Charlie Summers-Adams

The first thing Julian noticed when he woke up—really woke up—was the pain. It was a sharp, pulsing ache right between his eyes, like a nagging memory that wouldn’t let go. The kind of pain you get when you’ve done something unforgivable and you can't erase it, no matter how hard you try.

But this... this wasn’t like any ordinary pain. No, this was different. It was as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to his skull and then neatly inserted a bullet through his brain. He reached up to touch the spot, his fingers trembling as they grazed the smooth, unbroken skin of his forehead.

There should have been a scar. There should have been a hole, something to mark the violent end of his life. But there was nothing. Not even a faint trace of the wound that had killed him.

That’s when he remembered. The betrayal. The argument. The shot.

And then... her.

He shifted in his grave. Or, what had once been a grave. He was in a dark, damp place now, but it wasn’t the cold earth he remembered. It was stone, rough and wet, the scent of mildew heavy in the air. He couldn't move his limbs, couldn’t feel his heartbeat. He was awake, but paralyzed.

Until a hand brushed against his cheek.

A voice, like the softest silk, whispered his name: "Julian."

Her lips were the color of blood. Her hair, a cascade of fiery red, spilled over him like a wave of heat, as if the very essence of her was burning him alive. But it wasn’t heat. It was something worse. Something far more terrifying and intoxicating.

He tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t move. His throat was dry, his tongue thick, but when she leaned down and kissed his cold, unmoving lips, he felt it. He felt everything.

She pulled away with a smile, eyes glinting with an unsettling amusement. "You were dead," she said softly, as though speaking to a child. "But you’re not anymore."

And that’s when he knew. He wasn’t just alive again. He was changed.

Hours later, Julian stood in the middle of a crowded shopping mall, the pulse of human life all around him, yet he felt more detached than ever. He was a stranger to himself—no longer the man who had cheated, who had been so sure of his life and choices. No, that man was gone. This new version of him, this thing that could never fully return to what he once was... he was someone else.

But there was something familiar in the crowd. A woman, standing by a coffee stand, looking at the store windows with a distant gaze. She caught his eye.

Mara.

An old acquaintance. They hadn’t spoken in years, but the memory of her was vivid—her laughter, her sharp wit, the way she always saw right through him. Julian had once thought he’d loved her, but the betrayal to her was different than the one he’d committed to his partner. It wasn’t physical. It was something deeper.

Mara studied him, her eyes narrowing, like she was searching for something. Something he couldn’t hide.

"Julian?" Her voice was tentative at first, then sure. “You look different.”

He forced a smile. "I’ve been through a... transformation." He winced inwardly at how easily the lie slipped off his tongue.

Her gaze dropped, flickering toward his forehead, where the bullet wound had been. Her eyes lingered a second too long. "You have a scar there. Were you in an accident?"

He froze. The bullet wound. She’d seen it.

He tried to dismiss it with a laugh. “Yeah, a long story. Maybe over dinner?”

She nodded, her curiosity piqued. “Sure. I’d love to catch up.”

Later, at the dimly lit dinner table, Mara laughed and joked as though nothing had changed, but Julian could feel the tension in the air. The way she looked at him now was different. Cautious. Like she knew something, but couldn’t quite figure it out.

The soft hum of the restaurant faded into the background as Julian's attention turned to the growing thirst in his throat. Hunger gnawed at him, deep and unsettling. But this wasn’t the hunger for food. This was something else. Something darker.

Mara’s pulse throbbed in his ears, sweet and intoxicating.

He stared at her neck, where the skin pulsed with life. The hunger was unbearable now, clawing at him from the inside out.

Before he could think, his hand shot out, gripping her wrist with an inhuman strength. She froze, wide-eyed, but before she could speak, he was leaning over the table, his lips brushing against her skin, the scent of her filling his senses.

He fed.

At first, it was just a sip. A taste. But the moment the blood hit his tongue, a surge of heat ran through him, and he couldn’t stop.

Her pulse slowed, her body sagging slightly as he drained from her, but he didn’t kill her. He couldn't. Not this time.

When he pulled away, she gasped, breathless. “What... what did you do?”

Julian wiped his lips, the hunger still burning deep inside him, but this time, it was different. The world around him seemed brighter, sharper. He had taken from her—he had fed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking into her eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”

Mara’s gaze held a strange mix of fear and curiosity. "What are you?"

He didn't answer.

He couldn’t. Not yet.

Not when he was still trying to figure it out himself.

Excerpt from The Woman Behind The Badge: The Investigations of Detective Annie Kate Winters

The rain pounded against the pavement as Detective Annie Kate Winters stepped out of her car, pulling her coat tighter against the autumn chill. The flashing red and blue lights of the crime scene reflected off the wet asphalt, casting eerie shadows on the abandoned warehouse ahead.

She’d seen more than her fair share of crime scenes, but something about this one felt… off. The call had come in just after midnight—anonymous, of course. A tip about a body inside. No signs of forced entry, no witnesses. Just silence and the undeniable weight of something waiting for her beyond those steel doors.

Winters nodded at the uniformed officer standing by the entrance before stepping inside. The scent hit her immediately—blood and mildew, sharp and cloying. A single overhead bulb flickered, casting weak light over the room. And there, sprawled in the center of the concrete floor, was the victim.

She crouched beside the body, taking in the details. Male, mid-thirties, well-dressed but missing a shoe. His hands were folded neatly over his chest, as if placed there deliberately. But it was the expression on his face that stopped her. Not fear. Not pain. A smirk. A knowing, mocking smirk.

Winters exhaled slowly. “You knew this was coming, didn’t you?” she murmured.

A shiver ran down her spine. This wasn’t just a murder. This was a message.

And whoever had sent it was waiting for her to figure it out.