My Night Shift Job Feeds the Vampire Queen

The Worst First Date

Mali Seraphine did not do "casual." In the three hundred and twelve years she had walked the earth, she had seduced princes, toppled empires, and once, during a particularly dull decade in the nineteenth century, accidentally started a revolution in the Balkans. She was a predator of exquisite taste, and yet, here she was, prowling the edge of a strobe, lit dance floor, feeling like an absolute amateur.

Aren Vireak was still standing by the velvet, roped entrance, looking at the room full of immortals as if he were trying to identify the best exit route for a fire drill. He hadn't noticed the subtle, hypnotic pulses of the music or the way the other guests were eyeing his jugular like a five, course meal. He just looked... annoyed.

"It’s a bit much, isn't it?" Mali purred, gliding up behind him. She wore a dress of midnight silk that seemed to drink the meager light of the room. She kept her fangs retracted, her posture fluid. She had decided to play the "mysterious waif" card; it usually worked on the lonely ones.

Aren jumped, clutching his plastic cup of cheap punch. "Oh. Hey. The Goth-theater troupe, right? You guys are really dedicated. The contact lenses are a nice touch, though the guy over by the pillar looks like he might actually be choking on his own ego."

Mali blinked. Theater troupe? "We are... very committed to our craft," she managed to say, her eyes darting to the man by the pillar, a vampire named Valerius who was, in fact, currently sulking because he hadn't fed in three days. "I’m Mali. I’ve been watching you all night, Aren. You have a very... distinct aura. A certain stillness."

"That’s just exhaustion," Aren said, rubbing his eyes. "I work the night shift at the blood bank. My body clock is basically screaming for help. Look, I’m starving. My roommates ditched me to go talk to some woman with wings, which, honestly, the costume budget here is insane, and I’m not really feeling this 'interactive performance art.' You want to get some actual food?"

Mali paused. "Food?"

"Yeah. Like, calories. Grease. The kind of thing that makes you hate yourself for a week."

Mali leaned in closer, a predatory smile touching her lips. She could smell the iron in his blood, that rich, heavy O negative that kept their local coven alive. She didn't want a diner; she wanted a dark alley or a silk, sheeted bed. But the challenge in his eyes, that strange, detached indifference, was intoxicating. She decided to indulge him. It would make the kill, or the conversion, all the more satisfying.

"Lead the way," she whispered.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in Sal’s Greasy Spoon, a fluorescent, lit hellhole that smelled of burnt coffee and despair. The vinyl booth was cracked, and the jukebox was stuck on a loop of a country song that had been popular in the nineties.

Aren didn't hesitate. He ordered a double cheeseburger, extra onions, and a side of chili cheese fries. Mali sat opposite him, her hands folded primly. She ordered nothing. She couldn't digest the swill, but she had mastered the art of looking like she was eating by moving a single wilted piece of lettuce around her plate with a fork.

"So," Mali said, trying to steer the conversation toward something seductive, like the nature of the soul or the crushing weight of eternity. "Tell me about your burdens, Aren. What keeps you awake at night?"

Aren sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to rattle his very bones. He took a massive, unflattering bite of his burger and chewed slowly. "Honestly? My federal student loans. I’m thirty-two, I work at a refrigerated warehouse for human plasma, and I’m pretty sure the interest rate is sentient at this point. It’s like a vampire, really. It just keeps sucking, and I never actually get to move forward."

Mali froze, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing her features. "You are comparing the sublime tragedy of existence to... debt collection?"

"You have no idea," Aren said, oblivious. "And then there’s my cat, Barnaby. He’s got this weird cyst on his back that the vet said might be benign, but it’s huge. It’s the size of a golf ball. I have to change his bandages twice a day. It’s gross, really. Do you want to see a picture? I have forty of them."

Mali stared at him. She had expected grand confessions of existential dread. She had expected to have to weave a tapestry of lies to lure him into her web. She had not expected to be shown low, resolution photos of a cat’s medical trauma while the smell of processed cheese hung heavy in the air.

"I... I think I am fine without the photos," Mali said, her voice strained.

"Right. Sorry. I know, it’s a total buzzkill." Aren leaned forward, his elbows on the sticky table. "You know, you’re the first person I’ve met all night who didn't try to hand me a business card for an underground crypto, scheme or ask if I wanted to join their 'exclusive coven' for a lifestyle f*e. You’re actually kind of nice. A bit quiet, but nice."

Mali felt a strange sensation in her chest. It wasn't hunger. It was a cocktail of confusion, annoyance, and something else, a nagging, irritating fascination. He was so mundane, so agonizingly normal, that she couldn't get a read on him. It was as if he were shielded by a wall of sheer, unadulterated mediocrity.

"I try to be a good listener," she lied, her eyes glowing faintly violet for a fraction of a second. She reached out, intending to brush his hand with hers, a classic, subtle manipulation technique, but Aren shifted his hand to grab a napkin to wipe a smear of mustard from his chin.

Mali’s hand swiped through empty air. She withdrew it, feeling like a fool.

"So," Aren continued, oblivious to the fact that he was currently being actively preyed upon by a creature of the night. "Do you do theater full, time? Or is this just a weekend gig? You’ve got that whole 'brooding protagonist' thing down pat. It’s very intense. A little scary, actually. My roommates say I should date more, but most people are just... a lot."

"I am a night owl," Mali replied, her voice cooling. "I have... family obligations. They are quite restrictive."

"I get that. My mom calls me every Sunday at 8:00 AM sharp to ask why I’m not married to a nurse. It’s the worst."

Mali sat back, watching him shovel another fry into his mouth. She realized with a sudden, sinking feeling that she wasn't just here for the O-negative anymore. She was here because, for the first time in centuries, someone wasn't looking at her as a goddess or a monster. They were looking at her as if she were just another person sitting in a diner at 4:00 AM, eating cold fries.

It was infuriating. It was boring.

It was the most interesting thing that had happened to her since the Enlightenment.

"Aren," she began, leaning forward, her gaze intense enough to melt the salt off the table. "Tell me more about the cat."

Aren’s face lit up, a genuine, lopsided grin that made Mali’s cold heart skip a beat. "Okay, so, it started last Tuesday..."

Outside, watching through the grime, streaked window of the diner, three shadows shifted. Kael, Darius, and Thana huddled together, their expressions a mix of horror and profound judgment.

"She’s listening to him talk about a cat," Kael whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief. "She’s a Seraphine. She should be drinking his essence, not discussing feline dermatology."

"Maybe she’s playing the long game?" Darius suggested, though he looked sick. "Maybe she’s going to feed when he’s sleeping?"

"She’s been there for twenty minutes," Thana hissed. "And she hasn't even tried to glamour him yet. She’s... she’s nodding."

Inside the booth, Mali nodded again, caught in the tractor beam of Aren’s mundane, soul, crushing anecdotes. She didn't notice her posse outside. She didn't notice the way her fangs were itching to drop. She only noticed that for the first time in years, the silence in her head, the constant, screaming hunger, had been replaced by the rhythmic, boring, and utterly fascinating sound of a man who just wanted someone to talk to.

"And then," Aren said, pausing to swallow, "the vet said I should consider an herbal supplement, but it costs thirty dollars a bottle, and I’m already over budget for the month..."

Mali reached into her silk handbag, pulled out a stack of hundred, dollar bills, and slapped them on the table. "Buy the supplement, Aren. And tell me more."

Aren looked at the money, then at her, and finally at his lukewarm fries. "Wow. You’re really into animals, huh?"

Mali stared at him, her eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying hunger that he completely mistook for eccentric kindness.

"You have no idea," she whispered.