Chapter 19: The Failed Turning
Marcus brought her to me three weeks after his transformation.
Sarah Mitchell. Twenty-six. Emergency room nurse. Moved with the careful control of someone who'd learned to make themselves small, invisible. Her wrists had faint scars—defensive wounds, healed but not gone.
"Marcus said you help people," she told me, standing in the warehouse doorway like she might bolt at any second. "People who've been through things."
"Depends on what you mean by help."
"He said you gave him power. To protect his nephew. To never be helpless again." She met my eyes. "I want that."
I studied her. The scars weren't just on her wrists. She had them on her neck, barely visible under her collar. Cigarette burns on her forearms. And in her eyes—that look. The one that said she'd been broken and put herself back together with duct tape and spite.
Hardened soul. Clear candidate.
But Marcus's success didn't guarantee hers.
"Sit," I said, gesturing to the crates. "We need to talk. Really talk. About what this means and what it costs."
She sat. Didn't fidget. Just waited.
"I'm going to be blunt," I started. "The transformation has a one-in-twenty survival rate. Most people die. Screaming. In agony. For hours. There's no way to predict who'll survive and who won't, but generally, people who've lived soft lives die fast. People who've been broken and survived... they have a chance."
"I've survived worse than death."
"You think that. But you don't know what this feels like. Your body will tear itself apart and rebuild. Bones breaking. Organs reforming. Blood burning through your veins like acid. And you'll be conscious for all of it."
"I spent three years with a man who burned me for fun and called it love. I survived that. I can survive this."
Her voice was steady. Certain. But I'd heard certainty before.
"If you die," I continued, "it's on me. I'll have to live with giving you hope and delivering death. And I'll bury you with full honors, but that won't change the fact that my blood killed you."
"If I live?"
"You'll be stronger than almost any vampire in existence. Near-immortal. Able to protect yourself and anyone you care about. Nobody will ever hurt you again."
Sarah was quiet for a long moment. Then: "When?"
"Not yet. I need time to prepare. And you need time to be absolutely sure."
"I'm sure."
"Then come back in three days. Bring anything you'd want someone to have if you don't survive. Letters, photos, whatever matters."
She stood. "I'll be back."
And she was.
The transformation started the same way Marcus's had.
Sarah drank my blood without hesitation. Her heart stopped. She collapsed, and Davina immediately started the pain-dampening spell while Marcus held her shoulders.
"Come on, Sarah," I murmured. "You're strong enough. You survived him. You can survive this."
The first hour was normal. Her body convulsed. Bones cracked. The usual horror of transformation.
Then something went wrong.
Her screams changed. Higher. More desperate. Not just pain—agony. The kind that said something was fundamentally failing.
"Roy," Davina's voice was tight. "Her body's rejecting it. The blood is attacking her system instead of transforming it."
"No. No, she's strong enough—"
"It's not about strength! Her biology isn't compatible. The blood is killing her!"
Sarah's skin started splitting. Not from physical trauma—from the blood underneath boiling, trying to force its way out. Red cracks spread across her arms, her neck, her face. She was literally cooking from the inside.
I grabbed her hand. "Sarah, hold on. I can fix this. I can—"
Her eyes opened. Clear. Aware. She looked at me with complete understanding.
"It's okay," she whispered. Blood leaked from her mouth. "Not your fault."
Then she screamed. Really screamed. The sound echoed off warehouse walls, and I felt Marcus flinch behind me.
"More blood," I said frantically. "If I give her more, maybe—"
"Roy, no!" Davina grabbed my arm. "More blood will make it worse. Her body can't process what's already there."
"I can't just watch her die!"
"You don't have a choice!"
Sarah's convulsions intensified. The blood under her skin was boiling—I could see it, red bubbles forming and popping, her flesh burning away from the inside. The smell of cooking meat filled the warehouse.
She kept screaming my name. Over and over. "Roy. Roy. Roy—"
Then silence.
Her body went limp. The convulsions stopped. Her eyes stared at nothing.
I checked for a pulse. Nothing. No heartbeat. No breath. No possibility of resurrection.
She was dead.
"No." I pressed two fingers harder against her throat. "No, come on. You survived worse than this. You survived him. You can survive—"
"Roy." Marcus's voice, gentle. "She's gone."
"I can fix this. I just need to—"
"Roy." Davina this time. "She's dead. I'm sorry."
I sat back, staring at Sarah's corpse. Blood leaked from every pore. Her skin was mottled with burns and splits. She'd died in more pain than anyone should ever experience.
And it was my fault.
I'd given her hope. Offered her power. And delivered the worst death imaginable.
"Roy," Marcus tried again. "She knew the risks. She chose this."
"Doesn't matter." My voice sounded distant, hollow. "I killed her. I gave her hope and killed her."
Davina knelt beside me. "She chose knowing the odds. You warned her. You gave her every chance to back out."
"Doesn't make watching her die easier." I finally looked away from Sarah's body. "Doesn't make me less responsible for offering something I knew would probably kill her."
We sat there for hours. Marcus and Davina eventually left, giving me space. I stayed with Sarah's corpse, holding her hand, memorizing her face so I'd never forget.
Sarah Mitchell. Twenty-six. Emergency room nurse. Abuse survivor. Dead because she wanted to be strong.
Dead because I'd offered her that strength.
When dawn approached, I finally moved. Wrapped her body in clean sheets. Carried her to the car. Drove to a cemetery on the outskirts where I'd compelled the groundskeeper to let me bury people without questions.
I dug the grave myself. Six feet down, just like humans did for their dead. Lowered her in gently, as if she could still feel it.
"I'm sorry," I told her grave. "I should have said no. Should have refused. You deserved better than dying in a warehouse, screaming for someone who couldn't save you."
Rain started falling. Appropriate. Even the weather was mourning.
I filled in the grave, packed the earth down, and stood there in the rain until Marcus found me.
"Come on," he said quietly. "You need to eat. Rest."
"I need to remember her name. What she looked like. What she wanted."
"You will. But Roy—you can't let this destroy you. Sarah made a choice. An informed choice. You didn't lie to her."
"Doesn't make it hurt less."
"No. It doesn't."
We stood at her grave together, the rain washing away everything except the guilt.
I didn't leave the warehouse for three days.
Davina brought blood bags. Marcus brought food I wouldn't eat. They tried to talk to me, get me to process, but I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Sarah screaming my name.
On the fourth day, Elijah showed up.
"I heard what happened," he said, sitting on a crate across from where I was staring at nothing. "I'm sorry."
"Are you? Or are you relieved there's one less Proto-Vampire in the world?"
"I'm sorry you had to watch someone die because of your power. That never gets easier, regardless of how old you get."
I looked at him. "How many people have you turned?"
"Seventy-three. Across a thousand years. Thirty-four died in transition." His voice was measured, controlled. "I remember every name. Every face. The guilt doesn't fade—you just learn to live with it."
"How?"
"By honoring their choice. By not turning their death into a reason to stop trying. By making sure their sacrifice meant something." He leaned forward. "Sarah knew the risks. She chose anyway. If you stop now, if you let fear keep you from building your sireline, then she died for nothing."
"Or maybe I should stop before I kill anyone else."
"That's fear talking. Not logic." Elijah stood. "You gave Marcus a chance at protecting his nephew. You gave Sarah a chance at never being a victim again. One succeeded, one failed. That's the reality of transformation. Accept it or don't create any more vampires. But don't pretend her death makes the choice wrong."
He left me alone with that.
I sat in the warehouse darkness, thinking about Sarah. About Marcus. About the responsibility of being able to create life from death.
Eventually, I stood. Went to the wall where I'd started keeping records. Wrote Sarah's name. Age. How she died. What she wanted.
A memorial. Proof she'd existed. That she'd been brave enough to risk everything for power.
I wouldn't forget her. Wouldn't let her death be meaningless.
But I also couldn't promise I'd try again anytime soon.
The cost was too high. And I wasn't sure I could survive watching another person die screaming my name.
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