Chapter 3 : First Blood
The ruins were worse than I remembered.
On screen, they'd been atmospheric—crumbling stone walls, artful ivy, the kind of decay that photographers loved. In person, they were a tetanus shot waiting to happen. Broken beer bottles glinted in the undergrowth. Graffiti covered the one standing wall. The old cellar entrance had collapsed years ago, leaving a depression in the earth that collected leaves and rainwater.
I parked the truck on an overgrown access road, hidden from the main path by a screen of wild rhododendrons. Then I walked.
The forest was loud. Birds. Insects. The rustle of small animals in the underbrush. Every sound made me flinch. I was alone—I'd checked three times—but the paranoia wouldn't quit.
This is insane.
Twenty-four hours ago, I'd been a dead man in a cubicle. Now I was standing in the woods outside a fictional town that had somehow become real, preparing to experiment with blood magic.
The bandage on my left hand was stiff with dried blood. I peeled it off carefully, hissing at the sting. The cut looked better than it should—already scabbing, the edges pink with new tissue.
Healing factor? Or just wishful thinking?
I fished the pocket knife from my jeans. A birthday present from Tyler, three years back. Matt's memories supplied that detail without being asked—the two of them in the Lockwood backyard, Tyler shoving a wrapped box across the picnic table, Don't make it weird, man, it's just a knife.
I opened the blade.
The cut on my palm was in the wrong place for testing. Too visible. Too likely to reopen if I moved my hand wrong. I needed somewhere else.
Inner forearm. Meaty enough to spare some blood. Easily hidden under long sleeves.
I pressed the blade to my skin. The metal was cold.
Just do it.
The cut stung going in, then burned. Blood welled up—dark red, bright against my skin. I watched it pool, waiting.
Nothing happened.
Focus.
I stared at the blood. Willed it to move.
Still nothing.
This morning, it had responded to panic. To my subconscious. Maybe that was the key—emotion rather than conscious control. But I couldn't afford to rely on adrenaline. I needed precision.
I thought about the sphere I'd made in the bathroom. The way the blood had coiled around my fingers. There had been a sensation—a pull, like a string connecting me to the blood, like I could feel where it was and what it wanted to do.
I reached for that sensation now.
The blood trembled.
Then it moved.
Slower than this morning. More controlled. A thin stream rose from the cut, wobbling in the air like a snake testing its surroundings. I held my breath. The stream thickened, gathering more blood, until it formed a rough sphere about the size of a marble.
Good. Now shape it.
I thought of a spike. Pointed. Sharp.
The sphere elongated. The tip narrowed. It wasn't pretty—lumpy, uneven, like a child's first attempt at sculpting—but it was recognizably a spike.
I let out a slow breath.
The spike held.
Now harden it.
This was the part I didn't understand. Blood was liquid. It shouldn't be able to become solid, not without coagulating, and coagulated blood was brittle, useless. But something about my power changed that. Made it possible.
I focused on the spike's surface. Imagined it hardening, becoming dense, the molecules compacting into something that could hold an edge.
The spike darkened. Its surface went glossy.
I guided it toward a rotten log about ten feet away. The spike flew—badly, wobbling, losing altitude—and struck the wood.
Splashed apart.
Red mist sprayed across the bark. The spike was gone, reduced to droplets that trickled down the rotting surface.
"Damn."
I made another cut. More blood. Another spike.
This time I focused harder on the hardening. Imagined steel. Imagined diamond. Imagined a blade that could cut through anything.
The spike looked better. Darker. More solid.
I launched it.
Impact. A wet thunk.
The spike stuck. Barely. Maybe half an inch into the soft wood before the tip crumbled and the rest splashed away.
Better. Not good enough.
Third cut. Third spike. My forearm was starting to look like a cutting board.
Focus.
I poured everything into this one. Concentration so intense my head ached. The spike formed tighter, denser, the surface almost metallic. It hummed in the air—I could feel it humming, a vibration at the edge of my perception, like a plucked string.
Launch.
The spike punched through the log and exploded out the other side.
I stared at the hole. Clean. Two inches across. Sawdust and rot raining down.
Then my vision swam.
I sat down hard. The forest tilted. My hands shook. My mouth was dry, my heart racing, and there was a cold feeling spreading through my limbs that I recognized from late nights at the office—blood sugar crash, exhaustion, the body screaming for rest.
I'd used maybe a cup of blood. Less than a typical donation. And I was already hitting my limit.
The pocket knife lay in the leaves where I'd dropped it. I stared at it for a long moment.
Using my own blood wasn't sustainable. A cup of blood and I was dizzy. Two cups and I'd probably pass out. Push past that, and I'd be risking my life.
I needed external sources.
The Mystic Grill had a meat delivery every Tuesday. The hospital ran blood drives twice a month. And Matt's mother—my mother, now—had been a phlebotomist before she'd disappeared into her series of "boyfriends." Maybe she'd left equipment behind.
I pulled a granola bar from my backpack. Peanut butter. The wrapper crinkled too loud in the forest quiet. I ate it in three bites, barely tasting it, and waited for the shaking to stop.
The shadows were getting longer. Late afternoon bleeding into evening. I'd been out here for over an hour.
I looked at my forearm. Three cuts, each a few inches long, already scabbing over faster than they should. The healing—that was real. Not as fast as vampire blood, but faster than normal.
What am I?
In canon, Matt Donovan was human. Aggressively, boringly human. The one guy at the table who never developed powers, never transformed, never got fangs or fur or witchy ancestors. He survived through sheer stubbornness and the narrative's occasional mercy.
This wasn't canon anymore.
I'd brought something with me. Something from... wherever I'd come from. Another world. Another universe. Whatever cosmic mechanism had shoved my soul into this body had also given me this ability. Blood manipulation. Control over the thing that vampires craved and werewolves feared.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
I bandaged my forearm with supplies from my bag. Then I sat on a fallen log and made a mental list.
Immediate needs: Blood supply. Can't keep cutting myself. Need external sources.
Options:
Hospital blood drives. Volunteer, pocket a bag or two.Grill meat deliveries. Animal blood—does it work the same?Mom's phlebotomy equipment. If it exists. If I can find it.
Longer term: Training. Need to harden constructs faster. Need to learn range limits. Need to test against actual threats—but not until I can do it without passing out.
Three months until Stefan arrives.
Ninety-five days now.
I stood. The dizziness had faded to a dull ache behind my eyes. Manageable.
The walk back to the truck was longer than I remembered. My legs felt heavy. The forest sounds seemed muted, distant. Blood loss did that—made the world feel like it was happening behind glass.
I needed food. Water. Sleep.
And I needed a plan.
The truck started on the second try. Engine coughing, then catching. I pulled back onto the access road, then onto the main road, then toward town.
The Donovan trailer materialized out of the evening gloom. Single-wide. Rust stains under the windows. Vicki's car wasn't there—still out with Kelly, whoever Kelly was, doing whatever it was that got Vicki high and reckless.
I parked and sat in the truck for a long moment.
This was my life now. This trailer. This town. This body.
There was no going back to the cubicle. No going back to the life I'd hated but understood. I was Matt Donovan, and I had blood powers, and in three months, the vampires were coming.
My phone buzzed. Text from Tyler: Confirmed for tomorrow. Don't be late.
I typed back: Wouldn't miss it.
Then I went inside.
The trailer was empty. Quiet. The half-empty bottle was still on the counter. I poured it down the sink—whiskey, cheap—and watched it spiral down the drain.
The fridge held leftover pizza, orange juice, and a carton of eggs. I ate the pizza cold, drank the juice straight from the bottle, and made a mental note to go shopping tomorrow. Matt Donovan's body needed fuel.
After eating, I searched.
The trailer had three closets. One held coats. One held Vicki's chaos. The third, in the hallway between the bedrooms, was full of boxes marked "Kelly's stuff" in faded marker.
Kelly. Matt's mother. The woman who'd apparently left her things behind when she'd left her children behind.
I opened the first box. Old clothes. Second box: photo albums, some dinnerware wrapped in newspaper. Third box—
Needles. Tubing. Collection bags.
Phlebotomy supplies.
I stared at them for a long moment. The rubber tubing was yellowed with age, but the needles were still sealed in sterile packaging. There were maybe two dozen collection bags, folded neatly, waiting for blood that had never been drawn.
Thank you, Kelly.
I took the box to my bedroom and stashed it under the bed. Tomorrow, I'd figure out how to use it. Maybe practice on myself first, learn the technique. Then find a source.
For now, I was exhausted.
I lay down on the too-soft mattress and stared at the ceiling. Posters of football players looked down at me. Matt's heroes, not mine. My heroes were dead authors and obscure musicians and a fictional detective from a BBC show.
Different life.
I closed my eyes.
Sleep came fast, pulling me down into darkness. No dreams. Just the heavy emptiness of a body pushed past its limits.
When I woke, it was to morning light and Vicki banging around the kitchen and the smell of burnt toast.
Day two.
I reached for my phone. June 4, 2009.
Ninety-five days.
I pulled up the notes app and started typing.
Priority list:
Blood supply (animal first, then hospital)Training schedule (6 AM with Tyler = good cover for early hours)Vervain (Gilbert garden? Founding families have it)Map supernatural threats (vampires, werewolves, witches in area)Protect Vicki (drugs, Damon, October)
I saved the note, then deleted it. Too risky. If anyone went through my phone—
Different approach.
I'd memorize everything. Keep nothing written down. Be the dumb human jock everyone expected Matt Donovan to be.
And beneath that mask, prepare for war.
I got out of bed. My forearm ached under the bandages. My head was clearer, the blood loss processed overnight.
Today: Training with Tyler. Scouting blood sources. Acting normal.
I grabbed a clean shirt and headed for the shower.
The Donovan trailer's hot water lasted exactly four minutes. By the time I was dressed and out the door, Vicki had left again, and the morning sun was climbing over the tree line.
I drove toward town.
The day job at the Grill started next week—summer hours, closing shifts, the kind of work that let you overhear conversations and stay invisible. Perfect for intelligence gathering. And the meat deliveries came in through the back. Easy access.
A horn honked behind me. Tyler's Mustang pulled up alongside at the stop sign, Tyler grinning through the open window.
"Race you to the gym!"
He peeled out before I could answer.
I watched his taillights disappear around the corner.
Werewolf gene carrier. Best friend. Potential asset.
I pressed the gas and followed.
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