice details like that because they didn't go on this floor.
Mara did.
Because St. Damaris had two kinds of staff.
The day shift.
And the ones who didn’t show up in mirrors.
She paused at the nurses’ station. Empty. The computer screens were on, patient vitals steady in green lines. Behind the locked double doors at the far end of the hallway. Ward Hematology — officially a research and transfusion department.
Unofficially?
It was where the vampires worked.
She checked the silver-threaded baton at her hip — standard issue for night security. The administration called it a “precautionary relic.” Mara called it leverage.
The doors at the end of the corridor whispered open.
She didn’t jump. Jumping showed weakness. The ability to hide emotion, something she was good at since a young age.
Dr. Lucien Armand stepped through.
Even if she hadn’t known what he was, she would have known something wasn’t human about him.
He moved too smoothly, like gravity treated him as a suggestion. Golden hair brushed his collar, impeccably styled despite the hour. His white coat fell perfectly against a charcoal suit. No wrinkles. No fatigue.
And his eyes.
God, those eyes.
Different shades of green all swirled into one. Reflective in low light. Watching everything.
“Miss Vale,” he said, voice low and refined, touched with an accent she’d never quite placed. “Making your rounds?”
“Last I checked that’s what security does, Doctor.”
His mouth curved — not quite a smile. More an acknowledgment.
Lucien Armand was the hospital’s star hematologist. Published. Revered. Feared in very specific circles. Officially, he specialized in rare blood disorders.
Unofficially, he supervised the hospital’s blood acquisition agreements with the… night staff.
St. Damaris was one of only three hospitals in the country with an integrated vampire medical program. It was progressive. Quiet. Mutually beneficial.
It was also the reason Mara got paid hazard wages.
“You’re later than usual,” she noted.
“And you are earlier than necessary,” he replied smoothly.
Her jaw tightened. Just as Mara was going to respond. "Krrrk- shhh" Mara, there was an alert on the west stairwell camera.” please check. over"
"10-4"
His gaze sharpened slightly. “An intruder?”
“Could be nothing. Probably someone where they shouldn’t be.”
The air shifted.
Not temperature — pressure.
Predatory awareness.
It happened every time she saw that subtle change in him. Like something behind his eyes had leaned forward.
“I’ll accompany you,” he said.
“That’s not required.”
“I insist.”
Of course he did. A dramatic eye roll accompanied her silent sigh.
She turned without waiting for him and headed toward the stairwell. She could hear him behind her — not footsteps exactly. More the whisper of fabric and controlled movement.
She’d worked at St. Damaris for two years.
Long enough to know the rules.
The vampires who worked here didn’t hunt patients. They didn’t harm staff. They received regulated blood donations through contracts and compensated volunteers. They practiced medicine — some of them brilliantly.
But they were still apex predators.
And Mara was still very human.
They reached the stairwell door. It stood slightly ajar.
She drew her baton and flashlight.
Lucien’s hand gently caught her wrist.
The contact was cool. Not freezing. Just absent of warmth.
“Allow me,” he said quietly.
“I’m the one with the weapon.”
He looked at her baton. Then back at her.
“Miss Vale,” he murmured, voice dropping a fraction. “If there is danger behind that door, it will not be to me.”
Her pulse skipped — not in fear.
In irritation.
“Protocol says I enter first.”
“And protocol,” he replied, stepping closer, “was written by people with heartbeats.”
For a moment, they stood too close.
She became acutely aware of everything — the faint scent of antiseptic and something darker beneath it, the sharp line of his jaw, the unnatural stillness of his chest.
He didn’t breathe unless he wanted to.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But if you get dramatic and start hissing, I’m filing paperwork.”
A flash of amusement lit his eyes.
“Duly noted.”
He pushed the door open.
The stairwell was dim, lit only by emergency strips along the steps.
Mara followed, senses alert.
Halfway down the first landing, she saw it — a figure crouched near the maintenance panel.
Human.
Male. Late twenties. Hospital scrubs. Trembling.
Lucien was at the bottom of the stairs before she consciously registered that he’d moved.
Not ran.
Moved.
He had the man pinned against the wall in less than a second, one hand at his throat. Not squeezing. Just holding.
The man gasped. “I—I wasn’t stealing anything—”
“Access badge,” Mara snapped, hurrying down.
The badge dangling from his neck wasn’t hospital-issued.
Fake.
Lucien’s eyes had changed.
The silver was gone.
In its place, a deep, luminous crimson.
Her breath caught — damn it.
He leaned in, inhaling near the man’s throat.
Mara forced herself not to react.
“You smell of adrenaline,” Lucien said softly. “And ass. But not guilt.”
The man whimpered.
Mara stepped closer. “Why are you here?”
“I—I was paid,” he stammered. “Someone told me to access the blood storage on twelve. Said no one would notice.”
Lucien’s expression went cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
“Who?” Mara demanded.
“I don’t know! It was online—just messages—”
Lucien released him abruptly.
The man crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Mara stared. “You knocked him out.”
“Yes.”
“With your mind?”
A pause.
“Essentially.”
She blew out a breath. “That’s going in my report as ‘non-violent containment.’”
Lucien’s gaze shifted to her then — fully red.
Hunger flickered there.
Not uncontrolled.
But present.
She felt it like heat across her skin.
“You should step back,” he said quietly.
“Why?”
His jaw tightened.
“Because your pulse is elevated.”
Her heart thudded harder just to spite him.
“I’m fine.”
Silence stretched between them.
In the dim stairwell, surrounded by concrete and shadow, she realized something unsettling.
He was holding himself rigid.
As if restraining something.
“For what it’s worth,” she said carefully, “I don’t scare easily.”
His eyes softened slightly — the red dimming toward gray.
“That,” he replied, voice lower than before, “is precisely the problem.”
Before she could respond, footsteps echoed above them.
More than one set.
Lucien’s head tilted.
He listened.
Then his gaze snapped back to hers.
“There are three more,” he said.
Human or not, her stomach dropped.
“Armed?”
“Yes.”
“And you know that how?”
A faint, dangerous smile.
“I can hear their heartbeats.”
Mara tightened her grip on her baton.
“Then I guess,” she said, stepping beside him instead of away, “we’re working together.”
For the first time since she’d met him, something unguarded flickered across Dr. Lucien Armand’s face.
Not hunger. Not superiority. Something closer to admiration.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
She snorted. “Not a chance.”
The stairwell door above burst open.
And the night shift at St. Damaris began in earnest.
