Adrian awoke in the room next to Mark. He had finally gone to sleep past noon, when it was clear that he wouldn’t find any answer by pacing the catacombs, but hadn’t wanted to drive back to his house. His friend would sleep for another hour at least, giving him time to gather his thoughts.

Whatever was happening to him, Adrian would need to be proactive and inform the Directive. He knew, without a doubt, that the thirst wasn’t done with him. It coursed through him like a living thing, a feverish need that left him weak. Even now, after drinking enough blood to satiate an army of voracious vamplings, Adrian felt the tingle in his throat.

He had no other option but to call Magno Zara himself. If anyone might know why Adrian was affected by this inexplicable thirst, that would be the old vampire. Even older than Adrian, Magno would know where to look for answers.

And as if on cue, Adrian’s vision blurred as his body spasmed in the throes of the insatiable thirst. He needed to feed. After raiding the pub’s pantry the night before, there was no blood left at Leone Rampante.

Enslaved by the ague that ravaged both his body and his mind, Adrian sprinted through the catacombs, hoping to feed before what was left of his consciousness would disappear, consumed by the imperative to wet his parched throat.

By the time he reached the next exit to another of his businesses, Adrian had become a mere shell of his former self. He burst into the pantry of the restaurant, scaring to death one of the waiters, who dropped a bottle of wine to the floor and fled. He ripped the large industrial fridge’s door from its hinges and grabbed a handful of blood bags. One after the other, he punctured the plastic and gorged on the cold plasma. Droplets stained his hands, his mouth, his chin, and his shirt already caked with his previous hasty meal.

Only when he had topped the last bag did Adrian pause long enough to breathe. He caught his reflection on the stainless-steel door of the fridge and recoiled at the sight. Never in his long life as an undead had he fallen victim to the savage need of feeding as he had just done. For a moment, the rest of the world had disappeared, replaced by the raw necessity to stop the thirst at any cost.

A few persons peeked through the open door, looking at him with terrified stares and lowering their eyes as soon as he stared back with a snarl. Emerging from the crowd, the manager stepped into the pantry, his face a mask of horror as he took in the ripped bags and the blood stains.

“Leave me alone. Go back to your work,” Adrian said. “Nothing happened. You—” He pointed at the manager who froze on the spot. “Do you have more blood?”

“No, I don’t.” The man shook his head, trembling. “That was our entire stock for the month.”

The crowd dispersed, and the manager grabbed a broom and gathered the plastic bags to the center. Adrian didn’t linger. Instead, he hurried back into the catacombs, because Mark would be waking any minute now and they needed to talk.

As soon as Adrian turned the corner that led into the portion of the catacombs directly underneath Leone Rampante, the thirst hit him again. It was nothing like anything he had experienced before. This time, he feared he would finally lose himself to the plague because he had no strength left in him to fight the insatiable thirst. It robbed him of his will.

Mark’s room opened and he stepped out into the tunnel. “Adrian,” he greeted him before seeing the stricken expression on Adrian’s face. “What’s wrong?” He moved toward him, but Adrian raised his hand.

“Don’t come close,” Adrian managed to say in a choked rattle that he didn’t recognize as his voice.

“Is it happening again?” Mark passed his hand over the stubble on his jaw.

Adrian fell to his knees. “Need blood.”

Mark nodded and frantically looked around. “Where’s the closest blood bank?”

“No bagged blood.” At the mere thought of gulping even a single drop of that foul, dead-cold beverage again, Adrian’s stomach heaved.

Shaking his head, Mark said, “I can’t bring you a donor in your current condition.”

Adrian knew his friend was right, but the thirst commanded his body, and his mind wasn’t sound any longer. He felt like a leaf adrift in a vortex. “I need blood,” he repeated. “Live.”

Torturous spasms tore him apart, and he grabbed his hair, turning his face up to scream. Pure agony seized his body. His temperature passed from freezing to burning and back again as he dry-heaved. His head split, an invisible knife cutting through hair and skin and skull and brain. Sand filled his throat and his lungs. Fire ants poured out of his ears.

After a while, his mind refused to make sense of what was happening to him, and he experienced the pain and the sensorial hallucinations without knowing what was real and what wasn’t.

Then, all of a sudden, as the thirst had started, it stopped, leaving Adrian heaving on the floor, puking blood.

“Adrian,” Mark tentatively called from several steps away. “Are you okay?”

“Not even close.” Adrian pressed his hand against his stomach, hoping for a few minutes’ reprieve before the next episode started.