Blood & Brick

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. 

The air is damp, thick with the scent of rust and mildew. Pipes run along the wooden ceiling and exposed beams, whispering with the steady flow of water. A hulking boiler crouches in the far corner, exhaling the occasional hiss of steam. The floor beneath me is cold stone. 

I sit up. 

The scrape of shifting metal echoes in the stillness, and I realize—I was inside something. My fingers trail over the edge of the ornate box, the cool surface unmistakably stone. It’s not just a box. It’s a sarcophagus. 

Panic grips me, sharp and sudden. My breath stutters—except it doesn’t. There’s no rise and fall of my chest. No pounding heart. 

I press my fingers to my wrist. Nothing. 

That’s when I see it. 

Perched on the rim of the open sarcophagus is a golden goblet. The thick red liquid within gleams under the dim light, catching in the flickering glow of the lone overhead bulb like a ruby heirloom passed down from mother to daughter through the generations. The scent hits me in a wave—iron, rich and deep. Sharp.

Blood. 

Every rational part of me recoils, but something deeper—something new—draws me toward it. Hunger coils in my gut, twisting into something primal. My throat is dry, raw with an ache I can’t explain. 

I grab the goblet. 

The moment the liquid touches my lips, fire ignites in my veins. It’s warmth and life and power all at once, flooding through me in a rush so intoxicating that I nearly drop the cup. The hunger sharpens, intensifies, and I drink deeper from the Fountain of Youth. 

When the last drop is gone, the world snaps into painful clarity. The dark room is too bright. I hear the scurry of rats behind the walls stomping like elephants, the distant hum of voices from the floors above like a thousand turbine engines. I hear the lively strains of familiar Irish jigs, patrons stomping as they dance to The Rattlin’ Bog. I smell wood and aged whiskey, the faint musk of sweat, and something sharper—fear. 

I stumble from the sarcophagus, legs unsteady. My boots—worn leather, familiar—echo against the stone. There’s a door ahead, iron-banded and sturdy. Before it is a wooden staircase, rickety and carpeted in a thick layer of dust.

A memory flickers at the edges of my mind. Laughter, the clink of glasses. A pub in New York. A stranger with eyes like midnight and a voice smooth as velvet. 

And then—nothing. 

Three nights. I’ve been down here for three nights. 

I press a shaking hand to the door, and it creaks open. 

A second flight of stairs wind up into a dimly lit hallway. I move without thinking, senses tuned in to every sound, every flicker of movement. The passage narrows, leading to yet another door. This one isn’t locked. 

I push through. 

The pub is alive with noise. Patrons laugh and drink, the scent of whiskey and fried food thick in the air. The walls are dark brick, the floors old wood. It’s the typical New York building. I know this place. The Bold Fenian. 

A shadow moves at the bar. A man with a sharp jaw, large round glasses like John Lennon’s, and tousled black hair glances up. His gaze meets mine, and something like satisfaction flickers in his dark eyes. 

He raises his glass in a slow, knowing salute and speaks with an American accent that has just the slightest hint of an Irish lilt. 

"Welcome home, Fledgling."

A chill runs down my spine. 

Even with the warmth of whatever I just drank still burning through me, something about the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. Like he knows something I don’t. Like he owns something of me now. 

I take a hesitant step forward, my boots pressing against the uneven floorboards. The sounds of the bar are too sharp, the voices overlapping in a cacophony that makes my teeth clench. I can hear their heartbeats, feel the warmth of their bodies in the air, smell the blood beneath their skin. 

Blood. 

The hunger flares again. 

I grip the edge of a nearby table, my fingers pressing into the rough wood. Steady. Focus. But my mouth is dry again, my throat aching with a thirst that no amount of water could ever quench. I swallow hard, willing it away. 

The man at the bar smirks. 

I don’t know how I know, but he is the one who put me in that sarcophagus. 

I cross the room, ignoring the way the air shifts around me, the way people glance at me without really seeing me. I stop a few feet from him, arms crossed tight over my chest. 

“What the hell did you do to me?” My voice is steady, but it doesn’t feel like mine. It feels sharper, laced with something cold. 

He sets his glass down with a soft clink. “Ah. There she is.” 

His accent is subtle, something old, something European. Something Irish. I knew it. I was right. He’s Irish. He studies me, his head tilting slightly. “You made it out of the basement. Good. That means you’re strong.” 

I grit my teeth. “Answer the question.” 

He exhales through his nose, amused. “I gave you a Gift.” 

I slam my hands against the bar before I can stop myself. The wood groans under the pressure, the force sending a few empty glasses rattling. A few people glance over, but no one lingers. 

“What Gift?” I snap. “I woke up in a stone box, three nights gone, no memory of what happened.” I lean in. “And now, I smell people. I hear them. I—” 

I cut myself off before I say it. 

I want them. 

He leans forward, folding his hands neatly on the bartop. His eyes are unreadable. “You already know the answer.” 

My stomach twists. I do. I knew it the second I saw the goblet. The second I tasted what was inside. 

He chuckles, low and rich. “Ah, the moment of realization. You are a Newborn.” He lifts his drink again, swirling the deep red liquid. “And you are hungry.” 

I shake my head. “No. No, I—” 

But the words die on my tongue, because he’s right. 

I can hear the bartender’s pulse, a slow, steady rhythm beneath his skin. I can hear the waitress’s breath hitch when she laughs. I can hear everything. 

I stumble back, crashing into someone as I move. A man, middle-aged, his shirt stained with beer. He turns, scowling. “Watch it, lady.” 

And then he touches me. 

A hand on my arm, brief, fleeting. But the heat of it is electric, and suddenly, I can hear the blood rushing through his veins, thick and warm. My vision swims, narrowing to the place where his pulse beats strongest. 

My fangs descend. 

I don’t see them, but I feel them. The sharpness, the wrongness. My breath catches, and I wrench away from the man, staggering back into the shadows of the bar. 

The stranger at the bar watches me with something almost like pride. 

“You’ll need to feed soon,” he says, swirling his drink again. “The goblet was just the start.” 

I shake my head. “I’m not—” 

His smirk widens. “You are.” 

The hunger coils tighter, a beast in my chest. 

And I don’t know how much longer I can fight it.