1

"Lyra, hurry up; the customer is waiting!"

I snatched the package from the hands of this cretin of a secretary to run to my bike. I work as a courier in New York, and this idiot just made me lose precious minutes because he packed it wrong. Time is money, and I don't have enough to waste. I have already covered more than 100 kilometers today, yet I would like to do at least two or three more runs to increase my daily earnings. To achieve my goals, I race through traffic, weaving between cars, sometimes hitching onto a bus or taxi to pick up speed.

My next client is in the middle of Manhattan. I have to go to the Verona building, in one of the Big Apple's business districts. It's a place I've never set foot in, despite my job, because it's a vampire neighborhood, and they tend to call on their own minions for the kind of service I provide. However, it is not a problem for me to go there because money has no smell, no race, and no country; no matter where it comes from, I take it without shame.

Following my GPS with one eye, I look at the buildings around me, vaguely wondering what to expect. As far as I know, I've never met non-humans, and unlike the rest of the people I meet, I've never been interested in them. Luckily, vampires are by far the most regulated, so despite living in a district exclusively inhabited by my race, I have some notions about them. First of all, knowing there was a time when they hunted my kind for food, I'm glad to be protected by the Primary Agreement. It is a non-aggression pact that prohibits the unauthorized hunting and consumption of other individuals.

Even though I have never trusted the law to defend me, the bonus my company offers for coming so far from my usual neighborhood helps me put caution aside. If things go wrong, I'll handle it. Anyway, this isn't the first time I've had to take care of my own safety.

Leaning my bike against the wall, I tell myself that, after all, all humanoid bipeds look alike, so I don't have to fear them any more than others. Looking up at the building with its impeccable windows and dizzying lines, I also think that most of the people inside must be careful about their brand image. Eating the delivery person would probably be bad for business.

Pushing my cap down, I wedge my package properly under my arm before going through the automatic doors and trotting to the reception, chasing all doubts from my brain. The woman at the entrance watches me arrive with a stern look, wincing at my jeans—torn at the knees—and my Squirtle t-shirt. I'm well aware that I'm past the age of Pokemon, but I don't care what the rest of the world thinks.

Anyway, I'm not here for a fashion show. Without giving her time to make a remark, I attack directly: "I have a package for Mr. Veroni; I have to go upstairs; it's urgent!"

She hesitates to give me access to the upper floors, pouting in disgust and still staring at me. What does she think? That I came to spray-paint graffiti in the building?

"Well, at worst, I can leave the package with you!" I say, shrugging my shoulders. For me, it's not a problem; I would just say, "It's your fault if the customer didn't get it in time."

She bites her lip, worried, fiddling with her files as she weighs the pros and cons, while I pretend to turn on my heels.

"It's fine, it's fine!" she ends up snapping at me.

Courier strategy number one: When the welcome is not warm, remain calm, then insinuate that the person is risking their job. It is one of my favorite techniques. I love seeing petty department heads go from arrogance to fear. With a smirk, I watch her hand me a badge with her fingertips.

"It must be returned on your way out!" she spits at me, turning immediately back to her computer screen.

"No kidding!" I say in an acidic tone. "And here I was, dreaming of starting a collection!"

I leave while she throws me a furious sidelong glance. The remark wasn't mandatory, but I added it for fun. I walk through the elevator doors, finding myself squeezed in the middle of a group of men and women in severe dark suits, dressed to the nines. I suppose most of them are bloodsuckers, but I wouldn't know for sure, and deep down, I don't care. I think only of my bounty, and in the meantime, I slip into a corner to watch them.

Finally, I rush to the indicated office, knocking on the door before entering without waiting for an answer. After all, the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I get out of this place that makes me uncomfortable. In my haste, I come face to face with a tall, dark-haired man in a suit and tie, whom I bump into, caught in my tracks.

While grumbling about people with oversized builds, I take a step back; however, I’ve barely moved when he catches me by the arm.

"Your smell is very pleasant..." he says in a dreamy voice, his nostrils flaring.

I blink, puzzled, thinking he doesn't look sane. Raising an eyebrow, I try to free myself by explaining why I'm there. "I have a package for Mr. Veroni!"

He doesn't let go of me, his black eyes staring as if trying to enter my soul.

"That's me," he says, a crooked smile stretching his lips. "What a coincidence! I believe we were destined to—"

I cut off his reply, which I feel will be very heavy, by pressing the package against his chest somewhat brutally before handing him my tablet for a signature.

"Sign here, please!" I reply coldly, nudging him to let go of my arm, which he still held firmly.

Once he finally decides to release his grip on my wrist to grab the package by reflex, I show him the screen. Whatever happens, stay professional. Delivery strategy number four: This technique usually works with low-level flirts and annoyed paper-pushers. Unfortunately, this time he doesn't seem to be playing along; he just stares at me without moving, as if waiting for something other than the package, which doesn't interest him at all.

His eyes sparkle with a glint that tells me nothing good is coming. Hoping to get it over with as all my fears seem to come to life, I try to keep my composure despite the unease growing inside me.

"Mr. Veroni, do you want your package or no?" I ask insistently.

Unexpectedly, another mocking male voice resounds from further back. "So, boss, your pheromones no longer work?"

I lean my head forward to get a better look behind my strange client, discovering a man seated on a large walnut desk, watching us with a smile. He suddenly approaches with a predatory gait, confident, as if I were going to melt under his spell. I squint, observing this tall blonde with pale skin who contrasts strangely with his black suit.