Chapter 2 - The Name
Ezekial
17:30 | Solarium Private Club – Suite 409
Solarium.
Ezekial’s lip curled faintly as he stepped through the doorway. A name like that was either irony or marketing. Maybe both. What kind of fool names a private vampire enclave after the sun?
Still, it served its purpose. Not just a club, but a suite hotel catering to the discreet elite. Vampires, mostly—but anyone with enough coin could rent space. No drama. No eyes. No questions.
Suite 409 was basic, unremarkable. Three rooms: a bedroom, a clean little bathroom, and a kitchenette barely big enough for a blood bag and a bottle of brandy. No wards. No ritual. Just neutral ground and thick doors. It was enough.
Topher was already inside, pacing the edge of the carpet like an animal pretending to be a man. His jacket was too loud—some garish synthleather thing with jagged embroidery that meant absolutely nothing. The tattoos crawling up his neck were worse. Cheap ink, worse design. No lineage, no sense. Just noise. Ezekial shut the door behind him with a quiet click.
“Stop fidgeting,” he said, tone low.
Topher froze instantly, then plastered on that greasy smile Ezekial hated.
“Sorry, my lord. Just… excited, you know?”
Excited. The boy sounded like he was being invited to a gala, not a grave. Ezekial didn’t answer. He crossed the room slowly, methodically, letting the silence stretch until it became weight. He hadn’t made a childer in over a century. Only did when it was demanded of him—when the old laws insisted his bloodline not end with him. It felt like theft every time. Taking a life, even willingly, even with purpose, was still taking.
Topher would never understand that.
But maybe… just maybe, he could be molded. Contained. Ezekial didn’t like him, but the boy’s greed might prove useful under control. And if not? Then at least he wouldn’t be someone else’s problem.
“Lie down,” Ezekial said, already unbuttoning his cuffs.
Topher scrambled to obey, practically bouncing onto the bed like he expected a kiss with his death. Ezekial didn’t bother to warn him again. He bit cleanly—no flourish, no intimacy. Teeth sank into flesh, and blood surged warm against his tongue. Topher gasped, then whimpered, body going slack under the pull.
Ten minutes.
Twelve.
Fifteen.
Ezekial drank slowly, carefully. Just enough to bring Topher to the edge. Pale now. Breathing shallow. Almost gone. He withdrew and bit into his own wrist without hesitation, pressing it to Topher’s slack mouth.
“Drink,” he said. “Now.”
And the boy did. Desperate. Clutching at the offered wrist with trembling fingers, sucking greedily like it would save him. It would. But it would also end him. Five minutes later, it was done. Topher lay motionless, caught in that strange stillness between death and change. The body would reboot in its own time. The mind—well. That was always the real gamble.
Ezekial wiped his wrist with a cloth from the kitchenette sink. Checked his collar. Straightened the cuffs. Then he left. The door clicked softly shut behind him. Time to reset.
Time to meet the doll.
17:55 | Solarium Private Club – Lounge Bar, East Wing
He didn’t go far. The Solarium had cameras in every suite—discreet, encrypted, never archived past twenty-four hours unless flagged. For vampire clientele, it was less about voyeurism and more about insurance. Newly turned fledglings weren’t known for their stability. Ezekial stepped into one of the private nooks off the east wing, sliding his thumbprint across a black glass terminal tucked behind a sliding panel. His sigil flared faintly on the interface as he logged in.
Suite 409 – Live Feed Access: Authorized.
Emergency Containment Protocol: Manual Only.
He toggled the display to show the bedroom. Topher was still down. Good.
His limbs twitched once—reflex, not consciousness. No snarling. No spasms. No signs of immediate frenzy. Ezekial studied the screen for another minute, watching for anything unusual. Just a body in transition. Hollow, but breathing.
He minimized the feed and set alerts—motion triggers keyed to the bedframe and floor. If Topher stirred before Ms. Wells was here, he’d know. Then he turned away and made his way to the lounge. The east bar was quiet at this hour—Solarium traffic didn’t usually ramp up until after sunset. The air was scented with something warm and herbal, meant to mask the iron tang that inevitably followed vampires. The lighting was low and indirect, filtered through antique glass fixtures shaped like hanging moons.
He took a booth near the rear, his back to the wall and his view toward the elevators. Classic habit. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t check the time. Just folded his hands on the table and waited.
She would arrive soon.
And for a moment—just a sliver of one—he allowed himself to be curious.
18:00 | Solarium Private Club – Lounge Bar, East Wing
He didn’t look at the screen again. The motion alerts would ping if Topher moved. For now, he preferred not to see the boy’s face. He folded his hands atop the dark-stained table, leather gloves resting beside them like shed skin, and let the stillness settle in his bones. It had been over a century since the last time he made a childer.
Ysolde.
She hadn’t asked to be turned. She’d demanded it. A battlefield bond born of blood and fire, forged in the collapse of an old world. Ezekial had turned her because he needed a second to survive the end of a dynasty—and because she’d given him no other option. She’d slit her own throat to make the decision for him.
He still wasn’t sure whether he respected her for it or resented her.
Ysolde had burned bright. Too bright. She didn’t last five decades before walking into the sea and vanishing beneath the waves.
He’d felt her go. Not the death. Just the absence. Like a cord snapped in the cold.
And now… Topher.
A leech in life, and likely worse in unlife. Ezekial had no illusions about what he’d done. Topher’s turning wasn’t necessity—it was compliance. A formality for the Council, a box checked. But if he had to claim a childer, at least he’d claimed a broken one. No one else would want him. No one else should. Maybe that was the point.
Make him. Chain him. Use him.
Still… he disliked it.
The boy’s ambition reeked. It wasn’t the hunger of someone who craved purpose—it was the slobbering want of someone who saw power like a buffet line. Turning Topher was like polishing a sewer grate and calling it a throne. But even sewers served a purpose.
He reached for the drink already waiting at the table—cinnamon bark and fortified bloodwine, more scent than strength—and let it sit beneath his nose.
He didn’t sip.
He didn’t need to.
Instead, he simply waited.
And remembered how it felt to watch someone become his.