Chapter 22: The Answer
The hospital corridor was quieter than usual when I arrived.
Night shift transitions always created gaps in coverage—moments when the systematic observation of dying patients became sporadic, distracted by paperwork and handoffs. I'd timed my visit accordingly, slipping through the oncology wing with the ease of someone who'd mapped every camera angle and staff rotation.
Marcus's door was closed. I knocked anyway.
"Come in."
He was sitting up when I entered—not propped against pillows like before, but genuinely upright, his legs swung over the bed's edge. The IV that had been pumping chemicals into his arm was gone, the needle marks covered with bandages he'd apparently applied himself.
"You disconnected your medication."
"Didn't see the point anymore." His voice was stronger than I'd heard it, the particular clarity of someone who'd stopped fighting their own body. "Either I'm dying in three days from cancer, or I'm dying tonight from you. Either way, the chemo's not helping."
I took my usual chair, the one I'd occupied through hours of careful conversation and calculated revelation. The hospital hummed around us—monitors beeping, staff murmuring, the mechanical rhythm of lives being measured and managed.
"You have questions."
"About a hundred. But I've narrowed it down to the ones that matter." Marcus met my eyes with the direct assessment I'd come to expect from him. "First: the feeding. You said I'd need to drink blood. Human blood. How does that work?"
"You'll need to feed regularly—every few nights at minimum, more often when you're young. The hunger is manageable with practice, but it never disappears completely. Most vampires maintain what we call 'herds'—willing humans who provide blood in exchange for compensation, protection, or the experience itself."
"And if I can't find willing humans?"
"Then you hunt. Careful selection, glamour to prevent memory formation, measured feeding to avoid killing. It's predation, but it can be done humanely." I paused, ensuring he understood the weight of what I was saying. "Kill a human and you attract attention from authorities who make the military's discipline look gentle. Our society polices itself harshly. Exposure is an existential threat."
Marcus processed this with the methodical attention of someone planning a mission. His questions continued—each one building on the last, exploring the boundaries of the existence I was offering.
"Politics?"
"Hierarchical and Byzantine. Louisiana has a Queen in New Orleans, though her position is less secure than she projects. The state is divided into Areas, each managed by a Sheriff who enforces vampire law and collects tribute from businesses within their territory. I operate in Area 5, under Sheriff Eric Northman."
"And where do I fit in this hierarchy?"
"As my progeny, you'd be bound to me—literally, through the blood. My enemies become your enemies. My allies become your allies. My ambitions become, to some degree, your ambitions." I leaned forward slightly. "But that's not slavery. The maker-progeny bond is powerful, but it doesn't override free will. You can advise, argue, even disagree. What you can't do is betray me without consequences."
"What kind of consequences?"
"Pain. The bond allows makers to compel progeny in extreme situations—physically, through the blood itself. I've heard it described as every nerve igniting simultaneously." I held his gaze steadily. "I have no intention of using that capability. But you should know it exists."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment. The monitor beside his bed showed his heart rate—elevated but controlled, the pattern of someone managing fear rather than surrendering to it.
"Last question. The one that actually matters." He set his jaw, the expression I'd seen in his military photograph. "Why me? You said you'd considered other candidates. Why did you pick the dying soldier who hasn't done anything worth remembering in five years?"
The question deserved an honest answer.
"Because you're useful. Your military training, your discipline, your ability to follow orders without losing independent judgment—those are valuable traits in progeny. Most new vampires are disasters for their first decade. You won't be." I paused, choosing my next words carefully. "But that's not the only reason."
"What's the other reason?"
"I remembered something George Patterson told me, the night before he died." The memory of that conversation surfaced—the old man's warm hand, his tired eyes, his acceptance of what I was. "He said I was different from the scary stories. More human than most humans he'd known." I met Marcus's eyes. "I want to believe that's true. Offering you this chance—not just because you're useful, but because you deserve to live—that's part of proving it to myself."
Marcus absorbed this with the same methodical attention he'd applied to everything else. Then something shifted in his expression—the wariness receding, replaced by something closer to resolution.
"I watched my squad die in Fallujah because someone didn't plan properly. Thirteen men gone because of someone else's stupidity. IEDs and ambushes and a commander who thought maps were optional." His voice was steady despite the weight of the memory. "You plan. I've watched you for weeks—the way you think through everything, the way you prepare for problems before they happen. Whatever you're building, I want in."
"You understand what you're giving up."
"I'm giving up a hospital bed and maybe three weeks of slow dying. I'm giving up watching my body fail while the nurses smile and pretend there's hope." Marcus extended his hand—trembling slightly from the cancer's work, but firm in its intention. "Make me your soldier. I'll earn the rest."
I took his hand. Cold skin met warm, the contact brief but meaningful.
"Tomorrow night. I'll come for you at sunset. The hospital will believe you died and your body was claimed by family—I have people who can make that happen. By midnight, you'll be somewhere private, and the process will begin."
"How long does it take? The turning?"
"Three nights for the physical transformation. Longer for the adjustment—learning to feed, to move, to exist in a body that doesn't work like you remember. Most of that happens through training." I released his hand and stood. "Get your affairs in order. Say whatever goodbyes you need. Once you turn, visiting places like this becomes complicated."
Marcus laughed—a genuine sound, surprising both of us.
"What affairs? I've got a storage unit in Arkansas and a mother who hasn't spoken to me since I enlisted. The cancer burned through everything else." He gestured at the bare room, the empty visitor's chair, the complete absence of personal effects. "This is why I'm perfect for this, right? No connections, no complications."
"Partly. But also because you're worth saving, Marcus. Not everyone is. I've met a lot of dying people in the past few months. You're the only one I offered this to."
I moved toward the door, the conversation complete. At the threshold, I paused.
"There's a letter on your bedside table. You haven't touched it."
Marcus glanced at the envelope—addressed in his handwriting, stamped and ready for mailing. His mother's name was visible in the return address space.
"I wrote it after our last conversation. Everything I wanted to say before I died." He picked up the envelope, turned it over in his hands. "Figured if I survived this, I'd tell her myself. If I didn't, what's the point?"
"And now?"
Marcus tore the envelope in half, then in quarters, dropping the pieces into the wastebasket beside his bed.
"Now I'm going to live long enough to deliver the message in person."
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