I asked Du la Font to send me to a city by the sea. Portuondo. The third most important city in Nueva Brisenia. Colonial, with a historic center that reeks of damp stone and old power. I love it. Every day, I sharpen my powers a little more. I can read minds now. Easy. Once you get the trick, everything becomes transparent. Soon I'll start looking for Irene. Track her. Sniff her out. Feel her human presence like a perfume floating through the crowd. Du la Font could've told me exactly where she was born. Of course he could. But come on—he's already done enough for me. And besides, what kind of self-respecting vampire asks someone else to help him find his girl? That's not pureblood behavior. That's parasite shit. I'm no parasite. I'll find Irene on my own. I always wonder where she might be. By now, she must be three years old. I have to hurry. I have to protect her—not just from Agnes, but from life itself. Life's a bitch, even when you don't have vampires breathing down your neck. Where are you, Irene?
I walk through a rather charming park. Vauban Park. It's not as big as La Langosta Park, or as San Cristóbal, but it does the job. Tall, leafy trees. Shadowy paths. I like it. It's mid-sized by Miraverde standards, of course. But it's not bad at all. And I think: Ah, my dear Miraverde. What nostalgia. My city. The city I hope to return to someday. Or better yet—some night. Come on, I'm a vampire.
Vauban Park is in a residential area of Portuondo. I live just a few blocks from here, in a gorgeous colonial house perched on the cliffs, with a direct view of the Pacific. The basement—where I spend the hours from the first rooster's crow to the moment the crows take over again—is a little damp, sure. But what the hell, I love the house. And to hell with the humidity. I can deal with it.
It's night now, of course. Suddenly, I catch the scent of misery in the air. Not human misery. Vampire stench. One that doesn't belong here. Good neighborhoods are for better-blooded vampires. Not high-blooded—let's be real, this is Portuondo, not Vienna. Here, we've only got low and mid-level vamps. And that's it. And I stand above them all. I'm the son of a vampire with exquisitely high lineage. Agnes. I drank her blood. I carry it inside me. I didn't know what that meant, but hey—everything can be learned. Vampires can smell the ones who were turned by nobodies, and the ones who weren't. It's easy to tell who carries the signature of a truly important vampire. You notice it right away. They're stronger. More beautiful. More intimidating. They're like me. Though let's be clear—that doesn't make me royalty. At best, I'm a bastard. Edmundo Du la Font—Agnes's father—never approved my turning. Yes, there are rules. Du la Font said it himself: to be considered a vampire of noble blood, your transformation must be sanctioned. Mine wasn't. So yes, I'm a bastard. But even as a bastard, here in Portuondo, I'm the most powerful one around.
Long story short: in this city, I'm like a prince. That's why I live in the best neighborhood—Las Buganvillas. That's why I drink the best blood, from the finest human specimens this city has to offer. If I were a low-grade piece-of-shit vampire, I'd be rotting in some slum where poverty runs wild, scraping by with whatever my pathetic power could manage to catch. A tiny, worthless power—of course. Nothing comes out of shit but more shit. If you're spawned by a piece-of-shit vampire, then you're shit too. And if you sire more, well, they'll be shit as well. It's a sad little cycle, isn't it?
And sure, even the shit-tier vampires have their rules. The strongest among them are allowed to feed on humans. The rest are banned—forced to feed on animals. Now, those few strong enough to taste human blood don't have much to celebrate. They're only allowed to drink from society's scum. The lowest of the low. Humans I would never touch. Their blood is pure trash. If I had to make a comparison, I'd put it like this: the humans I feed on are like an expensive French wine. The ones those poor bastards drink from are like warm piss and the sweat of a sick slave, fermenting in the hull of a slave ship bound for America, back in the golden age of human trafficking.
Now then, let's make something clear: If a piece-of-shit vampire dared to come into my neighborhood and drink from my neighbor—a respectable, healthy mother with kids in elite schools—the punishment would be death. Plain and simple. Because that motherfucker doesn't deserve quality blood. But of course, that almost never happens. No one wants to die. No one wants to play with fire. Still, tonight there's one who's rolling dice with death. And we all know how that reckless little game ends. If someone tells you, 'Don't play with death.' Take their advice. Because death, my friend, always wins.
I move at a speed no human could perceive. And suddenly, I'm standing in front of the vampire. Jesus Christ. He's disgusting. A blend of Gollum, Nosferatu, and The Crypt Keeper. A walking nightmare. The son of a bitch is draining a cat. A fucking cat. He drops it the second he sees me—like it burned him. Stares at me, paralyzed, drowning in terror. He knows there's no way out.
"Why the hell did you sign your death sentence?" I ask.
"It was just a cat, sir. I would never hurt a person."
"You being here is already a serious offense."
"I haven't fed in days. They won't even let me hunt rats. I'm too weak. Everything's forbidden."
"You're disgusting. You know that, right?"
"Of course, sir."
"Would you like me to be merciful?"
"Yes, please. I beg you, sir."
"How long have you been a vampire?"
"A year, sir."
"I bet you even looked better as a human. You're the most nauseating vampire I've ever seen."
"I'm sorry. So sorry, sir."
"What did you do when you were human? Who did you kill?"
"I wasn't a bad person, sir."
"That's not what I asked."
"I… I didn't kill anyone."
"Impossible. You can't be turned if you haven't killed as a human. That's the rule."
"I only… helped people."
"Who?"
The worm doesn't want to talk, so I dive into his mind. I see his memories. He was a nurse in a public hospital. He killed terminal patients with heavy doses of morphine. He thought he was doing a merciful act. A kindness. And maybe it was. Maybe. But come on, it still counts as murder. The one who turned him into a vampire did it just for fun. For kicks. That's wrong. Not a major offense, technically. Not even a real one. But I feel like making it one. That vampire deserves punishment. A message needs to be sent: no one gets to turn poor wretches into vampires on a whim. And I will punish that bastard. Because being a vampire is not a game. It's not, goddamn it. Yes. I condemn him to death. This is my city now. And I don't want clowns around here. Playtime's over.
I look at the worm in front of me. I rip his heart out. He sees it in my right hand for a second—then collapses.
I'm a prince. And Portuondo is mine. Du la Font said my new life wouldn't be easy. For now, I can say he was wrong.
Suddenly, I feel the presence of other vampires. I don't know them. I can't tell who they are. I move quickly toward one of the avenues around the park. I spot a Chevrolet Bel Air convertible, gleaming under the streetlights. There they are. Four. Not locals. Tourist vampires. The kind who fly in, suck some blood, and disappear. I don't like these ones. They look strong. Too handsome. I stare at them. They stare back. The car radio is tuned to a local station. Blasting from the speakers: the hottest song of 1958. Tequila by The Champs. The vampires smile at me. I stare back with cold seriousness. Then they look away. Relax. Go back to their nonsense. The car drives away. The music fades with it. But my intuition—sharp as a blade—tells me those four are going to bring me trouble. Maybe big trouble.
Maybe Du la Font was right after all. Maybe the good times are about to get fucked.