Brand New Night Read online

  BRAND NEW NIGHT

  Also by Nathan Spain

  Liminal Spaces: Ten Strange Tales

  Brand New Night

  A novel of the Vampire Clans

  Nathan Spain

  Brand New Night by Nathan Spain

  © 2019 Nathan Spain

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

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  First Edition

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  © 2019 Cover Art by Cora Graphics (coragraphics.it)

  © NeoStock

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  CHAPTER ONE

  It had only been six years since the end of the world, but Draven had already grown bored.

  The landscape passing by below him was desolate, crisscrossed with unused roads and dotted with abandoned homes. No one had seen the Devastation coming. Humanity, in their hubris, had ignored the warning signs, unable to comprehend that the moment of their own destruction had advanced on them slowly, by a matter of degrees. By the time the virus had emerged from its frozen slumber in Alaska and spread south, transforming cities into graveyards, it had already been too late.

  When the human race began dying in droves all around him, Draven had been equal parts horrified and exhilarated. When you’ve lived for over two hundred years, you grow accustomed to change coming slowly, but for the first time in decades, Draven had found himself uncertain what each night would bring.

  There were advantages to the new scarcity of human beings. The world had a bit more room for him now. He could make his home in civilization’s bones, with less fear of being ousted. But at the end of the day, the new reality came down to a single, inconvenient fact: A world with ninety percent fewer people was a world where it was ninety percent harder for Draven to obtain his next meal.

  It was a hot summer’s night, even by the new standards of the altered climate. Draven barely noticed the heat as he flew high above the ruined Earth on the wings of a bat. As jaded as he could be about the more inconvenient aspects of his nature, about the constant thirst and the alienation from humanity, there were times when he was soaring through the sky in his animal form that everything else felt worth it. Humans may be able to stand in the sunlight without burning, but they would never know what it was to fly with their own wings.

  The full moon shone brightly in the hazy air, illuminating the buildings dotting the largely-abandoned landscape below. There were few opportunities to feed in the suburbs and small towns these days, but Draven had another destination in mind – the former city of Seattle, now better known by its recently-acquired nickname, Sanctuary.

  In the post-Devastation aftermath, the city had gained a reputation that now overshadowed its prior identity; Draven found it relatable in that way. It had earned its moniker as people from all over the country’s western regions migrated there. The few survivors who had proved immune to the virus couldn’t afford to live spread out and isolated; communal pooling of skills and manpower held the key to survival now. Seattle had space to spare for refugees, and infrastructure that needed people to maintain it.

  As he drew closer, Draven spied the city on the horizon, and as always, the shape of its familiar skyline stirred up a conflicted brew of emotions within him. It was impossible for him to forget how close he was to his former home, just as it was impossible to forget that he no longer had one.

  He approached the wall on the city’s southern border. In theory, Sanctuary was easy to defend, bordered by water to the east and west and by man-made barriers to the north and south. The walls were patrolled by armed guards; one couldn’t be too careful about security these days. It was a necessary precaution.

  It was also a useless one, where Draven was concerned. There was nothing to prevent entry from the air.

  As he flew toward downtown, Draven felt a twang of anxiety. Just being here was risky. He was generally careful not to hunt in the same place too many times. Isolated incidents could too easily become patterns that aroused suspicion.

  Truth be told, what concerned him most was the possibility of encountering his own people. He had managed to keep a low profile so far, but he didn’t know what kind of greeting his former clansmen would give him if he was discovered. He was not supposed to be in Wineblood territory, let alone right in the heart of it, but the Devastation had simply made it too difficult to get by anywhere else. These days, one had to go where the food was.

  He was almost directly above downtown now. He flew lower, circling above the streets, his heightened senses scanning for signs of life. Few people walked the streets at this time of night, and those he spotted were too visible, too out in the open. What he needed was a single, solitary individual in a dark corner where he could feed undisturbed.

  Most of the shops and restaurants in the central areas of the city were now either abandoned or repurposed; business had taken a back seat to survival. A few establishments remained open, however, like lingering ghosts of a dying civilization.

  Draven spotted a handful of late-night patrons outside a bar. Even from the air, his keen sense of smell could detect the heavy scent of alcohol.

  He swooped down to an unlit alley behind the bar, and with a swift, well-practiced twisting motion, he transformed back into human form. The features of his pale face were handsome, unweathered by time. Anyone looking at him would assume he was still in his late 30s.

  He ran his hands through his dark hair and smoothed down the folds of his clothes. The neatness of his attire was offset by wear and tear; his vest and dark pants were frayed and patched, his shirt torn and missing several buttons. He frowned as he picked at a loose thread. Clothing always had an irritatingly short lifespan, but he had gotten lazy about maintaining his appearance over the last few decades. But then, he merely matched the world around him in that regard. Everyone was a bit threadbare these days.

  Draven straightened up, smelling the air. Underneath the stench of booze and unwashed humanity, he detected the warm, fragrant scent of blood just waiting to be extracted from some unsuspecting vein. All he needed was to find a straggler or lure some half-unconscious drunk into the shadows. Then he could quench his insistent, gnawing thirst.

  A shadow of resentment passed over him, however, as he pondered this option. He had fed like that before, yes. So many times of late, he had chosen the quickest, dirtiest and safest method on the hunt. But it felt beneath him. There was little dignity in it, only the satisfaction of his basest animal needs. He’d once held a se
at on the royal court at Wineblood Manor, and now he was…what? Little more than a parasite, lurking in the shadows and preying on the most vulnerable.

  A light breeze swept across his face as he hesitated outside the bar. The air was thick with the scents and sounds of civilization. It was enticing in a way that had nothing to do with his thirst.

  He reflexively clenched and unclenched his hands, brow furrowed with frustration. He ought to just take what he needed and get out of there, and yet…how long had it been since he’d mingled with these people? He’d long since fallen out of the habit, having learned through his own mistakes what comes of getting close to humans. But without the Winebloods, it was humanity or nothing.

  The people of Sanctuary didn’t have much, but even here, surrounded by reminders of everything they’d lost, Draven couldn’t shake the feeling that they still had more than he did.

  With this irksome thought, he threw his caution aside and entered the bar.

  ----

  Everyone had lost things when the Devastation struck: their futures, their loved ones, the very structure of their society. Despair had become an outbreak in its own right, bringing a second wave of death that had rolled over already-hurting communities like the aftershock of an earthquake.

  The bars, needless to say, were not always cheerful places.

  It was dark in the bar, the lighting kept to a minimum, but even so, Draven had the young man at the counter pegged almost at first glance. His uniform marked him as a member of Sanctuary’s police force, as did the gun strapped to his hip. He was alone – one of the only patrons remaining in the bar at that hour – getting drunk in a quiet way that suggested the familiarity of routine. A police officer, even a lonely, inebriated one, was a risky target, but Draven wasn’t about to turn around and leave.

  He decided to have a drink.

  The drunken man didn’t seem to notice at first as Draven slid onto the seat next to him. His eyes were far away. He didn’t look up until Draven spoke.

  “Drinking alone?”

  The man narrowed his eyes at him, as if trying to bring Draven into focus. “I was,” he slurred.

  “That’s usually my preference as well,” Draven admitted. “But I guess no one is immune to the occasional desire for company.”

  The man didn’t look like he had any such desire, but Draven pressed on nonetheless. “What’s your name, my friend?”

  “Matthew,” the man said, his voice sloppy and unsteady.

  “Pleasure to meet you.” Draven flagged down the bartender, who walked over to them, wiping down a glass with a rag.

  “What’ll it be, pal?”

  Draven paused. He didn’t actually have a preference where alcohol was concerned. It wasn’t his usual drink of choice. But when in Rome…

  “I’ll have one of what he’s having,” he said, indicating Matthew’s half-empty glass.

  As the bartender prepared the drink, Matthew said slowly, “You new? To Sanctuary? Haven’t…seen you before, don’t think.”

  “Just passing through. Charming place.”

  Matthew snorted. “One word for it.”

  “Don’t take it for granted,” Draven told him. “There aren’t many places left where one can live something resembling a normal life.”

  “Right,” Matthew scoffed. “Normal. Nothing’s…normal anymore. All just pretending.”

  “Perhaps so. Sometimes pretending is the most we can do.”

  The bartender returned, placing Draven’s drink on the bar. “Here you go.”

  Draven nodded his head in gratitude.

  Matthew shot a hand out to grab the bartender’s arm and missed. “Can I have one – one more of th-”

  The bartender frowned at him. “I think you’ve had enough for one night, Matt. I know your limits by now, even if you don’t.”

  While Matthew protested this, Draven sipped at his drink. He didn’t particularly care for it; it had none of the rich warmth of blood. His distaste must have shown on his face, because he caught Matthew staring at him.

  “Hard to get a good drink these days,” Matthew offered.

  “I completely agree,” Draven sighed, putting down the glass. “Nothing is what it used to be. And yet, we make do. We endure, whatever it takes, and live to see another night.”

  Matthew put his elbows on the bar, rubbing his temples. His voice came out as a miserable mumble. “Sometimes I dunno what the point is when everything – everything’s gone.”

  Draven was struck by how young the man was, and how old he looked in that moment. The young weren’t meant to shoulder such grief. Gently, he asked, “Who did you lose?”

  Matthew looked at him, taken aback. “My-my girlfriend. A-Amy.”

  “Ah. What a waste. Did she die in the outbreak?”

  “N-no,” Matthew said, his voice thick with drunken emotion. “After. Years ago now, but I – I still…”

  His voice broke on the last word, and he laid his head on the bar and began to quietly sob.

  “Aw, shit,” the bartender muttered. “Come on, buddy, it’s late and I’m closing up soon. Time to get yourself home.”

  Matthew whimpered pathetically through his tears, leaning on the bar as he attempted to stand.

  “Here, let me help you,” Draven offered, getting to his feet. “I’ll walk him home,” he told the bartender. “He looks as though he may have difficulty getting back on his own.”

  The bartender shrugged. “You may be right about that. Though I assume poor Matthew here usually manages to find his way home, since God knows he always finds his way back again the next day.”

  Matthew was struggling to stand upright without wobbling. Draven put a steadying hand on his back; he flinched away from the touch, but in so doing, nearly fell over. He relented and allowed himself to be propped up.

  “Come on,” Draven said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  The streets were dark and nearly deserted. Matthew mumbled directions and allowed Draven to guide him, but in his drunken daze, he clearly wasn’t paying close attention to their surroundings. He only snapped back to full awareness when Draven abruptly stopped walking, bringing Matthew to a halt as well.

  They were in a narrow alley off the street – a dark, abandoned place, and decidedly not in the vicinity of Matthew’s home.

  “Where are – are we?”

  Matthew backed away from Draven, staring at him with wary uncertainty in his eyes, and Draven returned his prey’s gaze, until he saw Matthew’s expression begin to turn into fear.

  Draven took a step forward.

  “What – what are you doing?” Matthew said. There was a wall at his back and a note of panic in his voice.

  “Shhh,” Draven whispered. Neither the drink nor the conversation had been as stimulating as he’d hoped, and he felt a little foolish. It was time to get on with what he came for in the first place.

  “I regret this,” he told the frightened Matthew, “but I need something from you. Don’t be afraid – I’ll take no more than I have to.”

  He bared his teeth, and his thin-lipped expression grew suddenly feral, exposing his long, white fangs.

  Matthew opened his mouth to scream, but Draven moved like a flash, grabbing the roots of Matthew’s hair and yanking his head back with one hand, and clamping the other over his mouth to silence him.

  Matthew squirmed, trying to push away his attacker, but Draven’s grip was strong. He brought his fanged mouth toward Matthew’s neck. He could practically taste the blood already, hot and alluring, just beneath the skin…

  BANG!

  A gunshot rang out, ear-splitting in the quiet night, echoing off the alley walls. Draven staggered back, knocked off balance by the sudden force of the shot to his abdomen.

  But he didn’t fall, and he didn’t bleed.

  Two more shots ripped through him. Draven gritted his teeth, his body braced against the impact of the bullets. His face twisted with pain and rage, though in truth his anger was self-directed; he
should never have allowed Matthew to unholster his weapon. He was getting sloppy.

  Draven hated being shot. But at least, unlike the humans, he could live with it.

  Matthew stared at him, gun raised and smoking, a look of shock and horror on his face. Draven was on him before he could react. This time he didn’t mince words.

  This time, he went straight for the neck.

  He’d barely had time to begin drinking when the voices rang out. “Over here! Quickly!”

  Draven turned his head away from his prey to see uniformed figures charging down the alley toward him. He swore under his breath. So much for getting in and out undetected.

  Half a dozen twitchy, nervous police officers stopped a few paces away and pointed their guns at him. He scanned their frightened faces. Very few of the police force’s present-day members had much formal law enforcement training. The majority of them were just ordinary men and women trying to do their part for their community.

  They had no idea what they were up against.

  Matthew’s unconscious form hung limp in Draven’s arms, fresh, hot blood slowly trickling from the puncture wounds in his neck. The smell of it hung pungent in the air. It frustrated Draven to let good blood go to waste, especially with the world in its current condition.

  Draven crouched down and laid Matthew on the ground. Slowly, his hands raised in front of him, he faced the rattled officers.

  “Don’t move! Keep your hands where we can see them!” shouted the front-most officer, his gun pointed squarely at Draven’s chest.

  Caught red-mouthed. Draven licked the warm blood from his lips. He’d made quite a mess of things. He supposed he could just transmogrify into a bat and fly away, but he might catch a bullet during his escape, and his animal form was more susceptible to harm than his undead human flesh and organs. He had a better idea.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, as he slowly placed his hands behind his head. “I’m unarmed and willing to cooperate.”

  This proclamation seemed to do little to put the officers at ease, and none of them made any motion to approach Draven. There was a moment of hesitation in which no one moved or spoke.