Chapter 4 : The Inheritance
Tyler's idea of training was borderline torture.
Forty-five minutes of suicide sprints, followed by core work that left my abs screaming, followed by weight circuits designed by someone who hated the human body. By 6:45, I was drenched in sweat and questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.
"Not bad, Donovan." Tyler tossed me a water bottle. "You're slower than last year, but you'll get it back."
I caught the bottle, drained half of it in three gulps. "Thanks for the encouragement."
"I'm serious." He grabbed his own towel, wiped his face. "Two weeks of this, you'll be back to form. Coach is already talking about starting lineup."
Football. Right. In my previous life, I'd been the kid who got picked last in gym class. In this body, I was apparently decent enough to warrant early-morning torture sessions with the mayor's son.
Strange world.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked.
"Every day. No excuses." Tyler headed for the locker room. "I'm hitting the showers. You coming?"
"I'll use the one at home. Gotta check on Vicki."
He made a face. "Your sister's a mess, man."
"She's my sister."
Tyler held up his hands. "Fair enough."
I drove home with the windows down, letting the morning air cool my overheated skin. The bandages on my forearm were damp with sweat, irritating the cuts beneath. Two days of healing. They itched more than they hurt now—faster than normal, but I'd expected that.
The trailer was quiet when I pulled up. Vicki's car sat in its usual spot, meaning she'd actually come home last night. Small mercy.
I didn't go inside.
Instead, I walked around to the storage shed behind the trailer—a corrugated metal box that had been rusting since before Matt was born. The padlock was stiff, but I'd found the key in a kitchen drawer marked "random" in Kelly Donovan's absent handwriting.
Inside: Christmas decorations nobody bothered putting up anymore. A broken lawn mower. Three boxes of clothes that would never fit anyone again. And, shoved in the back corner under a tarp, a medium-sized plastic container with masking tape on the lid.
For emergencies — Kelly Donovan's handwriting again.
I opened it.
Phlebotomy supplies. Neatly organized, vacuum-sealed where possible. Collection bags, IV tubing, tourniquets, alcohol swabs, needles in sterile packaging. Everything a phlebotomist would need to draw blood at home.
My mother had prepared for something. Maybe she'd planned to come back. Maybe she'd imagined scenarios where her kids would need medical supplies and no insurance. Either way, she'd left this behind when she left everything else.
I carried the container inside.
My bedroom door had a lock—cheap, but functional. I engaged it and set the container on my desk. The phlebotomy supplies gleamed under the overhead light, sterile and waiting.
I'd watched my mother work. Matt's memories supplied the details: childhood visits to her clinic, watching her slide needles into arms with casual precision, the way she'd explain every step to make it less scary. Find the vein, anchor it, angle the needle, slow push, watch the flash.
Muscle memory wasn't the same as real experience. But it was something.
I cleaned a spot on my inner elbow with an alcohol swab. Tied the tourniquet above my bicep. Made a fist, watched the vein pop.
The needle went in on the second try—first attempt hit muscle, made me hiss through my teeth. But the second attempt found the vein, and dark blood began flowing through the tubing into the collection bag.
I watched it fill.
Standard donation: 450 milliliters. About a pint. My body could regenerate that in a few weeks. If I donated weekly, I could build a stockpile without hurting myself.
The bag grew heavy in my hands.
When it was full, I removed the needle, pressed a cotton ball to the site, and bent my arm to hold it in place. The collection bag sat on my desk, dark and warm.
First blood supply secured.
I found a small cooler in the kitchen—the kind people took to tailgates—and filled it with ice from the freezer. The blood bag went inside, nestled against the cold. Not ideal storage, but it would keep for a few days.
My bedroom door rattled.
"Matt?" Vicki's voice, sleep-rough. "You in there?"
I shoved the cooler under my bed, kicked the phlebotomy container into my closet, and unlocked the door in one smooth motion.
"Hey."
Vicki stood in the hallway, wearing yesterday's clothes and yesterday's makeup. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her hands wouldn't stay still.
"Can I borrow twenty bucks?"
My wallet was on the dresser. I'd had eighteen dollars yesterday. Now it was empty—tips from the Grill wouldn't come until tonight.
"I don't have twenty."
"Come on, Matt." She leaned against the doorframe. "Tyler's cousin has—"
"Tyler's cousin has what?"
She stopped. Something flickered in her expression—guilt, maybe, or calculation.
"Nothing. Forget it." She pushed off the doorframe, turned to leave.
"Vicki."
She stopped.
"Be home for dinner. Actual dinner, at the table. I'll cook."
A long pause. Then: "Fine. Whatever."
She disappeared down the hall. A moment later, the front door slammed.
Tyler's cousin. That was new. In canon, Vicki's drug connections had been vague—dealers and party friends who existed at the margins of the story. Tyler's family involvement was never mentioned.
One more variable to track.
I pulled the cooler back out and checked the blood bag. Still cold. Still sealed.
The phlebotomy kit needed better storage—somewhere Vicki wouldn't stumble across it during one of her searches for sellable items. I found an old lockbox in the closet, combination lock, and transferred the supplies inside. The combination was Matt's birthday: 0108.
Not the most secure, but better than nothing.
My phone buzzed. Text from the Grill: Shift starts at 5. Don't be late.
That gave me time for a post-donation snack and a shower. I made myself orange juice and ate half a sleeve of cookies, the same routine I'd seen at blood drives in my previous life. Sugar and hydration. Basic recovery.
The cookies were stale, but I didn't care.
I sat at the kitchen table, eating, and thought about the next ninety-four days.
Step one: Establish blood supply. Done.
Step two: Build training schedule. In progress—Tyler's sessions cover physical conditioning, but I need private time for power work.
Step three: Acquire vervain. The Founding Families have it. Sheriff Forbes mentioned it. Need to find a source that won't raise questions.
Step four: Monitor Vicki. She's getting worse. Tyler's cousin—whoever that is—is a new complication.
The orange juice was cold and sweet. The cookies left crumbs on the table. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing.
Normal morning. Normal life.
Except for the bag of my own blood cooling under my bed and the supernatural apocalypse counting down in my head.
I finished eating and set an alarm for 5 AM.
Tomorrow: more training. More preparation. More pretending to be a seventeen-year-old whose biggest worry was football tryouts.
Tonight: the Grill. The Founding Families. Intelligence gathering.
I cleaned up my dishes and headed for the shower.
The war hadn't started yet, but I intended to be ready when it did.
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