As everyone knows—
After a human is turned, they must drink blood. Only by drinking blood during the transition window can they become a true vampire.
But drinking blood is blood.
And a transfusion is also blood.
What's more, it's intravenous. Like swallowing a pill versus an IV drip, the "efficiency" is not even close.
So…
"Holy—!"
"Oh my God!"
Following Hawk's odd look to the hanging bag, Gwen realized at once. She yanked the IV, dropped the half-full blood bag like a hot potato—and it splattered on the floor.
Too late.
Thanks to the transfusion, George was now sprinting toward vampirism at breakneck speed.
Helen—who had just seen the doctor out, then turned and caught Gwen ripping her father's line—crashed like a blue screen.
"Gwen!"
"Mom…"
Hearing Helen's shout and seeing her tight-lipped walk over, Gwen blurted, "Wait, Mom—it's not what you think!"
Helen glanced at the blood bag Gwen had flung down, then at Gwen's panicked face, and took a long breath.
"You'd better have a perfect explanation, young lady."
"…."
Hawk's mouth twitched, but he kept quiet.
Gwen might be twenty, but to a mom, a daughter is always a "young lady."
And right now—
Helen was genuinely mad.
Hawk met his fiancée's pleading look and returned a helpless I-can't-save-you face.
This was a minefield.
If he spoke up, Helen would scold him too.
No joke.
So—
Hawk stayed silent.
But George didn't.
The moment Gwen pulled the line and the bag hit the floor, a thread of red flashed in the depths of George's pupils. He stared, transfixed, at the blood seeping across the tile.
A sudden, uncontrollable craving surged up out of nowhere.
As if a voice inside him was screaming:
"Drink!"
"Now!"
"Drink it all!"
It lasted only seconds before years of iron self-discipline—the kind that kept him clean in a dirty world—pulled him back from the edge.
Still—
Something was wrong.
Thinking of the case he'd been quietly investigating, and Hawk's earlier, direct question about "vampires," a chilling thought formed.
So—
George steadied himself, then said to his stern-faced wife, "Helen, I asked Gwen to pull it. Go check on Mahoney and the others in surgery."
Helen frowned hard at him. "George—"
"I'm fine. Go."
He cut her off with a small smile.
Helen looked, then noticed Gwen had slipped an arm around his, and shook her head despite herself. "You spoil her."
Hawk said nothing.
Helen didn't spare him either; she shot him a playful glare on her way out.
"And you—you both spoil her."
"…"
Watching her go, Hawk blinked and murmured to Gwen, "How is any of that my fault? I didn't say a word."
Gwen smiled up at him. "You don't spoil me?"
"What do you think?"
He looked at her with that mix of indulgence and resignation.
Gwen beamed.
George, on the bed, watched the two of them make goo-goo eyes and scowled to the max, then coughed twice.
Gwen snapped back to him, suddenly anxious. "Dad."
"What's wrong with me?"
George looked to Hawk.
Hawk kept quiet and looked to Gwen.
George took the hint and looked to Gwen as well. "What's wrong with me?"
"Dad…"
"Gwen."
"You're in transition."
"Transition to what?"
"V… vampire."
She said it carefully, watching him.
She could see it now too—in the depths of his eyes, with the transfusion halted, faint threads of red had begun to appear.
George reflexively wanted to deny it.
But…
One look at Gwen's face, then at Hawk's, and he fell silent.
After a long beat—
He drew a breath. "So it's true. Vampires."
"Dad!"
Gwen, hearing the whisper, rushed to reassure him. "Being a vampire isn't all bad. Caroline's a vampire."
George turned to her. "Caroline?"
"My cousin—from Mystic Falls."
"I know."
He nodded, picturing her. "She's a vampire too?"
Gwen nodded. "Yeah. I only found out when we went back with Hawk."
Then a thought struck her.
"Right—Dad, when did you drink vampire blood?"
"What?"
"Vampire blood."
She quickly, plainly laid out how humans become vampires, then asked, "So which vampire made you drink?"
George didn't answer. He just gave Gwen a strange look.
Gwen blinked at him. "Dad?"
"Gwen, you're not a vampire, right?"
"Of course not."
"What about Hawk…"
George glanced at the man by the wall.
Hawk smiled. "No."
"Good."
George exhaled, then told Gwen gently, "Being human is good. Raising children—that's the meaning of life, Gwen."
Gwen nodded. "I know, Dad. I literally just told Mom I want a daughter and two sons and a happy life together."
George nodded, smiling.
Hawk, meanwhile, was watching George, thoughtful.
George drew another breath and looked to Hawk. "So if I don't drink blood in the next twenty-four hours, I die. Right?"
Gwen's eyes went wide. "Dad?"
"In theory, yes—except you won't."
"What?"
"You already did."
Hawk's eyes dropped to the cannula taped to George's arm. "Whoever's behind this didn't plan to give you a choice. They wanted you turned."
Ordinarily, a newborn has twenty-four hours of "cool-down." George had none. He revived and, with a line already in, was effectively "drinking" and pushed over the edge.
"So…"
"Do you remember the shooting?"
"…I do."
George sat quiet a moment. "I set a 9:30 a.m. meet with 'BU' at the parking structure. He never showed. He's punctual, so I knew something was off. When I turned to leave—someone ambushed me."
For some reason, his mind was razor-clear now.
As he recalled, it felt like he was back on the scene.
He waited, BU didn't come, he went to go—bang. A figure appeared in front of him and shot him in the gut.
The sudden pain made him double over.
The second shot followed.
It shattered his shoulder—he heard the crisp crack of bone—but that same round knocked him off-line just enough for the third, fatal bullet to graze instead of tear through his neck.
Even so, he stumbled back into a car and drew his sidearm to return fire.
"He didn't dodge.
"All three of my rounds hit center mass.
"But—
"He was… fine."
"Then a patrol team ran in after hearing shots."
"His speed was… ghostlike. He vanished."
"I tried to warn them—he materialized behind the two patrolmen and dropped them clean."
"I was already fading."
"And then—I felt something in my mouth. I was barely conscious."
"And now?"
"It was metallic, coppery. Thinking back—that had to be his blood."
"He was a vampire."
George narrated as the crystal-sharp pictures played in his head, then glanced to Hawk.
Hawk shrugged. "Sounds like it."
"Wait, no."
Gwen frowned at Hawk. "They already found the gunman. He killed himself to avoid arrest."
"A fall guy."
Hawk chuckled, then looked at George. "Just like the guy who walked in to take the blame for the 'Crimson Apocalypse' case."
George met his eyes, hesitated, then huffed a laugh. "You cracked the file in my study safe?"
"Gwen typed the code."
"Heh…"
Gwen shot her fiancé a deadpan look. "Seriously? You sold me out that fast? You're my fiancé—you're supposed to be on my side."
She was teasing.
Then she turned to George. "Dad, who is 'BU'? Hawk and I racked our brains all day."
George smiled. "You know him."
"I do?"
She blinked, searched her memory, and then—
"Who?"
"Ben Urich."
He gave the name, then added, seeing her still blank, "My mentor."
Gwen blinked twice, then pictured a rumpled, middle-aged uncle who favored a cowboy hat.
A beat later—
She had him.
"Uncle Ben—your first partner?"
"Yes."
George nodded.
B for Ben.
U for Urich.
Ben Urich, ten years older than George, sixty-two this year—George's NYPD mentor and first partner.
Gwen frowned again. "But Uncle Ben retired, didn't he?"
George chuckled. "He did. But the heart's young. He works as a reporter now. After the 'Crimson Apocalypse' case broke, he reached out to warn me off—it was dangerous. I wouldn't drop it and kept pressing him on what kind of danger."
"Last night he called to ask if I was still digging off the books. He told me to stop. Keep going and it ends badly."
"But you know me."
George let out a dry laugh. "If they want me to stop, they can fire me. As long as I'm captain, I don't share the sky with evil."
He said it with iron conviction.
On small things he might go with the flow—department family cards and the like.
But on right and wrong—especially crime—he never wavered.
"I told Ben if he was sent to talk me down, hang up now—and don't call again."
"He sighed and asked if I believed in vampires."
After that, Ben told George that the "Crimson Apocalypse" really was a cult—but not a normal one. It was an arm of a vampire syndicate operating under New York.
Their main task was recruiting young, pretty girls—especially runaways who'd come to the city chasing dreams—turning them into playthings and blood bags for New York's vampires.
As everyone knows—
The fresh blood of an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old is a delicacy to vampires.
Ben knew all this because before he retired, he'd investigated the group himself.
He'd kept digging, and uncovered something worse.
There were blood thralls among the vampires—and some inside the NYPD.
Blood thralls are human. They worship vampires. Their dearest wish is to be turned.
Hawk and Gwen knew how turning really worked.
Most people didn't. They still thought one bite and you "changed."
But again—
Vampires aren't zombies. If a zombie bites you, you turn. If a vampire bites you, odds are you get drained and left a corpse.
In short—
After retiring, Ben became a reporter—an excuse to roam the city without raising suspicion. He even interviewed a vampire and became friends with him.
A "good" vampire—the kind who buys from the blood bank.
From that friend he learned George had officially closed the file but was quietly petitioning the court to pull the cult's tax filings from the IRS.
As everyone knows—
In the Federation, only death and taxes are inevitable.
Cults included.
Their fig leaf of "legality" was taxes. George planned to pry them open via the IRS.
He moved—so they knew at once.
Ben's vampire friend knew too, and warned that word was out—they planned to "take care of" George, same as the journalist Masto who caught their gathering on film.
So Ben called.
But George didn't buy ghost stories.
Vampires?
This is New York, not L.A. We have Broadway, not Hollywood.
George is stubborn.
Ben is careful. With George hell-bent on this case, Ben said he could prove it.
He had real evidence.
He knew how dangerous these hidden, age-old vampires were. He set a meeting for the next morning to show proof—hoping George would finally believe him and back off.
After all—
They'd already "given" NYPD a culprit.
If George had any dirt, they wouldn't have bothered with a patsy—they'd have forced him out as captain.
This shooter was their last step down for George.
If he refused it, who knew what they'd do next.
Now it was clear.
"They turned you," Hawk picked up smoothly, smiling. "Now you're one of them. If you keep pushing, they'll expose you before you expose them.
"But if you accept your 'fate,' they gain a vampire captain—perfect to help keep them hidden."
It was a neat plan.
Two birds, one stone.
George looked at him, voice low. "I won't let them—"
"Ring, ring!"
Just as he spoke, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
George's phone.
Gwen grabbed it, saw "Ben" on the screen, and handed it over. "Dad, it's Uncle Ben."
George's eyes lit. He reached for it—
Crunch!
The instant he took it, a slip of his grip—and the phone shattered in his hand.
Gwen's jaw dropped.
Hawk arched a brow.
George stared, stunned, at the fragments sifting out between his fingers.
At the same time—
His heart monitor let out a sharp pop and died.
Hawk and Gwen looked over.
On the screen, a single flat line shone bright.
But—
George was still sitting on the bed. And by the look of him, still very much alive.
…
(End of Chapter)
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