Weeks had bled into a monotonous, scorching haze. Phoenix was a dry, unforgiving oven, and Mame had spent every hour of it reinforcing Renée's home. The backyard fence was now a perimeter of tripwires and subtle, vibration-sensitive alarms. The house was a trap, and Mame was the spider at the center of the web.
He knew they were there before they even crossed the property line.
They thought they were ghosts—the apex of stealth. Alice and Jasper had arrived three days ago, positioning themselves in the dense canopy of a desert-hardy pepper tree in the neighboring yard. They were silent, motionless, and invisible to the human eye.
But Mame wasn't a human eye. He was a hunter.
He stood in his bedroom, the blinds drawn to a sliver. He didn't need to scan the yard with his binoculars. He simply felt the static in the air, the unnatural stillness that defined a vampire's presence. He turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto the exact cluster of leaves where Jasper was crouched.
Mame held his stare, unblinking, his expression utterly impassive.
In the tree, Jasper, the veteran soldier, felt the weight of that gaze. A slow, genuine grin spread across his face, and he let out a short, airy laugh that didn't disturb a single leaf.
"What's funny?" Alice whispered, her brow furrowing. She was scanning the house for threats, completely unaware that the boy behind the window had tracked them within seconds of their arrival.
Jasper pointed a gloved finger at Mame's window. "He's been watching us since we got here, Alice. And he's signaling."
Alice blinked, looking toward the window. Mame had caught the gesture. He didn't flinch. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod—a challenge. Then, he held up one finger: Wait. He turned away from the window, his silhouette disappearing into the shadows of the room.
"He knows," Jasper said, a hint of respect in his voice. "He's coming out."
Mame walked into the living room, where Renée was busy folding laundry. He was already dressed in his running gear—a lightweight, dark compression shirt and reinforced sneakers.
"Hey, Mom," Mame said, grabbing his water bottle from the counter.
Renée looked up, her expression tired but warm. "Mame? It's nearly ten at night. You're going out?"
"It's cooler now," Mame replied, giving her his best 'normal teenager' smile. "The days are just too brutal. I need to burn off some energy, or I'm going to go stir-crazy in this house."
Renée sighed, but she didn't look worried. She'd gotten used to his weird, intense habits over the last few weeks. "Fine, fine. Just... stick to the main roads where there are streetlights, okay? I don't need you getting lost in the suburbs. Stay safe."
"I always do," Mame said.
He stepped out the back door, closing it softly behind him. The Phoenix night air was still warm, smelling of parched earth and blooming jasmine. He didn't run toward the main road. He didn't even jog. He walked straight toward the perimeter of the backyard, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.
He stopped at the base of the pepper tree and looked up into the darkness.
"You're making too much noise," Mame said, his voice just loud enough to carry into the branches. "If I can see you from the kitchen, James can smell you from the outskirts. You're not guarding the house; you're advertising it."
The leaves rustled. In a movement so fast it was barely registered, Jasper and Alice dropped from the tree, landing soundlessly on the grass. They stood before him—pale, impossibly beautiful, and visibly annoyed.
"We were perfectly hidden," Alice said, her voice like chimes. She peered at him, clearly trying to read a future that didn't seem to have a clear path where he was concerned. "You shouldn't even know we're here."
"I don't rely on sight," Mame said, crossing his arms. "I rely on the fact that you two have the subtlety of a house fire. If you're going to stay, you follow my lead. And right now, you're in my way."
Jasper looked at Mame, his eyes searching. He didn't see a boy. He saw a peer. "And what does the 'lead' look like tonight, Mame?"
Mame turned toward the dark expanse of the neighborhood. "Tonight, we see if the Street Network is lying. I have a feeling something just moved past the canal."
The Phoenix canal at night was a different world—a stagnant ribbon of black water cutting through the industrial sprawl. The air here was heavy with the smell of wet reeds and industrial runoff. Mame led the way, moving with a silence that seemed to irritate the two vampires following him.
"You've been dragging us through these back alleys for an hour, Mame," Jasper said, his voice low and tight. He stopped, his golden eyes scanning the perimeter. "I haven't sensed anything. No bloodlust, no predatory spike, no residual thirst in the air. This place is quiet."
Alice stood beside him, her brow furrowed in concentration. "And I have no visions. Nothing about this man, nothing about this death. If something violent had happened, I should have seen it."
Mame stopped abruptly and turned to face them, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Because your powers are curated. Alice, your visions only trigger when people you care about—the family, the 'mate' bonds—are involved. If you saw every random murder in a city this size, you'd be paralyzed by the sheer volume of tragedies. You'd be institutionalized within a week."
He turned his flashlight toward a thick patch of weeds near the water's edge. "And Jasper, you're not a radar dish. You need a target, and this location is far enough from the city center that it's effectively off your grid. You aren't 'looking' for random death, so you don't feel it."
The beam of light cut through the dark, illuminating a heap of clothes that looked unnaturally crumpled.
Jasper dropped to a crouch, his eyes widening. He reached out and rolled the body over. It was a man, barely thirty, his skin an ashen, waxy gray. There was no struggle, no trauma—just two tiny, puncture marks on the neck and a stillness that was utterly absolute.
"Drained," Alice whispered, her hands covering her mouth. "He's completely empty."
"See?" Mame said, his voice flat. "He's here. And he's eating. Just because you don't 'feel' it doesn't mean it isn't happening. It just means you aren't paying attention to the right variables."
Jasper stood up, his posture defensive. He scanned the surrounding darkness, his golden eyes darting. "It's not necessarily him, Mame. There are nomads in the Southwest. Other vampires pass through here all the time. It could be anyone, or anything."
Mame looked at Jasper with a look of supreme indifference. "Sure. Maybe it's a tourist. Maybe it's a ghost. It doesn't change the fact that there is a predator in my backyard, and he just killed a local."
"We should report this to the authorities," Alice suggested, her humanitarian instincts kicking in. "Or at least, let someone know—"
"And tell them what? That a vampire did it?" Mame reached into his backpack, pulling out a heavy, glass bottle filled with clear liquid and a rag stuffed into the top. He struck a match with a flick of his wrist. "If the police find a drained body, they'll lock down the area. We lose our mobility. We lose the element of surprise. And if the media gets a hold of it, the 'vampire' issue becomes a city-wide panic, which makes everything harder."
"What are you doing?" Jasper asked, stepping back as Mame poured the gasoline over the body and the surrounding brush.
"I'm cleaning up," Mame said. He ignited the rag and tossed the bottle.
Whoosh.
The flames erupted instantly, consuming the body and the immediate brush in a bright, hungry fire. The heat pushed back the damp, cool air of the canal. Mame watched the orange glow reflect in his eyes, showing no emotion whatsoever.
"That body won't be found," Mame said, watching the fire. "When the sun comes up, there will be nothing left but ash. No police, no lockdowns, no panic."
Jasper looked at Mame, his expression complex—a mix of grudging respect and genuine unease. "You're very efficient, Mame. Too efficient for a human. Where did you learn to do this?"
Mame watched the fire burn down, the fuel already beginning to consume the remaining evidence. He didn't answer. He just turned back toward the city, the light of the fire casting long, jagged shadows against his face.
"I learned it the hard way," Mame said. "And if you want to survive the next few days, I suggest you stop looking for reasons why it isn't James and start preparing for the fight."
"Stay alert," Mame told the two vampires as he turned his back on the smoldering pile of ash. "If he's feeding in the city, he's getting reckless. He's looking for a challenge, or he's starving. Either way, keep your eyes on the grid. If you see anything that doesn't belong, you call."
Alice and Jasper didn't argue. The display of cold, calculated violence—the sheer lack of hesitation in Mame's actions—had shifted the dynamic. They weren't just chaperoning a human anymore; they were following a hunter.
Mame didn't wait for a response. He slipped back into the shadows of the alleyways, moving with the practiced grace of someone who knew every blind spot in the urban landscape. He took the long way back, ensuring he wasn't being followed, before hopping the back fence into Renée's yard.
He paused for a second, checking the tension on the high-tensile wire he'd installed. It was still taut. He took a deep breath, scrubbing his hands with a handful of damp soil to remove the lingering scent of gasoline, then made his way to the back door.
He stepped into the kitchen, his heart rate controlled and steady.
Renée was still up, sitting at the kitchen island with a magazine, a half-finished cup of herbal tea beside her. She looked up as he entered, her nose wrinkling almost instantly.
"Mame?" she asked, standing up. "My goodness, what is that smell? It smells like... gasoline and something sharp. Like bonfire smoke."
Mame didn't freeze. He held his hands out, his face etched with a convincing expression of weary annoyance. "I'm sorry, Mom. I was out on that run, and I heard some yowling coming from one of the storm drains down the block. I thought I saw a cat stuck in the sewer grate. I went to get it out, but I must have stumbled into a puddle of runoff or something near the construction site."
Renée stared at him, her eyes widening. She walked over, peering at his clothes, which were indeed smudged with dirt and reeked of the chemicals he'd used to clean up the scene.
"A cat?" she repeated, her voice rising in disbelief. "Mame, you spent all last week putting up that high-tensile wire fence specifically to keep stray cats and animals out of the yard. You said they were 'vectors for pests' and 'perimeter integrity issues.' Now you're crawling into sewers to save one?"
Mame offered a weak, lopsided shrug. "I guess I have a soft spot for the ones that aren't trying to breach my perimeter. It was trapped, Mom. I couldn't just leave it."
Renée let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking her head as she went back to her tea. "You are one weird, complicated kid, you know that? First, you're acting like a tactical engineer, and then you're a feline rescue service. I don't know whether to buy you a tool belt or a bag of cat food."
"I'll take the tool belt," Mame muttered.
"Go," she said, waving a hand at him. "Before the smell settles into my couch. Go take a shower and put those clothes in the laundry. I'll run a heavy cycle in the morning."
"Will do."
Mame headed to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. He stripped off his clothes, tossing them directly into a sealable plastic bag he had prepared, intending to dispose of them in a dumpster miles away the next morning.
He stepped into the shower, turning the water to scalding hot. As the steam filled the room, he watched the gray, soot-streaked water spiral down the drain. He wasn't thinking about the cat he didn't save or the fence he'd built. He was thinking about the puncture marks on the dead man's neck.
James wasn't just lurking. He was hunting, and he was getting sloppy. And in Mame's world, a sloppy hunter was a dead hunter.
He turned off the faucet, grabbed a towel, and looked at his reflection in the fogged mirror. He didn't look like a high schooler. He looked like a man who was already preparing for a funeral—he just hadn't decided whose it would be yet.