The Anomaly

The blood bank is quiet at 2 AM.

I like it this way. No coworkers asking about my weekend. No supervisors checking my work. Just me, the hum of refrigeration units, and the soft beep of the analyzer.

I shouldn't be here. My shift ended four hours ago. But I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't stop thinking about the test results from this morning.

My test results.

I run my own blood through the system once a year. Call it professional curiosity. Call it the habit of someone who grew up without medical records, bouncing through foster homes that never bothered to keep track.

This morning, the analyzer threw an error. Unknown markers. Unclassifiable type.

I assumed contamination. Equipment malfunction. Something explainable.

But I've run it twice more since then. Same result.

The analyzer hums as it processes my latest sample. I watch the progress bar crawl across the screen, my coffee growing cold beside me.

I should call Dr. Morrison. She'd know what to do with anomalous results. But something stops me, the same instinct that kept me from mentioning it this morning.

The machine beeps. Results ready.

I pull up the display.

Same impossible markers. Same unclassifiable pattern. But this time, I've run it against the full database, every blood type, every variant, every anomaly ever recorded.

Zero matches.

My blood doesn't exist.

At least, not according to any medical database in the world.

I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen. Twenty-seven years old, and I'm only now discovering that my blood is impossible. What does that even mean? A mutation? A new variant no one's documented?

The lights flicker.

I look up, frowning. The blood bank is on hospital backup power. Lights don't flicker.

They flicker again. Then go out entirely.

Emergency lights kick in, dim red glow that makes the room look like a darkroom. Or a crime scene.

"Hello?" My voice sounds too loud in the sudden quiet.

The refrigeration units have stopped humming. The analyzer is dark. Even the exit signs seem dimmer than they should be.

I reach for my phone. No signal.

That's when I hear it. Footsteps. Several sets, moving in perfect unison, getting closer.

I grab the first thing I can find, a metal tray, and back toward the emergency exit. The footsteps stop outside the main door.

Silence.

Then the door opens, and three figures step into the red-lit room.

They're beautiful. That's my first thought, and I hate myself for it. A woman with silver hair and eyes that catch the light wrong. Two men flanking her, tall and pale and moving like predators.

"Elara Vance," the woman says. Not a question.

"How do you know my name?"

"We've been looking for you for a very long time." She takes a step closer. I raise the tray. She smiles like I've done something adorable. "You don't need to be afraid. We're not here to hurt you."

"People who break into blood banks at 2 AM usually aren't offering good news."

"No," she agrees. "But we are offering necessity." Her eyes drop to the analyzer screen behind me, the results still displayed. "You've discovered something tonight. Something that doesn't make sense."

My grip tightens on the tray. "You're tracking my research?"

"We're tracking you. The research is... convenient." She glances at the men. "We don't have time to explain everything. Our king is dying. Only your blood can save him."

I laugh. It comes out high and sharp. "Your king. Right. And I'm supposed to just..."

"Come with us. Yes."

"I'm calling the police."

"Your phone doesn't work. Neither does the landline. Neither will the emergency call button behind you." She tilts her head. "We've taken precautions."

One of the men moves, too fast, faster than anyone should move, and suddenly he's beside me, the tray pulled from my grip before I register his presence.

My throat locked shut. I can't think. I stumble backward, hit the wall, and the man doesn't pursue. Just holds the tray, watching me with eyes that reflect the emergency lights like an animal's.

"What are you?" I whisper.

The woman's smile widens slightly. "What do you think we are?"

I know the answer. It's insane, impossible, the stuff of movies and nightmares. But I'm looking at a man who moved faster than my eyes could track, and my blood doesn't exist in any database, and the clinical part of my brain was already cataloguing the evidence.

"You're vampires."

"Yes."

The word settled into me with the weight of absolute truth.

"And your blood," she continues, "is the only thing that can sustain our king. So I'm going to ask you once, politely: Will you come with us?"

"And if I say no?"

"Then I'll ask less politely." Her expression doesn't change. "The king is dying, Ms. Vance. We are out of time and out of options. You can cooperate, or you can resist. The outcome will be the same."

I look at the man still standing too close, the woman blocking the main exit, the second man now positioned between me and the emergency door.

Trapped.

I've been trapped before. Seven foster homes taught me what it feels like to have no good options. To survive by picking the least bad path forward.

"If I cooperate," I say slowly, "you won't hurt me?"

"We need you alive and healthy. Hurting you would be counterproductive."

Not exactly a promise. But it's something.

"Fine." The word tastes like surrender. "I'll come."

The woman nods, satisfied. "Wise choice. This way, Ms. Vance."

She turns toward the door. One of the men takes my arm, gentle, but his grip might as well be steel.

As they lead me out of the blood bank, past the dark monitors and silent machines, I take one last look at the analyzer screen.

My impossible blood. The anomaly that brought them here.

Whatever's waiting for me, it started tonight.

The lights still haven't come back on.