“I can hear the blood pulsing through your veins,” the vampire said. “You’re scared. That’s good. Means you know your place in the food chain.”

  “We’re not scared of vampires,” Croc said, tail waggling. “Just the opposite. In fact, I love vampires. Are you familiar with the Twilight book series, by internationally bestselling author Stephaine Meyer? Because I’m a huge fan. At one point, I was leaning slightly toward Jacob, but by the end of book 2 it was clear that Edward and Bella were meant for each other. Like a hand and a glove. Or a mimic and a corpse pile.”

  I cut Croc off before the mimic could delve into any of the finer points of the Twilight fandom. “These aren’t those kind of vampires,” I whispered.

  “I beg to differ, Dan,” Croc replied softly. “They drink blood, have impeccable fashion taste, and they even sparkle.”

  That last part was true, though it was because they were coated in enough stripper glitter to drown a toddler. The mimic was also right about the whole vampire thing. Turned out all of the members of the Black Harbor Syndicate were bloodsucking, immortality-chasing shitheads with a knack for turning people into Capri Suns and a penchant for human trafficking.

  I probably should’ve seen that coming, but once again the Backrooms had blindsided me.

  As for fashion sense, apparently Croc and I had very different opinions about what the word ‘impeccable’ meant. But Croc also thought dry-aged corpses and meat-flavored Froyo were the height of culinary sophistication, so clearly the mimic’s judgement couldn’t be trusted.

  Theo, the Syndicate emissary, sure as shit didn’t look like any vampire I’d ever heard about. When I thought of vampires, my mind immediately went straight to Dracula: elegant, mysterious, and brooding. That or the Blade variety, with cheap pleather pants and the aesthetic of an edgy fourteen-year-old girl with a gift card to Hot Topic.

  Instead, Theo was decked out in a blindingly white Disco suit with lapels sharp enough to cut glass, an open silk shirt that showed off a chest full of gold chains, and platform shoes that looked like they’d been crafted from crushed disco balls. The suit stood out in sharp contrast to his dark skin and the afro that rose from his head was immaculate—a towering halo of perfectly sculpted hair that seemed to defy gravity.

  His entourage, a pair of extremely well-endowed women, likewise looked like they’d just debarked from the Soul Train.

  Both were tall, curvy, and so drenched in glitter they practically refracted the food court’s fluorescent lighting. Their outfits were all shimmering lamé and sequins, paired with barely-there silver halter tops and flared gold shorts that looked vacuum-sealed to their hips. Each wore a pair of pristine white roller skates with neon pink wheels that glowed faintly every time they shifted their weight. One of them carried a retro, silver boombox with neon lights encircling the twin speakers.

  Their eyes were crimson beneath shimmery blue eyeshadow, and when they smiled, it was all teeth. Not in a good way. Just a jagged mess of razor-sharp fangs like broken shards of glass that would give an orthodontist an aneurysm.

  “Now is not the time to get all starry-eyed, Croc,” I said nudging the dog with my elbow. “We’re here to negotiate and these are the bad guys.”

  “But Dan they sparkle…” Croc whined.

  “Not. The. Time,” I said again more forcefully, before turning to face Theo. “Listen, pal, I’ve taken shits scarier than you, so if you’re done trying to intimidate me, why don’t we just get down to brass tacks, huh? I want you to stop fucking around with my kiosks and I want the hostages back. All of ’em. And you better pray they’re still alive, or I’m gonna nuke your smarmy asses from orbit.”

  The Syndicate was none too pleased that I was encroaching on their business, and they’d finally taken matters into their own hands. A caravan of Howlers, using the Network to move down to the 30th Floor, had gone missing and I knew the Syndicate was responsible.

  The ransom note they’d sent said as much.

  Theo reached into his coat and pulled out a lump of brown meat covered in Saran Wrap.

  “I thought you might want ’em back,” he said, carelessly tossing the package on the table. “But don’t worry, they ain’t dead. We have other uses for ’em. That”—he gestured toward the package on the table—“belongs to Jennifer. It’s her left kidney. And this,” he added, withdrawing an IV bag filled with blood, “is from Steven.” He popped a straw into the bag and began casually sipping on it like a juice box. “Steven makes a mean Bloody Mary.”

  “You son of a bitch,” I growled, keeping my rage in check, though barely.

  Sitting to my left, Temperance looked far less forgiving. She was aggressively stroking the hilt of her Dark Solstice Cleaver in a way that promised violence to come. Harper, the last member of my own entourage, placed a gentle hand on her arm and shot her a warning look.

  Don’t do anything rash, that look said.

  “You brought this evil down on your own head, you know,” Theo finally said, studying me between sips. “We ain’t the ones who started this war. We’ve been runnin’ the potion game since before you were a twinkle in your pop’s eye. There’s a rhythm to things, a peckin’ order, and you messed up the groove.”

  He tilted his head, voice dropping low and dangerous.

  “My boss? He was cool lettin’ you hustle your little bargain-bin gig for a while, but now that you got the Network? Well, that’s a whole other thing. You took what wasn’t yours to take and the Lord of Coin doesn’t tolerate people messing with his bankroll.”

  “Funny,” I replied not bothering to mask my disgust, “because I thought the Syndicate made their fortune by taking what isn’t theirs.” I glanced pointedly at the Saran Wrapped kidney. “Guess it hits different when the shoe’s on the other foot.”

  Theo’s smile stretched slow and sharp.

  “If you’re calling us hypocrites,” he said, “then you’re right. We’re criminals. Monsters. Liars. Cheats. Murderers. We don’t pretend to be otherwise.” He paused and took another sip from the blood bag. “But,” he said, smacking his lips, “we also respect the hierarchy. The Lord of Coin is above us and when he says jump, we ask how high, you dig?

  “That’s a lesson you need to learn, but it seems like you don’t understand that, youngblood. Truth is, you’re an ant. A flea. A wad of gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. We are legion. Commerce flows through us just like the blood pumping in your veins. The Syndicate keep the lights on, the drinks coming, and the Relics spinning like good vinyl.”

  “You used to do those things,” I said with an indifferent shrug. “Now I do them better, for cheaper, and I don’t steal organs or regularly commit human rights violations.”

  I’d learned plenty about the Black Harbor Syndicate over the last few weeks, and none of it was good. Sure, they could get you damn near anything you wanted—but you’d pay for it in blood. And that was if you were lucky.

  “From where I’m sitting,” I said, “you’re as outdated as your stupid fucking outfit. We’re building something better and the only thing we need from you is to give us the hostages back, then fuck all the way off and leave us alone.”

  “I like this one, Theo,” one of the Go-Go dancers purred. “Give him to us. We could make his blood sing.”

  Harper snarled, momentarily losing her cool. We’d grown closer in the weeks since our royal rumble against the Franchisor, and though it wasn’t anything official, she was the closest thing I’d had to a girlfriend in a year or two. I liked her—she was sweet, thoughtful, fun—and she seemed to like me too, despite my legion of flaws. But I’d learned a few other things about her; she was also protective, more than a little jealous, and extremely loyal, almost to a fault.

  The Go-go dancers were playing with fire, even if they didn’t realize it.

  Harper’s hand instinctively edged toward a leather satchel slung across her body. Inside were a variety of specialty potions Jakob had brewed for the occasion. A couple of nasty little surprises in case these assholes got the munchies.

  “Lay so much as one finger one him,” Harper said, calm but cutting, “and your friends will have to carry what’s left of you home in a mop bucket.”

  Theo’s eyes gleamed as he regarded Harper. “Oh, did we hit a nerve?” he asked. He took a deep breath through his nose. “Do I smell blossoming love in the air?”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s just your cologne,” I replied. “It’s hard to smell anything over the stench of desperation.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Theo chuckled, leaning back in his chair as he continued sipping obnoxiously.

  “You’ve got a set of balls on you,” he said, finally setting the empty blood bag aside. “I can respect that. But let’s cut the bullshit. This isn’t about pride, it’s about profit.” His tone shifted. “You’ve disrupted our business. You want us to leave you alone? Well, youngblood, there are only two ways that happens.” He spread his hands, gold rings glinting in the food court lights. “Either give up your claim on the Network… or join the Syndicate.”

  “There is a third option,” Temperance offered, leaning forward. “We could gut all three of you, then burn your entire organization to the ground.”

  “Love the enthusiasm, Temp,” Croc said in all earnestness, “but maybe we could start with a sternly worded letter before immediately jumping to genocide?”

  “I’m already tired of talking,” Temp replied, “and I don’t do letters.”

  She reached up and dragged a finger across a necklace made of teeth. After our killing spree on the 99th floor, her Child of Cain title had evolved to Mark of the Slain. On top of double experience for Delver deaths, she now gained 2% of the victim’s highest stat when openly wearing a “trophy” harvested from their corpse.

  She’d opted for teeth.

  It was concerning for more than one reason.

  Temp had always had a murder boner the size of Everest for mayhem and wanton killing, but her darker impulses had grown more intense since our battle against the Franchisor. Violence was the only thing she seemed to care about these days. That and leveling.

  “I don’t have any vampire fangs yet,” Temp said, letting the threat hang in the air.

  Theo grinned. “Sugar, you could have a future with us if you ever decide to ditch the dead weight.”

  “Keep talking and you’ll be dead weight,” she growled. “Well, deader weight, since you’ve already got one foot in the grave.” Temperance eyed the man with her head canted to one side. “Level 70 is respectable. I wonder how many stats you’ll give me when I cut your heart out?”

  “Even if you could kill me,” Theo replied, “you can’t afford to kill us all. You don’t have the strength or the numbers for it.”

  “There are other ways to bleed you corpse fuckers dry,” I said with a sniff. “Keep playing games and I’ll revoke your Franchisee license. Ban every single one of you from using the Network to buy or sell. I wonder how well the Syndicate will weather a full-on trade embargo?”

  “You could, but you won’t,” Theo replied, his voice filled with utter certainty. “Let me give you the lowdown, Dan. Fact is, you need the Syndicate even if you don’t realize it yet. You might own the Network, but it’s got rules, and you fuck with the status quo at your own peril.” He leaned forward, forearms resting against the edge of the table between us. “I think you’re already starting to figure that one out firsthand. You went in with a machete and pruned every loyalist of the Flayed Monarch you could. How’s that been working out for you?”

  An aura of self-satisfied smugness rolled off him like a cloud.

  I glared at him. He wasn’t wrong, even if I hated to admit it.

  As the current Franchisor I could revoke Franchisee licenses with the press of a button, and cutting off the Monarch and his bootlickers was the very first thing I’d done. Anything to cripple the Monarch’s forces. But the fallout hit fast. I learned the hard way that revoking a license wasn’t just a simple business decision. It was an amputation. When a node was pruned, it vanished from the Network entirely, along with every physical connection tied to it, sealing over like a cauterized wound.

  We’d already lost critical connections to some of the lower floors where the Monarch’s loyalists operated. That had come as a gut punch.

  “The Network doesn’t come with a training manual,” Theo said, “but if it did, page one would tell you it’s powerful, but fragile. Like that artery pulsin’ in your neck.” He leaned in, sniffing the air, a forked tongue flicking between his teeth. “Press too hard, and everything starts to bleed out. Or maybe, think of it like a conga line—it only works if everyone’s dancin’ in step.

  “Every time you boot someone out, the whole line starts to fall apart. Nodes go dark, the pathways crumble, the routes collapse, and what’s left is nothin’ but dead space.” He grinned, though there wasn’t anything pleasant about it. “Sure, you can reestablish those trade connections, but that kinda cleanup takes time… and time ain’t exactly working in your favor right now.

  “There’s over three thousand Kiosks out there,” he continued, “and the Syndicate runs a fifth of ’em. Yank us out too fast, and that shiny little Network of yours will implode. No one wants that, least of all my boss. You’re still new to the game, youngblood, but one way or another, you’re gonna learn that organization is power and commerce is more dangerous than any Relic or Emblem.”

  I considered his words for a long moment.

  Assuming he was telling the truth—and my gut said he was—I still wasn’t going to roll over for these Disco clowns, even if they did have me over a metaphorical barrel. Maybe I couldn’t cut the Syndicate off completely without shooting myself in the foot, but I was sure there were other ways to use the Network to hurt ’em.

  “Then we’re at an impasse,” I said. “You control too many Nodes for me to ignore, but I control the routing and the auction house. There’s mutually assured destruction baked into both of our playbooks. So, meet me half-way. What do you want for the hostages?”

  Theo tapped the table with slow, practiced menace. The golden studs on his cuff glinted. “I already told you what we want, my man, or haven’t you been payin’ attention? Give up the Network or join the Syndicate. Those are the only options on the table. I know you ain’t gonna do the first, but the second isn’t so bad. All you gotta do is become one of us.” He straightened and spread his arms wide in invitation. “Just accept the bite and you’ll be part of the brotherhood.”

  I grimaced in disgust. The idea of forming an alliance with these shitheads was bad enough, but the thought of becoming a vampire was nauseating.

  “Before you say no,” Theo insisted, “I want you to really think about it. We got the structure, the muscle, and the connections to make your little shop swing. You roll with us, you get the Lord of Coin’s blessing, and then not even the Monarch will be able to touch you without payin’ for it in blood and interest. We’ll renegotiate territory. You cut us in on the take, and we’ll protect the routes you designate. I don’t think you realize the kinda pull we have. My boss can connect you with dozens of Syndicate-aligned Safe Harbors all ready to step in line when we give the word.

  “All we’re askin’ is for you let us run a few of the key Nodes and stay out of the potions trade,” he said. “You do that and we won’t fuck with your store or hassle your customers. No more kidnappings, no more bad blood, and you get all of your hostages…” He winked at me. “I’ll even make sure Jennifer comes back with both kidneys, no worse for the wear. Just say yes and we’ll throw the doors open for you. Premium shipments, high-grade alchemic juice, stabilized DNA, and access to our private Relic vault. All you gotta do is get with the program.”

  He looked like a predatory shark smelling blood in the water.

  “Plus, there are other fringe benefits,” he added softly. “Being a vamp ain’t half bad. Biological upgrades. The ability to naturally regrow limbs. To shrug off disease. Even resist Blight.”

  “If I wanted those things, I’d already be a Transmog,” I said dismissively.

  He scoffed, “Get outta here with that Transmog jive-talk. Vamps are a VRD engineered super weapon. We’re built to last. Disease, aging, death, you don’t need to worry about any of that if you accept the bite. I’m talking immortality, youngblood. We can give you the one thing you can’t buy at the auction house: time. You could outlast every pain in the ass who’s ever made your life difficult.

  “And as a Baron of the Syndicate, you’d be royalty. Everything we have, you have. Me casa is su casa, and all that mumbo jumbo.” He reached out a hand and one of the Go-Go dancers glided forward, silent as a wraith. “I mean everything. You wanna take her out for a spin.” He cocked an eyebrow and the other one skated forward as well. “You could have ’em both, though I’m not sure you’d survive. Candy and Velvet know how to work a pole, if you get my drift.”

  “What kind of pole?” Croc asked. “Like one of those poles the firemen slide down? Because that does sound pretty neat. I’ve always wanted to try one of those.”

  “Oh, you sweet, naive idiot,” Temp muttered.

  “Definitely not that kind of pole, Croc,” I said. Then to Theo, “Hard pass. I’m not buying any of your shitty vampire talking points.”

  Theo shook his head then sighed.

  “I was hopin’ we could do this the easy way, youngblood. Keep it as smooth as Astro Glide. I shoulda known better. Word on the street is you’re too stupid to know what’s good for you. But you’ll come around in time. They always do, though it ain’t gonna be fun for you.” He grinned and cracked his knuckles. “It’ll be a lot of fun for me, though. Velvet? Drop the beat.”

  The Go-Go dancer with the boombox smiled coyly as she pressed a button.

  ‘Disco Inferno’ blared to life over the speakers and the food court erupted into chaotic motion. Black Harbor thugs leapt from trashcans and vaulted over empty service counters. There were a few fledging Vampires—their pale skin and disco-themed clothing giving them away—but they’d also brought along a metric ass load of ghouls. The ghouls were technically Delvers.

  Or, at least, they had been.

  But not anymore.

  Whatever the Syndicate had done to ’em had stripped away any trace of humanity.

  They were hunched, deformed creatures with skin like tar, gangly arms and legs, and protruding potbellies that made the whole lot of ’em look nine months pregnant and ready to pop at any moment. Beady black eyes, recessed into leathery faces seemed to take in everything all at once.

  Dweller 0.54437B – Corpse Ghoul [Level 37]

  Once upon a time, a Ghoul was a person—someone with hopes, dreams, ambitions, maybe even friends who all swore they’d make it to the next floor together. Then they died horribly and, because Vampires never let a good massacre go to waste, they’ve been resurrected and given a second chance at life. It’s not a good life, but in the Backrooms there’s really no such thing.

  A Ghoul isn’t a zombie. Zombies are shambling meat puppets with the IQ of a walnut and no real ambition. Ghouls, on the other hand, have passion. They care deeply about what they do—specifically, eating you. They’re basically the Backrooms’ version of starving raccoons. Strong as hell, dumb as bricks, and always hungry for something that has a pulse.

  They’re slow until they’re not. One second, they’re shuffling toward you, moaning like a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving, and the next, they’re sprinting on all fours, shrieking, and trying to rip out your spine through your asshole. They don’t dodge. They don’t strategize. They just come at you with unstoppable determination and unwavering bloodlust. And unlike Vampires, they don’t have to worry about pesky things like sunlight or wooden stakes, which makes them the perfect enforcers.

  Bottom line—if you see a Ghoul, don’t get curious. Don’t think you can “help them find peace.” They don’t want peace. They want pieces. Specifically, yours.

  Well, that wasn’t ideal.

  This was supposed to be a straight-up negotiation on neutral territory, and I’d scanned the area beforehand, but nothing had pinged on my mini-map. I wasn’t surprised, though. Mimics could conceal themselves and there were also a number of powerful Relics with a similar effect. We weren’t supposed to have reinforcements, but Theo had come ready to play dirty.

  But so had I. In the Backrooms, there was no such thing as a fair fight.

  “Now!” I bellowed, as I sprang away from the table, knocking over the metal chair with a clatter.