Chapter 26: The Rising
The coffin lid cracked at 11:17 PM on the third night.
Not opened—cracked. The sound was sharp, sudden, wood splintering under pressure it wasn't designed to withstand. I was on my feet before the echo faded, fangs extended, every sense focused on the box that had been silent for seventy-two hours.
The lid exploded upward.
Marcus rose from the coffin like something from a nightmare—eyes wild, fangs extended, no recognition of anything except the hunger that consumed every newborn vampire. His skin was pale, translucent, the cancer-ravaged body transformed into something predatory and terrible.
He saw me. He lunged.
The maker bond activated without conscious thought—years of instinct the original Sam had developed, now mine to command.
"STOP."
Marcus froze mid-attack, muscles locked by supernatural compulsion he couldn't understand or resist. His snarl continued, but his body was mine to control. The bond between us flared—the thread that had been tenuous for three days suddenly becoming a rope, then a chain.
"Marcus." I kept my voice calm, authoritative. "You are my progeny. I am your maker. You will obey."
The wildness in his eyes didn't diminish immediately. Newborn hunger was primal, overwhelming, beyond rational thought. But somewhere beneath the animal need, the soldier I'd recruited was still present.
His muscles trembled against the compulsion. His fangs remained extended. But clarity began to enter his expression—the particular recognition of someone waking from a nightmare they couldn't escape.
"I'm... alive?" His voice was hoarse, transformed, carrying undertones the human Marcus Webb had never possessed.
"Something like that. You're a vampire now. The turning worked."
"I feel..." He struggled to find words for sensations that had no human equivalent. "Everything. I feel everything."
"That's normal. The senses are overwhelming at first. You'll learn to filter them."
I released the compulsion slowly, maintaining awareness of the bond in case he lost control again. Marcus staggered, catching himself on the coffin's edge. His hands—pale, strong, completely free of the tremors that had marked his dying days—gripped the wood hard enough to leave impressions.
"The cancer," he whispered. "I can't feel it anymore."
"Gone. The transformation purged it along with everything else that was killing you."
"I feel..." He looked at his hands, turned them over, studied the pale skin and visible veins. "Hungry. I feel so hungry."
The blood bags were prepared—warm, fresh, delivered from Barbara's network specifically for this moment. I handed him the first one, watched him tear into it with reflexive violence. The blood disappeared in seconds, the bag crumpled and discarded.
"More."
I handed him another. Then a third. The feeding was animalistic, savage, the hunger of a body that had spent three days transforming and needed fuel to complete the process. By the fourth bag, Marcus's hands had stopped shaking. By the fifth, his eyes cleared completely.
He looked at me—really looked, not the wild scanning of a predator assessing prey but the focused attention of someone trying to understand their new reality.
"Three days," he said. "I was dead for three days."
"Transforming. Not the same as dead, though the distinction is technical."
"I dreamed." His voice carried wonder rather than fear. "Or something like dreaming. I was in a place that was dark and warm and... patient. Like it was waiting for something."
"That's the transformation. Some new vampires describe it as sleep, others as a void. Your experience was somewhere in between."
"And you?" Marcus studied me with the heightened perception of a newborn—every detail visible, every nuance significant. "You waited. I can feel that you waited."
"I promised you immortality. That promise meant nothing if I wasn't here when you woke."
The statement hung between us—the acknowledgment of obligation that defined maker-progeny relationships. Marcus processed it with the same methodical attention he'd applied to every aspect of his turning decision.
"What happens now?"
"Now you learn. Control, feeding, the rules that govern our existence." I moved toward the stairs. "But first, you meet the rest of the family."
Elena was waiting in the bar's main room.
She'd closed early—sent the staff home, locked the doors, prepared for whatever emerged from the basement. Her posture was relaxed but ready, the particular stillness of someone who'd been fighting for ninety years and never forgot how.
"Welcome to the family," she said when Marcus appeared on the stairs. Her voice was dry but not unkind.
Marcus looked at her, at me, at the bar around him—the space where his new existence would be shaped. The hunger was still visible in his eyes, but it was controlled now, banked rather than consuming.
"This is The Silver Dollar," I said. "My business, my territory, your new home. Elena is my second—my partner in everything we're building. You'll report to both of us depending on the situation."
"Chain of command." Marcus nodded, the military framework comfortable even in his transformed state. "I understand."
"Do you? Because the hierarchy here isn't just organizational. It's biological." I let my fangs extend slightly—a reminder of what I was, what he'd become. "I'm your maker. The bond between us is permanent and unbreakable. I can command you, compel you, feel what you feel. That's not a threat—it's a fact."
"And her?" Marcus looked at Elena.
"She's not your maker, but she has authority. Different chains, equal rank. Don't make either of us choose between you and her."
Elena's lips twitched—the closest she came to a smile. "He's processing. Good sign. The ones who can't process usually attack something by now."
"I attacked Sam when I woke up," Marcus admitted.
"Everyone does. It's why makers stay close during the rising." Elena moved toward the bar, retrieved a TruBlood from the refrigerator. "Synthetic. Not as good as the real thing, but it takes the edge off between feedings."
Marcus accepted the bottle, studied it with the same curiosity he'd shown everything else. The synthetic blood smell filled the space—artificial, chemical, a poor substitute for what his body truly craved.
"This is what I eat now?"
"This is what you drink in public. Real blood comes from donors, carefully selected and willingly provided. The rules are strict—no killing, no exposure, no creating problems that attract attention." I watched him take the first sip, saw the disappointment cross his face. "TruBlood tastes like compromise. Get used to it."
"I've eaten MREs in combat zones. This isn't worse."
Elena's laugh was genuine, surprising all of us. "I like him. He has perspective."
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