The Vampire King's Feeder
“That smell?” Clark says, turning to look at me through his useless, wirerimmed glasses, “That’s the smell of death.”
I stare at him, blinking for a moment, as he begins to laugh and then walks forward.
The people here don’t look like people at all. They’re mostly wolf shifters, like me, though some are the humans he was referring to that can be drained by a needle, and at a glance, I’d say I can see at least fifty figures, but all of them look like zombies or ghosts. They wear white gowns that fall to their knees, stained, dirty, smelly clothes that others have probably worn before them, probably without a proper wash.