The morning was gray, clouds heavy with unshed rain as Antun got out of the car and approached his Seattle Police Department contact standing in front of the hospital. He’d been working with Detective Jones for nearly a decade as a consultant. The detective was tired, holding a steaming cup of coffee that he’d gotten from the hospital cafeteria. He took a sip, grimacing at the bitter flavor.
Antun stuck out his hand. “Good morning, Detective.” He was never his bubbly self around this man. No, he’d take on a serious tone, fitting for most of the situations he was called in on. The detective had actually called him before Antun had a chance to do the same, asking for his help on the case. So even though he was here “officially,” he was also doing this for everyone’s peace of mind.
“Morning,” the detective replied, shaking the offered hand, “though I’d call it far from good. Let’s see what they’ve got.” Turning, he led the way into Harborview Medical Center.
“I’m guessing since you haven’t told me anything new, there’s nothing new to report yet?” Antun asked, clarifying.
Jones sighed, a hand running through his hair. “No news from the medical examiner’s office, so a visit was due anyway. But really, it just makes no sense at all.” The man looked bewildered and exhausted, as if he’d turned the problem over every which way and could not find an answer.
Antun wished at times like these that he could tell the man about his vampirism – that the supernatural was real – but with the risk that posed to his and the others’ freedom and safety, he couldn’t do it.
Walking into the building through a side entrance, they were immediately hit with the sterile smell of disinfectant. Distant overhead pages echoed down the hall. Antun’s vampire nose picked up the faint scent of iodine, human blood, and antiseptic. He could hear the heartbeat of everyone around him, the healthy and the ill. To him, the building was alive with pulsing life. He always thought hospitals smelled of hope and loss mixed together.
Pushing the call button for the elevator, the men waited in heavy silence. Entering it and pressing the basement level, they began to descend. The men didn’t speak. Jones tapped the side of his cup. Light reflected off the stainless-steel paneled walls. The chill air got heavier the further down they went.
Antun glanced at Jones. The detective was one of the few humans that Antun genuinely respected. The man, for his gruff exterior, was kind and went out of his way to help victims and their families. Antun wanted again to tell him – about being a vampire – but he knew that secrecy was what currently protected them all. He turned away, catching his reflection in the polished walls – pale, ghostly. He thought he looked more dead than alive.
They rode down to a sub-level, the walls stark white underneath the flickering fluorescents. Walking to a door simply labeled “Morgue,” the coroner let them in, and they walked to the table where the body lay under a sheet.
Refrigeration units hummed from the back wall, all drawers to keep the dead cold. Condensation built up on the faces of the drawers. A droplet formed, trickling down until it dripped and plopped on the floor, the sound so miniscule that only Antun heard it. There were stainless-steel tables for the gruesome work. A stack of blank toe-tags sat nearby on the counter. Even Antun felt cold in this room.
The coroner lifted the sheet to reveal the body’s face and torso. It had been cut into – a Y-shaped incision starting at the collar bone, meeting at level with the nipples, and going straight down past where the sheet was folded over.
“Ever hear the one about the dead man and the octopus?” the coroner asked, trying to start with a light mood.
“What can you tell us, Harmon?” Jones asked the coroner, too tired to joke around.
Harmon looked disappointed, but started with listing off that he did know. “John Doe, likely mid-thirties. Healthy. No defensive wounds. No signs of trauma externally or internally. However, all indicators point to exsanguination being the cause of death. Organ desiccation, collapsed veins, his entire vascular system was empty. His hemoglobin read zero, but that’s not medically possible.”
The man shook his head. “I just don’t get it. Every test and indication point to exsanguination, but there were no wounds. Not even any internal bruising that I could find. Its like the man was fine one minute, then completely drained of blood like magic had stolen it or something. Just poof, ” he made a small exploding motion with his hands, “gone. I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this before. I could even believe he bled out his ass but there was no blood at the scene and no indication inside his body of anything like that happening. I’m at a complete loss.”
Jones opened the file he’d brought with him, looking through the crime scene photos once more. Antun glanced over, having not seen them yet. There were obviously pictures of the body at different angles, and photos of things that could be evidence that were in the vicinity. One such photo caught Antun’s eye and he stopped Jones.
“Ah, I was going to bring this one up to you,” the detective said. “None of my guys are familiar with this symbol. I was wondering if you had any ideas or insights.”
In the photo, next to the body was drawn in white paint pen: a circle pierced by a vertical line with a crossbar at its crown. Antun studied it, memories dredging up from the depths of his mind. “I don’t know if I’ve seen this exact symbol before… but I’ve seen styles like this – years ago, back home.” Monastery frescos came to his mind, and this felt like religious iconography that was twisted into something predatory. He remembered monks painting, candlelight on stone walls, voices chanting.
Jones brow crinkled in thought. “Albania? No wait, Kosovo, right?” They rarely shared personal details but he vaguely remembered Antun being of Eastern European descent.
Antun confirmed with a hum. “Mm. Some monastery art used similar marks. But this one feels… wrong, somehow.” The art he’d seen in tapestries and books at the monastery had crosses sitting inside of circles, not stabbing them like swords. The paint pen symbol bothered him, and he wasn’t sure exactly why.
Jones shrugged. “Could be just graffiti. Creepy art or cult, take your pick,” he said. The man was too tired to feel eerie, just wanting to find the damn answers. There had to be a logical explanation somewhere, they just had to look harder.
Antun looked between the photo he’d taken from the file and the corpse on the table. He studied the dead man’s face, wondering who he’d been, what could’ve happened. He had a suspicion, but he needed privacy in order to confirm it. “Would you mind if I had a moment alone with the file and the body, just to focus?”
The coroner looked at Jones who nodded. The man shrugged, grabbing his jacket off a hook on the wall. “I need coffee and the hospital serves swill. I’ll be back in thirty.”
“That’s more than enough time, thank you,” Antun said.
Harmon and Jones walked out, the door clicking locked behind them. The detective knew there was something different about Antun, and he didn’t just mean his albinism. Whatever it was, it somehow made the man a valuable asset to the detective’s work. So whatever Antun asked for, Antun got, no matter how strange.
Inside the morgue, all was silence. The only sound – the buzz of lights and hum of the refrigerators. Antun looked down at the file in his hands, the photo of the mysterious symbol pulled out. The two were obviously linked. Was it a signature? A warning?
Antun set the file down on the rolling tray next to the table. He walked up right next to the body, leaning over it. “Forgive me,” Antun murmured under his breath. The flesh was cold under his hands. “I need to be sure.” He bent down, biting on the man’s lifeless carotid. No blood, no mana, just nothing. It was like biting into a balloon or through a piece of paper, nothing but air on the other side. The wrong texture made him want to immediately rinse his mouth out.
He pulled back. There was nothing. He looked at the man’s face and gave an Albanian blessing. “ Nata të pranoftë .” His voice echoed in the empty room, like a lonely prayer. May the night receive you. No marks were left behind, even though the man was dead. It made Antun vaguely wonder if it was something in the saliva that sealed any punctures, but the thought was quickly pushed aside by the current situation.
Alright, he thought. Whoever did this wasn’t just feeding. Even when vampires accidentally kill their targets, there would be blood left over. This body is more drained than meat after the slaughterhouse. No, this wasn’t feeding – it was harvesting.
Flashes of Davor’s experiments broke into his mind – the screaming, the blood. Davor’s satisfied smile whenever something went “right,” which wasn’t often. He had usually worn the blank face of disappointment, just as dangerous as any of his smiles.
Wooden tables, shackles and chains. So much screaming. He recalled Davor working on the vampire he’d turned just after Antun was. Wasn’t he named Argir? “Patience, Argir,” Davor had said. “The soul is the real marrow.”
Antun blinked hard. No, Davor’s gone. He forced himself to focus on the sterile smells around him, on the bright white of the walls. He gripped the edge of the counter hard enough to dent it, making him swear and jump away. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Breathe, man. He steadied his breathing, willing the stirring ghosts back down.
The fluorescent lights seemed to buzz louder, as oppressive overhead as this case was confusing. Antun knew it had to have been another vampire, but he had no other leads, and so there was nothing he’d be able to tell Jones, or the others. He walked out of the morgue, his certainty only rivaled by the sea of questions it brought along with it.
Jones leaned against the opposite wall as he waited, arms crossed. “Any theories? Do you think it has to do with… whatever you are?”
Antun straightened his back as if he was stretching, his mask flawless. He hated lying to his old friend. “I don’t think anything yet,” he said at the end of the stretch. “It’s a complete mystery to me too. I’ll see if there’s anything I can find out about this symbol. Do you mind if I take this with me?” Antun indicated to the photo with the symbol.
“Yeah, it’s just a copy,” Jones assured.
Antun folded it and put it in his pocket. Inside his gut, unease coiled tighter – runes, paint, precision, intent. If someone was trying to restart Davor’s work, then they were in serious trouble.
He nodded, memorizing the address of the crime scene as he slipped the photo into his pocket. Together, they rode the elevator up in silence, walking out the doors to the dark gray sky above. Antun caught his reflection in the glass of the doors. He looked too much like a corpse himself.
Jones swore and bundled his jacket. “Fucking rain, better not be this weekend.” Antun barely registered the weather even as it hit him in the face.
Dawn attempted to break, only brightening the clouds a fraction. The city was waking. The dead never would. The air tasted metallic on Antun’s tongue as he watched the sky. Under his breath, so quiet no one heard, he whispered, “Feels like it’s starting all over again.”
