Chapter 1 - Protocol
Chapter 1 - Protocol
Jaquelyn
Time: 10:04 AM | Thorne & Vale Financial, 54th Floor
The bite never came as a surprise anymore. Jaquelyn had already rolled back her suit sleeve to the elbow before the vampire even entered. She wore a crisp navy pantsuit with low block heels, her hair twisted into a sleek knot. Nothing to distract from the purpose of the appointment. Professional, efficient, controlled.
The conference room was all glass and steel, the kind of sterile that whispered wealth. One of those shimmering towers with a view so clean it felt like you might fall up instead of down. Jaquelyn walked to the window and rested her wrist gently on the curved feeding pad mounted discreetly to the wall. Just enough cushioning to keep it from bruising. Not enough to suggest comfort.
Behind her, the door opened. She didn’t look.
“Jaquelyn, right?” the vampire asked, voice warm but wary.
“That’s me,” she said, turning slightly so he could see she was already in position. “You’re D. Morayne? First time using VeinCare?”
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Didn’t realize there’d be, uh, protocol.”
“There always is,” she replied gently. Neutral, but not unkind. “Your booking was confirmed this morning for a ten-minute window, wrist access only. No eye contact after puncture, and no conversation unless I initiate it. It’s just to keep things smooth—for both of us.”
She let the silence stretch for a beat.
“I’ll walk you through it, don’t worry. You’ll approach from behind, left hand supporting my forearm, right hand braced against the wall if needed. Keep your bite centered, no grazing or drag. Detach cleanly when I signal. If at any point you feel unstable, say ‘halt’ and step back. Clear?”
He inhaled slowly, like he needed the breath. “Yeah,” he said. “Clear.”
Jaquelyn stayed focused on the city beyond the glass.
A roc glided in the distance—wings wide, casting a shadow across several rooftops before turning toward the harbor. She loved watching them. Ancient creatures, mostly above the chaos of ground-level life. But sometimes, when the wind shifted just right, one would dive. And then everyone remembered they weren’t legends. They were predators.
She barely felt the puncture. Just light pressure, then warmth. Like a too-slow heartbeat. He was good. Or careful. Probably both. Either way, he fed cleanly, one hand supporting her forearm, the other braced on the wall. Points for etiquette.
She exhaled slowly, her attention drifting over the skyline. Buildings like stone teeth. Traffic like veins. The whole city moved on a rhythm most people never noticed.
“Three more minutes,” she said quietly.
He made a soft noise of acknowledgment. Already drunk on the hit, no doubt. She’d been told she had that kind of blood. Sun-warmed, grounded. Like biting into a memory of home.
Too bad she never let any of them linger.
When the timer on her wrist chimed, she pulled away without fanfare. He detached cleanly, wiped his mouth, and left with nothing more than a nod.
Jaquelyn watched his reflection fade in the glass, then pulled a small bandage from her pocket and sealed the pinpricks with practiced ease. No mess. No weakness. No connection.
Just another morning on the clock.
10:17 AM | Thorne & Vale Financial Tower, Elevator 6B
The elevator hummed as it dropped, smooth and silent. Her reflection stared back from the brushed chrome doors—polished, composed, and just starting to feel the post-feed ache in her forearm. Nothing major. She’d be fine without a break.
Three a day before her body pushed back. That’s what the charts said, anyway. Her blood’s peculiar makeup let her bounce back faster than most. An anomaly, they’d called it during aptitude testing. But an exploitable one.
They’d taken those tests at seventeen, same as everyone else. Rows of students lined up in sterile school auditoriums, waiting to be told if they were destined for council work, enforcement, bonded servitude, or something more specialized.
Blood compatibility wasn’t required for feeding service, but for a role like hers? Yeah, you needed the rare stuff. Hers had flagged three major subspecies compatibility markers and triggered something called a hyper-yield trait. She still remembered the tester’s voice, half awed, half clinical: “She could feed thrice daily, with no loss of clarity or cellular decay. Recommend placement with high-ranking feeders or first transitions.”
Didn’t exactly scream dream job, but it paid the bills and came with protections most humans could only dream of.
The elevator dinged, and Jaquelyn stepped into the main lobby. Cold marble underfoot. That faint ozone scent all high-rises seemed to have. She pulled out her comm and tapped into the VeinCare app.
Confirming Session #2718A complete.
Client: D. Morayne (First Session)
Feedback: None submitted (yet)
Performance: Auto-rated 'Clean Detach'
Good enough.
Before she could lock the screen, a new alert chimed.
New Session Request:
Client: E. Duvarra
Type: First Feed
Time: 18:30
Location: Solarium Private Club – Room 409
She accepted, but this time more slowly. More deliberate. The system flickered a thank-you and dropped a mental health ping into her calendar like it always did after a first feed assignment. Protocol.
She pocketed the comm and exhaled.
E. Duvarra wasn’t just a name. It was the name. The kind that curled around your spine and whispered stories your mother wouldn’t dare read aloud.
Which meant the rumors were true. He was making a childer.
Her screen dimmed, leaving her reflection faint in the glass doors she approached. Eyes sharp. Posture perfect. A bead of sweat at her temple—not from nerves. From knowing exactly what kind of energy she’d need to walk into Room 409 with.
Most blood dolls would nap now. Sip electrolyte teas. Meditate in healing pods. Jaquelyn hated the coddling. Her body ran better when she used it, not when she wrapped it in silk and whispered sweet nothings to her spleen.
Besides, she hated being still.
Her next stop was the gym. Forty minutes of resistance circuits. Maybe hot yoga if the class wasn’t full. Then a long, near-scalding shower and a few hours in real clothes. Probably that oversized graphic tee with the spell engine diagram on it and the fleece pants with constellations down the leg.
By the time the sun dipped, she’d be clean, focused, and ready.
Just heat, breath, and a perfect bite.
17:30 | Silverglass District – Jaquelyn’s Apartment
The soft chime of the wall clock pulled her from the warm drone of the holo-screen.
“Don’t say it, Dren! The moon’s still rising—”
Click.
The animated werewolf froze mid-confession, mouth open, eyes too bright. Jaquelyn smirked and dropped the remote onto the counter beside a half-eaten bowl of protein oats and one very confused houseplant she kept forgetting to water.
Gods, she loved that ridiculous show. Dragon/werewolf romance. Peak drama. Peak chaos. Terrible accents.
Her comm blinked softly from its dock—17:30 sharp. Right on schedule.
She crossed to the mirror and smoothed the last section of her braid, fingers practiced from years of yanking tangled curls into something elegant. The thick plait fell down her back like a line of intention—neat, contained, and ready.
The outfit had taken longer than usual to settle on. She’d debated the standard crisp professionalism, but this wasn’t that. First feeds—real ones—called for something closer to ritual than business.
So she chose the blouse. Soft ivory cotton, sleeves wide and loose but gathered at the cuffs. The neckline dipped off her collarbones and shoulders, baring enough throat and skin to speak plainly without saying a word. The long dark skirt brushed her ankles with a whisper of fabric. Flat-soled sandals. No jewelry. No distractions.
Just grace.
A swipe of lip color. A brush of shadow to deepen her eyes. No mascara, no liner. Nothing that would bleed, just enough to set the tone. She took one last look in the mirror. Not to judge. Just to feel.
The woman staring back was quiet fire. Poised, intimate, and unshakeable.
She grabbed her satchel and stepped into the hallway just as the intercom pinged.
“Transport for Ms. Jaquelyn Wells. Courtesy of Client Mr. Duvarra.”
The elevator ride down was silent. At the curb, a sleek obsidian vehicle waited, longer than necessary, windows tinted so dark it could have been carved from night itself. The driver didn’t speak. Just opened the door with a crisp nod.
She slid in, the city lights catching the edge of her braid and turning it gold.
Solarium Club. Room 409.
This wasn’t business anymore.
This was ceremony.