The adrenaline of the morning had faded, replaced by the heavy, syrup-laden lethargy of a suburban afternoon. The hunter had been "disposed of"—which, in Frank Vance's world, meant checking to see if Mrs. Peterson's begonias were salvageable (they weren't) and assuming the man in tactical gear had simply run off in shame after being tackled by a sixty-year-old logistics manager.
Frank's ability to rationalize the impossible was, frankly, a superpower in its own right. He had decided that the glowing crossbow was a "high-tech drone controller" and the purple eyes were "colored contacts."
Elara sat at the kitchen island, watching her mother vigorously scrub the countertop. The smell of Lemon Pledge was overwhelming.
"So," Susan Vance said, not looking up. "Marketing. And Human Resources."
"Yes," Elara lied, staring into her mug of lukewarm coffee.
"And they are... staying?"
"Just for a night or two. Until the... plumbing... is fixed."
Susan stopped scrubbing. She looked out the window where Li Wusheng was currently standing in the backyard, staring at a squirrel with the intensity of a sniper.
"That one," Susan pointed with her sponge. "Li. He's very... stiff. Is he from a religious family? He bowed to the toaster, Elara."
"He respects the machine spirit," Elara said weakly. "It's a Bay Area thing."
"And the other one," Susan turned her gaze toward the garage, where faint masculine grunts were audible. "Aldren. He's... dramatic. He called the microwave a 'box of cursed radiation'."
"He's an artist, Mom. They're eccentric."
Susan sighed, the long, suffering sigh of a mother who had hoped for a son-in-law in finance, not a goth performance artist. "Well, at least they have good manners. Aldren offered to pay for the window with a gold doubloon. I told him we take Visa."
The Garage of Doom
Meanwhile, in the sacred sanctuary of the garage, Frank Vance was introducing the Vampire Lord to his arsenal.
The garage smelled of gasoline, sawdust, and the quiet pride of a man who owned three different types of saws.
"This here," Frank said, patting a bright red machine, "is the beast. Toro TimeCutter. Zero-turn radius. 24.5 horsepower."
Aldren Valcour, Lord of the Crimson Court, stared at the riding lawnmower with genuine wariness. He kept his distance, his hands tucked into the pockets of his oversized University of Washington hoodie.
"It is... a chariot?" Aldren guessed. "For rushing into battle?"
"For the lawn, son. Cuts mowing time in half. Mulches like a dream."
Aldren nodded slowly. "Mulches. A gruesome fate for the grass. You offer the trimmings to the earth gods?"
Frank squinted at him. "I put 'em in the compost bin. Look, Elara says you're in Marketing. You handle the hostile takeovers?"
"Exclusively," Aldren said. "I specialize in the... liquidation... of assets."
"Cutthroat business," Frank nodded approvingly. He walked over to the pegboard wall, where dozens of tools hung in outlined silhouettes. He grabbed a cordless drill. "You ever use a DeWalt? brushless motor. Torque is incredible."
Aldren took the drill. He held it like a loaded pistol. "A weapon of piercing?"
"For driving screws."
"Torture," Aldren concluded. "Efficient. I prefer the Iron Maiden, but this is portable."
Frank laughed, a booming sound that echoed off the concrete floor. "You've got a dark sense of humor, Al. I like that. You remind me of my buddy Dave. He's in insurance."
Aldren looked at the drill, then at the chainsaw hanging on the wall. His red eyes lingered on the serrated teeth.
"Frank," Aldren said softly. "This arsenal. You maintain it yourself?"
"You bet. Oil changes, blade sharpening. A man has to take care of his tools."
Aldren looked at Frank—a mortal man with a paunch and thinning hair, who had tackled a supernatural assassin without hesitation.
"You are a warrior," Aldren decided. "A guardian of your domain."
Frank puffed out his chest slightly. "Well, I try. Gotta protect the castle."
"Indeed," Aldren murmured, touching the chainsaw reverently. "The castle must stand."
"Exactly. Now, help me move these bags of fertilizer. If we're gonna have guests, I might as well aerate the lawn."
And so, the 600-year-old Vampire Lord found himself hauling fifty-pound bags of steer manure, a substance that smelled worse than any crypt he had ever slept in.
The Dao of Pantry Management
While Aldren was engaging in manual labor, Li Wusheng had entered the pantry.
To Li, the pantry was a confusing library of preserved sustenance. He examined a box of Cheez-Its. He read the ingredients list.
"Enriched Flour," Li whispered. "Red Dye Number 40. TBHQ. This is not food. This is alchemy designed to shorten the mortal lifespan."
"Li?" Elara peeked into the pantry. "What are you doing?"
Li turned, holding a jar of peanut butter like it was a cursed artifact. "Elara. Your clan consumes a paste made of crushed nuts and... hydrogenated vegetable oil? This is why your spiritual meridians are clogged."
"It's Jif, Li. It's delicious. Put it back."
Li placed the jar back on the shelf, precisely aligning it with the magnetic north. "I have examined the perimeter. The protective wards on this dwelling are non-existent. The 'Live, Laugh, Love' sign on the door offers zero spiritual defense against the Void."
"It's not supposed to defend against the Void. It's supposed to welcome the neighbors."
"I have taken the liberty of reinforcing the boundaries," Li said. "I placed salt lines under the windowsills and buried three copper coins under the welcome mat."
"Did you take the coins from my dad's coin jar?"
"They were from the Ming Dynasty. I had them in my sleeve."
Elara rubbed her temples. "Okay. Great. Thank you. But we need to talk. We can't stay here."
"Agreed," Li nodded. "The energy here is too... domestic. It dulls the senses. And the hunter was merely a vanguard. If we stay, we endanger your progenitors."
"My parents," Elara corrected. "And yes. That's what I'm afraid of. If another one comes... a bigger one... Frank can't tackle it."
"Frank possesses a surprising density of bone," Li noted. "His tackle was... formidable. He utilized his center of gravity well."
"He played football in 1978. He never shuts up about it."
"We need a secure location," Li said. "Somewhere with ley lines we can tap into. Somewhere isolated."
"I might know a place," Elara said. "My uncle has a cabin near Mount Rainier. It's off the grid. No cell service. No neighbors."
"A mountain retreat?" Li's eyes lit up. "Excellent. The Qi is always purer at high altitudes."
"But we need supplies," Elara said. "Food. Water. First aid. If we're going to hide out in the woods, we need to stock up."
"Supplies," Susan's voice rang out from the kitchen. She appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Did I hear someone say supplies?"
Elara jumped. "Mom! I was just saying... if we go... camping..."
"Camping!" Susan clapped her hands. "What a wonderful idea! You boys need some fresh air. You look pasty. Both of you."
"Camping," Li repeated. "Sleeping on the earth?"
"It's great for the soul," Susan said. "But you can't go without proper provisions. The cabin hasn't been stocked since last summer. We need to go to the store."
"We can just stop at a gas station—" Elara started.
"Nonsense," Susan grabbed her purse. "Frank! Get the van! We're going to Costco!"
The Temple of Bulk
To the uninitiated, Costco is a store. To a Vampire Lord and a Daoist Immortal, it was a sensory assault of apocalyptic proportions.
They arrived in the family minivan—Frank driving, Aldren riding shotgun (again), Li and Elara in the middle, Susan in the back listing coupons.
They walked into the warehouse. The sheer scale of it stopped Aldren in his tracks. He looked up at the towering pallets of toilet paper reaching toward the steel rafters.
"By the gods," Aldren whispered, clutching Elara's arm. "Is this a repository for the spoils of war? Do you anticipate a siege?"
"It's wholesale, Aldren," Elara hissed, flashing her membership card to the greeter.
"Welcome to Costco, I love you," the greeter droned mechanically.
Li Wusheng stopped in front of the greeter. He bowed deeply. "I acknowledge your welcome, Gatekeeper. May your harvest be bountiful."
The greeter blinked. "Uh. Yeah. receipt check is on the way out."
They merged into the flow of carts. The warehouse was packed. It was a Saturday. The energy was chaotic—a mix of hunger, greed, and frustration.
"Stay close," Elara ordered. "Mom, Dad, you get the boring stuff. Water, batteries, canned beans. I'll take the boys to get... sleeping bags and clothes."
"Meet at the food court in twenty," Frank commanded, steering his cart toward the tires.
Elara grabbed a cart and steered her two supernatural headaches toward the clothing aisle.
"I need new garments," Aldren complained, plucking at his hoodie. "This fleece is suffocating my aura."
"Here," Elara tossed a pack of flannel shirts into the cart. "You're going to be a lumberjack now. It fits the cabin vibe."
"Lumberjack," Aldren tested the word. "Do they wield axes?"
"Yes."
"Acceptable."
They moved to the food section. This was where the trouble began.
Li Wusheng stopped in front of a pallet of 50-pound rice bags. He stared at it with profound emotion.
"Elara," he whispered. "Look at this grain. It is... abundant. In my time, wars were fought for less than what is stacked on this single wooden pallet."
"It's Jasmine rice, Li. $18.99."
"I must bless it," Li raised a hand.
"Do not bless the rice!" Elara grabbed his wrist. "People are watching! Just put a bag in the cart."
Meanwhile, Aldren had wandered off. Elara panicked. "Where is the bat?"
She found him in the walk-in dairy/produce fridge.
He was standing in the middle of the refrigerated room, surrounded by boxes of strawberries and spinach. Other shoppers were shivering, wearing jackets. Aldren was standing there with his arms wide, a look of pure bliss on his face.
"Aldren!" Elara hissed, shivering as she walked in. "What are you doing?"
"It is cold," Aldren sighed happily. "It feels like the grave. It feels like home."
"You're blocking the kale. Move."
"Elara," Aldren opened his eyes. They were dangerously red. "Look at this meat."
He gestured through the glass doors to the butcher section. Rows and rows of steaks, roasts, and briskets.
"So much blood," Aldren whispered. "Drained, yes. But the sheer volume..."
"You can't eat that raw," Elara said. "And we are not buying a whole cow."
"Just one brisket?" Aldren pleaded. "I can gnaw on it."
"No gnawing."
Elara dragged them out of the cold section. They navigated the aisles, dodging aggressive sample ladies.
"Would you like a sample of chicken nugget?" a kind old lady offered Li.
Li looked at the nugget on the toothpick. "Madam, what beast is this flesh from?"
"Chicken, honey."
"It is a perfect square," Li observed suspiciously. "Nature does not produce squares. This is geometry, not poultry."
"Just eat it, Li," Elara said.
Li popped it in his mouth. His eyes widened. "MSG," he whispered. "The flavor... it dances on the tongue. It is artificial, yet... compelling."
"It's called sodium," Elara said. "Come on."
They rounded the corner into the pharmacy aisle and ran smack into Frank.
Frank's cart was full. Canned peaches, a generator, a pack of 48 rolls of paper towels, and a bag of charcoal.
"Dad," Elara said. "We're going camping for a weekend, not colonizing Mars."
"You never know," Frank said ominously. "Supply chains are fragile. Al, check this out. 5-year emergency food supply. Dried stroganoff."
Aldren picked up the bucket of apocalypse food. "Does it contain blood?"
"Protein," Frank said. "Same thing."
"Excellent," Aldren put two buckets in the cart.
Elara looked at her cart. Flannels, rice, sleeping bags, and emergency stroganoff.
"We look like preppers," she groaned.
"We are preparing for survival," Li said, dropping a 10-pound bag of sea salt into the cart. "Salt. For purification. And seasoning."
"Okay," Elara said. "Let's check out. Before one of you tries to exorcise the rotisserie chickens."
The Food Court confrontation
They stood in line for the hot dogs. Because no trip to Costco is complete without the $1.50 hot dog combo.
"It is a tube of mystery meat," Aldren observed, holding his hot dog. "And a chalice of sugar-water."
"It's an American tradition," Frank said, taking a massive bite. "Eat up."
Aldren took a bite. He grimaced. He swallowed. "It... squeaks against the teeth."
"That's the snap," Frank explained.
They sat at a metal picnic table amidst the roar of the crowd. Families shouting, carts rattling, the smell of pizza and onions.
Elara sat between Li and Aldren. She looked at her parents, who were happily sharing a churro.
She felt a sudden, sharp pang of guilt.
She was bringing monsters into their world. She was eating hot dogs with a vampire and an immortal while a literal god hunted her down.
"Mom, Dad," Elara said suddenly. "I... I really appreciate this. The supplies. Everything."
Susan patted her hand. "That's what family is for, sweetie. And your friends... they're unique. But they seem to care about you."
Aldren wiped mustard off his lip with a napkin. He looked at Susan with surprising sincerity. "I would burn the world for her, Mrs. Vance."
Susan laughed. "Oh, stop. You marketing boys and your hyperbole."
Li Wusheng set his soda down. He looked at Frank. "Mr. Vance. You have provided shelter and sustenance. In my culture, this creates a debt of karma. If you ever require... assistance... with enemies..."
"Just help me with the gutters next weekend," Frank said.
"It shall be done," Li vowed.
Suddenly, Aldren stiffened. He dropped his hot dog.
"Elara," he whispered.
Li felt it too. The air around the table grew cold. The roar of the warehouse seemed to dull, muffled by a heavy pressure.
"Don't look," Aldren commanded. "Three o'clock. By the tire center."
Elara didn't look. Her heart hammered. "Hunters?"
"No," Li murmured, his hand tightening around his plastic fork until it snapped. "Observers. Shades."
Elara glanced out of the corner of her eye. Standing near the stack of Michelin tires were two figures. They looked like normal shoppers—a couple in tracksuits—but they were standing perfectly still. They weren't looking at the tires. They were looking at Elara.
Their shadows were wrong. The shadows stretched toward her, independent of the lights.
"They found us," Elara whispered.
"The salt on the car," Li said. "It masked us on the way here. But in this crowd... our energy signature is too high."
Frank looked up from his churro. "What's wrong? You guys look like you saw a ghost."
"Just... heartburn," Aldren lied. "The onions."
"We need to leave," Elara said, standing up. "Now. Mom, Dad, let's go."
"But I haven't finished my Pepsi," Frank protested.
"Dad, please!"
Something in Elara's voice—pure, unadulterated fear—made Frank stop. He looked at her, then at the two men.
"Okay," Frank said, his voice dropping to that serious, dad-mode tone. "Let's roll."
They abandoned the sodas. They pushed the heavy carts toward the exit.
The Shades by the tire center began to move. They didn't walk; they glided, weaving through the shoppers like oil through water.
"They are cutting us off," Aldren hissed. "I will create a diversion."
"No violence," Elara warned. "Not here."
"Accidental violence," Aldren corrected.
As they passed a display of 60-inch 4K televisions, Aldren "stumbled." He slammed his shoulder into the corner of the pallet.
The stack of TVs wobbled.
"Oh no," Aldren said deadpan.
The stack tipped.
CRASH.
Three massive televisions hit the concrete floor with the sound of a bomb going off. Glass shattered. Plastic crunched.
"CLEANUP ON AISLE ONE!" someone screamed.
The crowd surged. Chaos erupted. People stopped to look, blocking the path of the Shades.
"Go! Go! Go!" Frank yelled, ramming his cart through the automatic doors.
They burst out into the grey parking lot rain. They loaded the minivan in record time—Frank throwing the generator in, Aldren tossing the 50-pound rice bag like it was a pillow.
They jumped in. Frank peeled out of the parking spot, cutting off a Prius.
"Frank!" Susan yelled.
"Emergency maneuvers!" Frank shouted.
Elara looked back. The two Shades were standing at the exit doors. They didn't follow. They just watched.
Aldren slumped in the front seat. "I owe Costco four thousand dollars."
"Put it on the corporate card," Li said, closing his eyes. "We are clear. But they know."
Elara sat in the middle seat, surrounded by bulk toilet paper and fear.
"We leave tonight," she said quietly. "We go to the cabin tonight."
Frank looked in the rearview mirror. He met his daughter's eyes.
"We'll gas up the van," Frank said. "I'll drive."
Nightfall
The Vance house was quiet. The supplies were packed. The minivan was fueled.
Elara stood in her childhood bedroom. It was a time capsule of her teenage years. Posters of bands she didn't listen to anymore. A corkboard covered in prom photos and ribbons.
She looked at a photo of herself at graduation. She looked happy. Normal.
"I miss her," she whispered.
"She is still you," a voice said.
She turned. Aldren was standing in the doorway. He was wearing the red flannel shirt. It looked ridiculous and somehow dashing on him.
"I'm not her," Elara said. "She didn't know she was a battery for the universe. She just wanted to go to art school."
Aldren walked into the room. He touched the edge of her dresser.
"Do you know what you wanted in your 12th life?" he asked softly. "You were a weaver in silk. You wanted to make a tapestry that would capture the sunset."
"Did I finish it?"
"Yes," Aldren smiled sadly. "It hangs in a museum in Beijing. Li visits it sometimes. He says the stitching is sloppy, but he cries when he sees it."
Elara laughed, a watery sound. "He would criticize my stitching."
Aldren stepped closer. The playfulness was gone from his face. "Elara. I know you are scared. But you must understand... for us, for Li and me... this terror you feel? This chaos? It is the only time we feel alive."
"Why?"
"Because when you are gone," Aldren said, his voice cracking, "the world is just grey. It is just centuries of silence. You are the color. Even if the color is dangerous."
He reached out and took her hand. His skin was cold, but his grip was solid.
"We will not let them take you," he vowed. "I will fight the gods. I will fight the Void. I will even fight the prices at Costco."
Elara squeezed his hand back. "Thanks, Aldren."
"Ahem."
Li Wusheng stood in the hallway, holding a sleeping bag.
"The vehicle is prepared," Li said stiffly. "And Mr. Whiskers has successfully used the portable litter box. It is a good omen."
Aldren didn't let go of Elara's hand. He looked at Li.
"Ready to run, Bamboo Stick?"
Li nodded. "Always, Bat."
Elara looked at her two guardians. The monsters under her bed who had become the monsters protecting her bed.
"Okay," Elara said, grabbing her backpack. "Let's go to the woods."
They walked out of the room, leaving the ghost of the normal girl behind. The Chronicle continued.