Blood and Bills

Chapter 6: Blood and Bills

The knock came sharp and polite—three quick raps that cut through the low hum of morning chatter in the hall.

Jax was already halfway out the door, bag slung over his shoulder. He paused, glanced back at me. “You expecting company, twenty-one?”

I shook my head. “Not unless the queens changed their minds and decided to eat me early.”

Kai snorted from his bunk. Theo didn’t look up from his screen.

Jax opened the door anyway.

A woman stood there—mid-thirties maybe, human by the scent of antiseptic and coffee that clung to her scrubs. Dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, name tag reading “Nurse Marisol Reyes – Campus Infirmary.” She carried a small metal case and a clipboard, expression calm but no-nonsense.

“Nico Black?” she asked, eyes flicking past Jax to land on me.

“Yeah.”

She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. “I’m here to remove your cast and administer your first regenerative dose. Standard protocol for new human transfers with recent trauma. Sit.”

I lowered myself back onto the bunk. The guys lingered—curious, not quite leaving.

Marisol set the case on my desk, snapped it open. Inside: a syringe filled with a thick, dark-red liquid that caught the light like liquid garnet. Vampire blood. Diluted, processed, stabilized—whatever they did to make it safe for humans—but still unmistakably *them*.

She glanced at the cast. “This’ll sting for about thirty seconds, then the accelerated healing kicks in. You’ll be sore, but mobile. No more crutches by the end of the hour.”

I stared at the syringe. “How much does that stuff cost?”

“More than most humans make in a year,” she said matter-of-factly, prepping an alcohol swab. “Lucky for you, it’s covered.”

My stomach dropped. “Covered how?”

“Anonymous donor. Same one who paid your hospital bills from the accident—ER, surgery, two weeks inpatient, physical therapy consult. All cleared. You owe nothing.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. The numbers flashed in my head anyway: thousands. Tens of thousands, probably. I’d been scraping by on minimum-wage graveyard shifts since sixteen. My bank account had been negative when I got hit. Now this?

“Who?” I asked again, quieter.

Marisol met my eyes. “Anonymous means anonymous, Mr. Black. Could be the school. Could be a sponsor. Could be one of the queens flexing. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re debt-free and walking out of here today.”

She didn’t wait for more questions. She cut the cast away with a small oscillating saw—vibrations buzzing up my leg—then peeled it off like old wrapping paper. The skin underneath was pale, scarred from the fracture line, still mottled with bruises. She swabbed my arm, slid the needle in smooth and quick.

The burn hit fast—hot, spreading like wildfire through my veins. I gripped the edge of the bunk, knuckles white. Thirty seconds felt like thirty minutes. Then it cooled. Deep inside, something shifted—bones knitting, muscles loosening, ribs settling like puzzle pieces clicking back together.

I exhaled. Tested my weight on the bad leg.

Solid.

No pain. Just a dull ache, like I’d run too far the day before.

Marisol packed up. “You’re cleared for normal activity. Light sparring’s fine after twenty-four hours. Avoid getting hit by cars again.” A small, dry smile. “See you at the infirmary if you do.”

She left as quietly as she’d come.

The room was silent for a beat.

Jax whistled low. “Anonymous donor. Right. Bet you ten bucks it’s one of them.”

“Which one?” Kai asked, eyebrow raised.

“Doesn’t matter,” Theo said, closing his laptop. “Whoever it is, they just bought him a clean slate. And a target on his back.”

I stood—slow at first, then straighter. No limp. No crutches. My leg felt… normal. Better than normal. I took a few steps across the room. Steady. Strong.

I looked down at the phone in my pocket. The Bloodmate app had refreshed sometime in the last few minutes.

**21 – Nico Black**

*Regenerative Treatment Administered*

*Endurance: +12%*

*Intrigue Factor: Rising*

I didn’t know whether to feel grateful or terrified.

Whoever paid didn’t do it out of charity. Not in this place.

They did it because they wanted me *here*. Walking. Whole. Useful.

We filed out for class together—me in the middle, no crutches, no cast, just the faint echo of vampire blood humming under my skin.

Supernatural History 101 was in the East Wing lecture hall. Stone steps, tiered seating, a massive projection screen showing pre-Accords maps marked with red Swarm incursions.

Professor Thorne—a tall, silver-haired vampire with eyes like chipped ice—glanced up as we entered. His gaze lingered on me for half a second longer than the others.

“Mr. Black,” he said, voice carrying without effort. “Punctual. And upright. Impressive recovery.”

A few heads turned.

I met his eyes. Poker face.

“Just following doctor’s orders, Professor.”

He smiled—small, sharp. “Sit. We’re discussing the Integration Accords today. And the price some humans paid to stand in rooms like this.”

I took a seat near the back with the guys.

The lecture began.

But in the back of my mind, the questions kept turning.

Who paid?

Why me?

And how long before whoever it was came to collect?

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