A Warrior's Grace

Saénz and Sokolov Investment Group, 189 Bowery Tower 

(The Coterie Corporate Haven)

The medical unit on the 13th floor in the corporate tower is not on any structural map. However, it’s not unusual for a building to not have a 13th floor, superstitions and all, typically cause architects to avoid its use. Accessed by a biometric-coded scramble pad in the elevator, discovery would be near impossible for anyone not familiar with the security system and without knowledge of its existence. The corridor off the lift is quiet, sterile, and cold. The walls are gunmetal gray with pale LED strip lights running along the baseboards and overheads. Doors are numbered as well as reinforced. Each room is soundproof and tailored to Kindred physiology.

Room 3 is dimly lit, soft crimson bulbs cast a gentle, warm hue. At its center lies Bastanji, the Banu Haqim enforcer, resting atop a cutting edge hospital bed outfitted with a custom vitae IV and a nasal rebreather that pumps warmed blood into his mouth at slow intervals—enough to sustain him, force reflexive swallowing, coax him back from the void.

His body is covered in deep gashes, wide cut wounds and deep bruising. Ragged bite marks pepper his shoulders and arms. One hand is wrapped tightly where his wrist had been torn open. His throat has been treated with hemostatic gauze in an attempt to keep whatever blood he could swallow from leaking out of the rended flesh. He’s been in torpor for 4 nights.

A quiet beep sounds from the monitor overhead.

His eyes open. Dull at first. Then sharpen with startling speed fixating on a shadow shifting beside him.

Grace Lee sits slouched in a black leather chair beside the bed, hoodie up, boots kicked off, and earbuds out. Her long black hair with teal streaks is pulled into a messy bun secured with an exceptionally sharp hairpin, and a pink lollipop stick hangs from her mouth. Her face is stoic, unconcerned, but the bloodshot web-like refraction in her eyes tells a different story.

She looks up.

“Well, look who finally woke up. I was starting to wonder if you were just being dramatic.”

Bastanji turns his head toward her slowly, throat dry, lips cracked. He pulls the device from his mouth and breathes air—but only out of habit. His voice is gravel.

“What are you doing here?”

“Yeah. Happy to see you too. You look like shit old man and four nights haven’t helped that much.”

“You stayed?”

Grace shrugs, “Yeah, well… Alec made it sound noble. Said I could ‘help you reconnect to the waking world’ or whatever. But I just figured someone should be here to tell you how absolutely awful you look.”

Bastanji blinks slowly. “I feel worse.”

Grace smirks, “Still no reason to slouch. Like, I’ve seen roadkill with better posture.”

She leans forward a little, chewing the end of the lollipop stick, concern flickering behind the sarcasm.

“They said you got hit hard. Natalie and her little baby monsters. Guess my sister was having a bad go of it. Shame she didn’t have anyone looking out for her. I almost feel bad… Not really. I found her to be a little pretentious. Well not a little. She was definitely a ‘Look at me’ Toreador. Daddy Zane would have been proud. Still, I’m kinda surprised some new makes got the better of ya. Maybe ya shoulda called me in to have your back.”

Bastanji grunts, turning his head slightly. Pain flares across his jaw. He’s silent for a long moment.

“There were three. Newly Embraced. Wild. Hungry. Frenzied. No discipline. It was a blood bath in there. I thought I could contain them before she ran.”

“Let me guess. You were more worried about getting to her, but they got you?”

“Is she?”

Grace tilts her head. “Dead? I’d say so. Blown to shit more like it. I heard the creepy priest gave the order. What is it with you guys and explosions? Sophie said the prince wasn’t happy.”

He winces as he tries to move his right arm, yanking the medical tubing. Grace quickly reaches over to adjust the IV cord.

“Don’t be stupid. You need rest. Sophie said even elders wouldn’t come out clean from that kind of feeding frenzy.”

Bastanji grumbles softly. “I’m no elder.”

Grace smirks. “No kidding. You’re just the biggest, broodiest vampire with a knife I’ve ever seen. And that’s saying something, ‘cause Sophie’s friend Julian has three swords and a poetry blog.”

Bastanji actually chuckles—a quiet rasp of breath that borders on a growl.

“You never stop talking, do you?”

“Nope. That’s part of my charm. Along with my stunning looks, musical talent, and complete inability to sit still in a crisis.” Grace says with a sarcastic smirk. 

She pauses, then softens.

“But hey… I never had the chance to say it in person but… thank you. For saving me. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t bought me that time. And I heard you made some kind of deal to keep me alive. Alec didn’t give the details, but… it matters.”

Bastanji sits quietly for a few thoughtful moments.

“Your life is your own. Make it count.”

Grace leans in. “Trying. Just… hard when every vampire in this city treats you like a walking mistake.”

They fall into silence. A heavy, tense but not unpleasant stillness. He closes his eyes. The IV continues its slow drip. Then, after a moment…

“You were the last thing I heard. Before torpor. A piano… a whisper. And the same melody here in my sleep.” 

Grace lowers her eyes. “That… might’ve been me. I was playing something on my phone. I didn’t think you could hear it.”

“Debussy?” Bastanji asks. 

Grace smiled, surprised.

“Yeah. Clair de Lune. You like it?”

Bastanji closes his eyes again. Not from pain—but from something else. A flicker of peace.

“My sister used to play it. Before everything went dark.”

Grace stares at him for a long beat, then finally speaks—no sarcasm, just softness.

“I’ll bring a speaker next time. You can listen to it while you heal. Might help.”

Bastanji nods faintly. “I would like that.”

“Enough chat, old man. Rest. Grace adjusts the rebreather back in place as he closes his eyes. She settles back into her chair, earbuds out as the classical melody plays.

…………………………………………………………

Nightfall, two nights after Bastanji awakened.

The room is dim again. The red glow of the medical monitors pulses in gentle rhythm. Bastanji has been resting quietly for hours. His healing is steady now. Muscle knitting back together. Veins pulling vitae inward. The worst of the damage is gone—but the ache of it lingers. He hasn’t spoken in a while. He doesn’t need to. Grace doesn’t mind.

She sits in the same black leather chair beside his bed, knees drawn up, earbuds out. Her hoodie is pulled halfway over her head, casting her in shadow. A small portable speaker plays quietly beside her.

Clair de Lune flows through the room, soft and haunting.

She’s been watching him for a while—silent. Every so often, she glances toward the camera in the corner. She doesn’t care if Alec is watching. Maybe part of her wants him to.

But now, she leans forward. Her voice is low. Raw.

Grace whispers softly, “You know I didn’t want to be a vampire, right?”

She chuckles bitterly, more air than laughter. “Most people think the Toreador Embrace is some glamorous makeover montage. Like, ‘Congrats, you’re pretty and artsy, here’s eternal life and unlimited cocaine.’ But that’s not what it was. Not for me.”

Bastanji doesn’t speak. His eyes are half-lidded, but she knows he’s listening.

“Zane didn’t ask. He just… told me I’d understand later. Said I was too good for the world I lived in. That music wasn’t enough. That I was wasting myself.”

She pauses, lips tightening. Her voice lowers even more.

“But you know the real reason he picked me? It wasn’t my looks. It wasn’t my voice. It wasn’t my piano playing. It was because I didn’t have anybody left. My family disowned me. I told them I wouldn’t be part of their Triad shit. I walked out. Closed the door. Slammed it so hard I thought it would stay shut for good.”

She swallows. Her nails pick at a thread on her jeans.

“Two days before Zane turned me, I almost OD’d in a practice room in Chinatown. Stupid combo of uppers and downers. Didn’t tell anyone. I just… sat there in the dark with a bloody nose and a numb hand on the piano keys. I was ready to be done.”

Her eyes flick toward him—tired, but lit with something fierce.

“Then Zane appears. Like the grim reaper coming to claim a soul. He smiled a toothy grin exposing his fangs and said, ‘Oh no. This is not how your story ends. It’s where it begins.’ I didn’t have the focus to fight him off. Not that it would have mattered. He bit hard into my throat and drained me til I stopped breathing. The next thing I remember is something warm in my mouth. Blood. His blood. And my glazed over eyes grew sharp and focused. I watched him walk away and I was so hungry. I didn’t know what to do. I stumbled home and fed on some woman in the bathroom at the restaurant. I locked myself in my room for days fighting the pain, coming to terms with the hunger and at the end of it I realized I didn’t care anymore. About the Triad, about the fight with father, about anything. So I did what he expected me to do. Assumed my place at the Mahjong parlor and ran the house.”

She paused. 

“And then you showed up. Calm words. A choice. You could’ve let me burn with the rest of the mess Zane created. But you didn’t. You gave me time, space and a chance. I may not ever get the life I wanted but I have a chance at a life I choose now. And that’s more than I think I ever had before. Maybe Zane wasn’t the curse I thought he was. Maybe you aren’t the killer you think you are.”

Another pause. Then, quieter.

“You didn’t even look at me like I was broken. The look I saw countless times in my father’s eyes. The look I get from other Kindred when Sophie trails me around like her puppy. But not here. Not around you.”

She leans back in her chair, pulling her knees to her chest.

“I haven’t told anyone about that night in the practice room. Not Alec. Not Sophie. Not even my sisters. I think if I had, they’d look at me differently. Like I was cracked glass.”

She reaches forward and gently adjusts the IV tubing near his wrist.

“But you? I think maybe you already knew. I think maybe you’ve seen that place. Where the light dies and you don’t care anymore.”

She takes a moment, letting her words sink in.

“I’m proof you can come back.”

She feigns helping him adjust the pillow behind his head, leaning in near his ear.

“Oh. And if you tell anyone I cried while watching a vampire recover from a frenzy fest, I’ll stab you with a tuning fork.”

Bastanji’s lips twitch—almost a smile. A raspy rumble escapes his chest.

“You would need a bigger fork.”

Grace grins. “I dunno. I’m pretty resourceful.”

The music plays on. The silence between them is heavy, but not unwelcome.