Chapter 25: The Draining — Part 2
The coffin lid wouldn't close properly.
I'd measured it three times during preparation—Marcus's height, shoulder width, the clearance needed for a body that might shift during transformation. The calculations had been precise. The execution was proving otherwise.
"Try angling his shoulders," Elena said from the stairs.
"I've tried angling his shoulders. The issue is the lid warped when I reinforced the hinges."
She descended fully, studying the problem with the professional detachment of someone who'd seen worse. Marcus lay in the coffin, unconscious, pale, his chest still—the absence of heartbeat that marked the transition between human death and vampire awakening.
"He looks peaceful."
"He looks dead."
"Same thing, for the next few nights." Elena crouched beside the coffin, examining the warped lid. "The wood swelled from humidity. Louisiana air. Should've used metal."
"I'll remember that for next time."
The comment drew a sharp look from her. "Planning more progeny already?"
"Planning for contingencies. That's what I do."
Together, we forced the lid into place. The seal wasn't perfect—a gap remained along one edge—but it would serve. Marcus didn't need airtight; he needed darkness and time.
"How long?" Elena asked.
"Twenty-four to seventy-two hours. The system—" I caught myself. "The process varies. Some rise quickly. Others take longer. The only certainty is that rushing it kills them."
"And if he doesn't rise at all?"
"Then I buried a man who trusted me."
Elena didn't offer comfort. She wasn't the type, and I wouldn't have accepted it anyway. Instead, she produced a blood bag from somewhere in her jacket—cold, clinical, the donated variety Barbara managed through her donor network.
"You look like shit. Feed."
The blood was unsatisfying after the heat of Marcus's veins—synthetic in its packaging, mechanical in its consumption. But it restored what I'd spent during the draining and feeding. My blood reserve climbed from dangerous levels to something manageable, the hunger receding from desperate to merely constant.
"I'm staying down here," I said.
"Figured you would." Elena moved toward the stairs. "I'll handle the bar. Janet and Delia can manage the floor. Frank knows to call if anything unusual happens."
"Unusual like what?"
"Like Victor deciding this is a good time to make a move. Like Eric's people showing up for an inspection. Like anything that isn't standard Tuesday night operations." She paused at the threshold. "The world doesn't stop because you're making progeny, Sam. Your responsibilities don't either."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you've been laser-focused on this"—she gestured at the coffin—"for weeks. The business runs itself to a point. Beyond that point, it needs leadership."
"Three nights. That's all I'm asking. Three nights, and either Marcus rises or he doesn't. Then I'm back."
Elena studied me for a long moment. Whatever she saw in my expression must have satisfied something, because she nodded once and climbed the stairs without further argument.
The basement door closed behind her. I was alone with the coffin and the uncertainty it contained.
The first night passed slowly.
I sat against the wall opposite the coffin, tracking time through the absence of other ways to measure it. No windows in the basement, no natural light to mark the passage of hours. Just the hum of the building's electrical system and the absolute silence from the wooden box where Marcus Webb was either transforming or decomposing.
The bond between us was tenuous—a thread of awareness at the edge of perception. I could feel him, barely. Not consciousness, not emotion, just... presence. Something in that coffin was still connected to me.
Is that a good sign or just wishful thinking?
The system interface offered metrics I didn't entirely trust:
TURNING PROCESS: STAGE 3 (TRANSFORMATION)
Bond Status: 45% → 48% Subject Vitals: Undetectable (Normal) Transformation Progress: 12% Estimated Completion: 36-48 hours
Twelve percent. After an entire night of waiting. The numbers were clinical, detached from the reality of sitting in a basement with a maybe-corpse and hoping for the best.
I thought about George Patterson—the old man who'd trusted me with his legacy, who'd known what I was and accepted me anyway. He'd died peacefully, in his own bed, holding the photograph of his wife. A good death, by human standards.
Marcus chose this. He knew the risks. If he doesn't rise, that's not murder—it's a gamble that didn't pay off.
The rationalization felt hollow. I'd convinced him to take the gamble. I'd recruited him, cultivated him, offered him immortality when he was desperate and dying. Whatever the outcome, the responsibility was mine.
The coffin remained silent. The transformation continued, invisible and unmeasurable except through the system's cold percentages.
The second night brought Elena with food I couldn't eat.
"George's jambalaya recipe," she said, setting the container on the table I'd dragged into the basement for supplies. "Janet made it. Said it was too good to throw away."
"I can't—"
"I know you can't eat it. But the smell might help." She settled into the chair across from me, the one I'd added when it became clear I wasn't leaving the basement. "You've been down here for thirty-six hours. When's the last time you fed properly?"
"The blood bag."
"Cold donated blood doesn't count as 'properly.' You need to hunt, or at least use the donor network."
"After Marcus rises."
"If Marcus rises. And if he doesn't, you'll be so depleted you won't be able to handle the aftermath." Elena's voice carried the particular sharpness of someone whose patience had limits. "I'm not carrying you out of this basement because you forgot to take care of yourself."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're obsessing. There's a difference."
She wasn't wrong. The vigil had become its own form of self-punishment—sitting, waiting, tracking percentages that climbed by single digits while hours stretched into eternities. The jambalaya's smell filled the basement, triggering memories I couldn't fully access. George's kitchen. His wife's recipes. The life that had ended while I was preparing to create a new one.
"He was the first human who knew what I was and didn't run," I said. The words came without planning. "George, I mean. He figured it out in the second week and just... kept going. Kept bringing me food I couldn't eat. Kept treating me like a person instead of a monster."
"And now you're trying to honor that by creating more people who know what you are?"
"I'm trying to build something that lasts. George understood that. He trusted me with his legacy because he believed I'd make it matter." I looked at the coffin. "Marcus trusted me with his existence for the same reason."
"And if he doesn't rise?"
"Then I failed both of them."
Elena was quiet for a long moment. The jambalaya's smell intensified as the heat escaped the container. Somewhere above us, the Silver Dollar's normal operations continued—customers drinking, staff serving, the business that would outlive all of us if I did my job right.
"He's going to rise," Elena said finally.
"You don't know that."
"No. But you picked him for a reason. You're usually right about people." She stood, leaving the jambalaya on the table. "Feed before midnight. That's an order from your business partner, not a request."
She left before I could argue. The coffin sat in its circle of silence, the system's percentages climbing imperceptibly.
Transformation Progress: 67%
Two-thirds complete. Another night, maybe two. Then I'd know.
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