Riley crouched beside the body like she'd done it a hundred times.
Because she had.
The alley behind Lucien's bar was tight—choked with overflowing dumpsters and the reek of old grease—but she didn't flinch. Her knife was still in one hand, silver edge catching the dim light from the flickering security bulb. The blade dripped once, then stopped. Efficient kill.
The thing on the ground twitched once more and then lay still.
Lucien stood back near the door, arms crossed like he was trying not to look, which was the right move for a civilian. Except… he was looking. Carefully. Too carefully.
Riley didn't miss it.
She pressed two fingers to the creature's neck. No pulse. Not that she expected one. The skin was rubbery and pale, almost translucent, like it had been boiled from the inside.
Its mouth hung open. The teeth were wrong—jagged, rotted at the roots, some missing entirely. It had been a person once. Not a vampire by birth. But whatever it was now, it wasn't clean. Wasn't turned the normal way.
She peeled back its lip with the hilt of her knife. The gums were black.
"Cute date spot," she muttered without looking up.
Lucien didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was even.
"Usually just cocktails and dive bar karaoke. The screaming's new."
She glanced up at him. He was standing too straight. Breathing too slow.
"You alright?" she asked, rising to her feet.
"Think so." He looked down at the thing. "I've… never seen anything like that."
Lie.
She knew what real shock looked like. People shook. People got loud. People puked. Lucien Vale was calm. Controlled.
Either he was dead inside—
Or he'd seen worse.
Riley reached into her coat and pulled out a tiny vial with a rubber stopper. She crouched again, scooped a bit of the oily black-red fluid leaking from the corpse's mouth. It clung to the glass like it didn't want to let go.
Lucien's eyes lingered on it a second too long.
Riley noticed.
"Don't suppose you keep a mop back here?" she said, standing.
Lucien blinked, caught. "Storage closet, second door on the left. Mop. Bucket. Swear I even own bleach."
She turned toward the bar's back door but stopped in the frame.
Without looking back, she said, "You ever lie to me, Vale—I'll know."
Lucien smiled faintly, though she couldn't see it.
"Good to know," he said.
The body wasn't cooling the way it should have.
Riley knelt again, flicking open the cheap folding knife she kept for tissue work. The silver blade was clean—this wasn't about protection. This was autopsy. Field-style.
She worked methodically.
The palms were blistered, cracked like they'd been burned from the inside. Fingernails ragged, some ripped out completely, black gunk caked underneath like tar. No fang marks on the neck, which ruled out clean feeding. No scratches that might indicate a brawl. Whatever had turned this poor bastard had done it fast—and probably without his permission.
Lucien watched her in silence, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. His body felt tight, wired. He kept swallowing. It didn't help.
That blood.
The scent was all wrong.
Vampire blood had rules. It was iron-rich, warm even after death, and layered with memory if you were unlucky enough to drink it. But this stuff? It smelled like fruit rot layered with old pennies and something chemically sharp, like burnt plastic and sugar.
Synthetic.
Lucien hadn't smelled it in years.
Not since before the collapse of District Six. Not since Juno's "side project." And even then, it hadn't been this strong.
Riley scraped a sample of the black sludge from the corner of the eye. The skin around it peeled too easily. She paused, frowning.
"This isn't a vampire," she said under her breath.
Lucien's voice stayed level. "Could've fooled me."
"It's something else. Something… halfway."
He nodded, like that made sense to him, but said nothing.
She glanced at the corpse again, then at the smear of blood trailing across the alley wall. It had fought something. Or someone. But not hard. The struggle was clumsy. Like its body wasn't all the way under control.
Lucien's fingers twitched.
Riley stood and dusted her hands off with a cloth.
"He didn't die easy," she said. "Which means he was turned fast. Probably against his will. Something's spreading, and it's not old-school vampirism. This is new."
Lucien's jaw tightened. She didn't see it.
She turned to him.
"You've been back here before. You ever see anyone come through this alley in the last few nights?"
He hesitated.
"No one worth remembering," he said smoothly.
Another lie.
Riley stepped back into the pool of buzzing yellow light. Her coat hung heavy with alley grime and dried blood, her boots making a soft crunch over broken glass as she turned to face him again.
Lucien hadn't moved.
Still leaning against the wall, hands deep in his pockets, like a man waiting for a taxi or the punchline of a joke he already knew. But his posture was wrong. Too loose. Every muscle calculated.
"You're taking this well," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Should I be hyperventilating?"
"Most people do when a body shows up behind their place of business."
Lucien shrugged. "I run a bar. I've seen people puke on their shoes, scream about their exes, try to snort dish soap thinking it's coke. One twitchy junkie bleeding out behind the dumpsters? I'll live."
"Will he?" she nodded toward the corpse. "Or did you know him?"
Lucien's smile faded. Just slightly.
"No."
That part was true. He hadn't known the guy. But the blood? The thing he'd become? Lucien knew exactly what that was.
And Riley was watching him like a hawk.
She stepped a little closer.
"Ever hear of synthetic blood trials going wrong?"
Lucien kept his face blank. "Sounds like a terrible idea."
She cocked her head. "There were rumors. A few years back. Rogue alchemists. Fringe biotech. The kind of people who sell miracles in vials until someone wakes up chewing on their roommate."
"I stick to whiskey," Lucien said.
"Do you?"
She was too sharp. Too casual with her blades. Her eyes never stopped scanning—him, the alley, every window and shadow. He wasn't used to being hunted while flirting. He didn't like it.
Riley folded her arms. "You didn't even flinch when I pulled the knife."
"Should I have?"
"You flinch when you're surprised. You flinch when you're scared." She stepped even closer. "You don't flinch when you're used to it."
Lucien chuckled softly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You profiling me, Trouble?"
"I hunt things that eat people," she said, deadpan. "Profiling's half the job."
He tilted his head. "And what do you think I am?"
"Undecided."
The sirens started low—just a ripple in the background buzz of the city—but Riley stiffened the second she heard them.
Lucien caught it.
"Cops?" he asked, eyes still on her.
"Maybe." Her voice was clipped. "They're slow in this part of town. But someone must've heard the scream."
Lucien tilted his head, listening. A second siren joined the first. Closer this time. Wailing fast.
"I don't do well with uniforms," he said. "Bad history with health inspectors."
Riley gave him a flat look. "Funny."
"Serious," he said. "We should go inside."
She didn't move at first. She scanned the alley again—her eyes tracing windows, fire escapes, street corners like she expected a second threat. There wasn't one. Not yet.
Finally, she nodded. Sheathed her knife.
Lucien stepped back, holding the service door open for her.
She passed him slowly. Closer this time. He didn't flinch—he couldn't—but the scent of her blood hit him like a whisper against his teeth.
Not enough to trigger him.
Just enough to want.
Inside, the bar was quiet again. The kind of quiet that happens after something breaks and no one admits it.
Lucien headed behind the counter without a word and reached for a bottle near the bottom shelf—dusty, dark, old.
"You still want that drink?" he asked.
Riley watched him. "You offering it to shut me up or buy time?"
He poured two fingers into a glass and slid it toward her. "Let's say both."
She sat down, slower than before, resting one hand on the bar, the other near her coat. Close to the blade. Still ready.
Lucien poured one for himself. Didn't drink it.
"You sure you're not the one who should be questioned?" she asked.
"I thought I was."
"You talk like someone with something to hide."
Lucien smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the liquid in his glass. "Doesn't everyone?"
"No," she said. "Some of us just prefer knives."
The glass was cool in her hand. The whiskey inside it—older than her, probably—burned a path down her throat that settled into something close to silence.
Lucien didn't drink his.
He leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled, watching her watch him.
"So," he said, "what brings a woman like you to a bar like mine with blood on her coat and questions on her breath?"
Riley smirked. "You ever meet a woman who answered that kind of question honestly?"
He laughed, quiet and dry. "Touché."
She took another sip. "You own this place?"
"I work it. Technically owned by a guy named Clarence who hasn't been seen since 2014. As long as I keep the lights on and the health department mildly confused, nobody asks questions."
"Sounds cozy."
Lucien shrugged. "Everyone needs a place to disappear."
That struck a little too close. Riley didn't show it.
"You ever disappear?" she asked.
He swirled the glass, eyes following the motion. "Once or twice."
"Where were you five years ago?"
A beat. A flicker. Too small to name, but there.
Lucien didn't answer right away.
"Europe," he said finally. "Somewhere cold. Somewhere forgettable."
Riley's face didn't move.
She knew the look people made when they remembered pain. And she knew the sound people made when they lied.
Lucien Vale had just done both.
She didn't call him on it. Not yet.
Instead, she leaned back, stretching out one leg under the bar.
"You're a terrible liar," she said.
He smiled. "I'm told I'm a better bartender."
"You're okay."
"That's generous of you."
Riley finished her drink, set the glass down gently.
"You keep that bottle out?" she asked.
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "Planning on sticking around?"
"I think something's wrong in this city," she said, rising from the stool. "And I think you're either going to help me figure it out…"
She paused at the door.
"…or you're going to make it worse."
Lucien watched her go.
The bell above the door jingled softly as it closed.
And then the bar was empty again.
Except for the glass still in his hand.
And the smell of that blood still in his head.