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“But witch blood is wortha lotof money.” Her hand goes to the slowly healing wound in her neck. “And I thought maybe we could come to an agreement.”
Of course.Nobody in Midnight City does anything merely because it’s the right thing to do. “Then what do you want? I don’t have any money.”
Her lips curl into a cold smile. “I accept other currencies.”
Sonowshe’s going to admit to whatever dirty shit she wants me to do? “Like?”
She runs her thumb over my chin, catching the last of the blood, then pushes it between my lips. Before I can process the audacity of the act, my body has already responded, my mouth opening to admit her, tongue greedily licking the last sweet drops from her finger. Her smile is the same one would give a well-trained pet after it performed a circus trick. “I’m sure you have your uses.”
I blush like a blundering moron.How obnoxious.
Before I can say anything else, she leans in close, breath brushing my cheek, and says, “Be safe, kitten,” and turns to leave. “I’ll come collecting soon enough.”
4. PAPERWORK OF THE UNDEAD WHO HAVE NOT YET BEEN FORSAKEN BY GOD
Being on a bus full of strange people who don’t seem to understand the concept of personal space – or personal hygiene – has always been a nightmare for me but it’s worse today. The only free seat has something mysteriously sticky glued to it, so I stand. Every time someone brushes past my body, I get the urge to scream and flinch away, once again reminded of my night at the Myrrh & Adder. This is made worse by the fact that slowly, over the past week, I have gotten weaker and weaker again, without being able to secure work.
Despite its claim of being accessible to all Tartarus residents, the Welfare Services Centre is located in an obscure part of the neighborhood that is impossible to get to and also opens late only one night of the week. It takes me thirty minutes to cross half of Tartarus on the bus, and then another thirty to get from the bus stop to the ominous brick building. By the time I arrive, I’m ten minutes late for my fifteen-minute appointment, clutching a crumpled manila folder to my chest.
The building’s inside is strangely dusty and full of garish eighties-patterns, from the dark green carpet covered in randomly arranged geometric shapes to the profoundly uncomfortable metal chairs, which are upholstered in vomit-green with entrail-pink dots. The woman sitting across from me at her desk is brusque and thoroughly unimpressed by my paperwork.
After taking an imprint of my teeth and a sample of my venom, she asks, “Why didn’t you report yourself when you were first turned?”
I squirm in my seat, feeling oddly stupid under her patronizing gaze. “Nobody told me I was supposed to and… it was a difficult transition.”
She sighs and slaps a flyer onto the desk. “There are resources to help with transitioning, honey.” Her flat tone stands in direct opposition to her diminutive use of pet names. “They also would have sent you here sooner. Either way, you only qualify for Transition Aid within six months of being turned, so you need to produce proof of when you first transitioned. And to be frank, the program is mostly designed for lycanthropes, whose transition process often inhibits their ability to work. It rarely gets approved for vampires.”
“But–”
She leans forward with a sincere expression on her round face. “Look, sweetie, I’ve already given you the minimum fine for failing to report your transition. But even if I wanted to hand you a cheque today, it’s not up to my discretion. Without the right paperwork, there’s nothing I can do.”
“How–” It takes all my strength not to add ‘the hell’,“–do I prove when I was turned?”
She sighs and shuffles around some papers on her desk. “You need two residents of the city who have known you at least five years to verify the date of your transition. What about the person who turned you? Would they be able to do that?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“A family member, maybe?”
I shrink a little further. My family is deeply religious and if being gay hadn’t been enough to make them disown me, being a vampire certainly would. Midnight City was supposed to be where my dreams came true, far away from the restraints of home. “No, I don’t really have family here.”
“A friend? Maybe your GP?”
I clench my jaw. Mav is my only friend and I haven’t been able to afford the doctor since I got here. With a sense of defeat, I shake my head.
Another deep sigh sends the smell of onion and lunch meat across the desk. She looks like she’s heard this story fifty times already today and has become completely numb to it. “Why don’t you give these people a try?” She pushes the flyer closer to me. “They offer coupons to blood banks. And when you can get all the supporting paperwork together, you can make another appointment with us.”
Her words brim with a bored finality that I don’t have the strength to oppose. By the time I step out of the door, all my hope has evaporated and been replaced with a small but persistent burn in my chest. Somehow, I came to apply for financial aid and am walking away with a fine. And how am I supposed to prove when I was turned? It’s not like Casey left me with a signed paper saying‘I’m a royal bitch and turned my girlfriend against her will.’
My whole world fell apart when I was turned. I can hardly remember the first few weeks – I do remember dying, though. Until then I had just thought I was incredibly sick with some horrible virus – constant nausea, light sensitivity, aching muscles, weakness, and shaking. Of course, because I didn’t have health insurance, I never ended up getting checked out until eventually, it was too late.
Apparently, in the weeks missing from my memory, I also managed to lose my job, not long after followed by my apartment. Meanwhile, I couldn’t bear facing Casey after what she’d done to me. I had nobody else to explain to me where I could get blood or how to even function. And in the middle of that mess, I was supposed to report to the city that I’d been turned?
Bullshit.I kick the garbage can outside of the building on my way out.All of this is bullshit.
A reedy figure in a green t-shirt stands on the sidewalk holding a bible. “Would you like a flyer?”
Without thinking, I reach out and take the piece of paper. GOD HAS NOT FORSAKEN YOU is written on it in bright yellow letters. With a huffed laugh, I drop it on the sidewalk. Out of all the cults and religions in this city, Christianity is the one I know and have learned to hate. And if I’ve ever felt like God has forsaken me, it’s now.
