The rain had turned into a downpour by the time they left the penthouse. Alucard stood on the sidewalk, eyes closed, letting the cold water hit his face. To Anne, it looked like a dramatic pause. To Alucard, it was a necessity—the rain helped drown out the overwhelming scent of the city, allowing him to focus on the one smell that mattered.
Clove cigarettes.
It was a sharp, spicy scent, cutting through the smog and the wet pavement.
"Are you okay?" Anne asked, adjusting her jacket. "You've been standing there for two minutes. And you’re not even shivering."
"I don't feel the cold, Detective Jones," Alucard said, his eyes snapping open. They were a piercing, icy blue in the streetlights, though a faint rim of red remained. "The killer didn't take a car. A car would have trapped the scent of the cloves. He walked. Four blocks east, then north."
Anne frowned, looking at the empty, dark street. "You can smell a cigarette from four blocks away in a rainstorm? I don't care how good your 'deductions' are, that’s physically impossible."
"The impossible is merely the truth we haven't found a reason for yet," Alucard quoted, stepping into the street. "Come. Unless you’d rather wait for a forensic team that will find nothing but a lack of evidence."
The Abandoned Theater
The trail led them to the Old Majestic, a theater that had been boarded up since the 90s. The scent of cloves was thick here, clinging to the rotting wood of the stage door.
"Stay behind me," Alucard whispered.
"In your dreams, Al," Anne muttered, drawing her service weapon and clicking off the safety. "Standard procedure. I cover the left, you cover the right."
Alucard didn't argue. He couldn't. His heart—which beat only once every few minutes—was starting to thrum with a dark rhythm. The "old blood" on the penthouse wall had acted like a dinner bell. His stomach felt like it was full of dry glass. He needed to feed, and the criminal inside this building was the only "ethical" source available.
They slipped inside. The theater was a cavern of shadows.
"I don't see anyone," Anne whispered, her flashlight beam cutting through the dust motes.
"He’s above us," Alucard breathed.
A floorboard creaked in the rafters. Suddenly, a man dropped from the velvet curtains like a predatory bird. He was tall, gaunt, and wearing a long leather duster. He didn't have a gun. He had a jagged silver blade.
"Police! Drop it!" Anne yelled.
The man didn't drop it. He lunged at Anne with a speed that no human should possess. Anne fired a shot, but the man twisted in mid-air, the bullet grazing his shoulder. He slammed into her, sending her flying back against a row of theater seats. Her flashlight hit the floor, spinning wildly.
"Anne!" Alucard roared.
The killer turned toward Alucard, his eyes glowing a sickly, pale yellow. "The Prince of Trash," the killer hissed, his voice like grinding stones. "Working with the cattle. Dracula would weep."
"My father is dead," Alucard said, his voice dropping into a guttural growl. "And you’re trespassing in my city."
The killer laughed, a puff of clove-scented smoke escaping his lungs. "Carmela thinks she owns the blood supply. But the 'New Rache' will show this city what real fear looks like. We’ll start with your little partner."
The man turned back toward the dazed Anne.
That was the breaking point. Alucard’s restraint snapped like a dry twig.
He didn't run; he vanished. In a blur of motion, he was behind the killer. He grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him into a brick wall with enough force to crack the masonry. Alucard’s face began to shift—his cheekbones sharpened, his brow lowered, and his fangs slid down, gleaming white and lethal.
"You... you’re hungry," the killer gasped, clawing at Alucard’s iron grip.
"Starving," Alucard hissed.
He leaned in, his senses overwhelmed by the scent of the man's carotid artery. One bite. It would be so easy. The man was a murderer; he deserved to be drained.
"Alucard?"
The voice was weak, trembling. Anne was standing up, her flashlight catching the side of Alucard’s face. She saw his eyes—not blue, but a terrifying, predatory crimson. She saw the way his teeth were pressed against the man's neck.
"Alucard, stop! You’re going to kill him!"
Alucard froze. The smell of Anne’s blood—pure, warm, and full of life—hit him. It was a thousand times more tempting than the filth in his hands. He wanted to turn. He wanted to see the pulse in her neck.
No. I am not my father.
With a snarl of effort, Alucard threw the killer across the room, knocking him unconscious. He stood with his back to Anne, his shoulders heaving as he fought to force the monster back down.
"Alucard... your face..." Anne’s voice was closer now. She was walking toward him. "What are you?"
He couldn't let her see. Not yet. He didn't want to see the horror in her eyes.
He turned around slowly. His face was back to normal, but his eyes were still dark. He stepped into her space, his movements hypnotic.
"Anne," he whispered. "Look at me."
"I'm looking," she said, her hand trembling as she pointed her gun at his chest. "I saw... I saw things that aren't possible."
"You saw a trick of the light," Alucard said, his voice flowing over her like a heavy silk. He reached out, his fingers grazing her temple. His pupils began to swirl. "The shadows in this theater are deceptive. You saw a violent struggle. You saw me arrest a dangerous man. You saw a partner who saved your life."
Anne’s eyes began to glaze over. The tension left her body. "I saw... a violent struggle..."
"You’re tired, Anne. It’s been a long night. When you wake up at your desk tomorrow, the only thing you’ll remember about this theater is the smell of clove cigarettes and the fact that we caught our man."
Anne’s head lolled back. Alucard caught her before she hit the floor, holding her gently. She felt so warm against his cold skin. For a moment, he let himself breathe in her scent—lilies and gunpowder.
"I’m sorry," he whispered into her hair. "But I can't be a monster in your world. Not yet."
The Epilogue: Sanguine HQ
Carmela sat in her high-rise office, watching the police sirens from a distance. She was sipping a glass of O-Negative, aged twenty years, from a crystal flute.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Alucard: The killer is in custody. Stop leaking the private stock.
Carmela smiled, showing her own sharp teeth. She opened a folder on her desk. It was a surveillance photo of Anne Jones leaving the theater, looking confused.
"Oh, Alucard," Carmela mused to the empty room. "You can wipe her mind a hundred times. but the heart always remembers the taste of a secret."
She picked up a remote and turned on a TV. Twilight was playing. She settled back into her chair. "Edward was always such a drama queen. My cousin is much more entertaining."
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