The electric collar around Igor's neck hummed with warning—a gentle vibration that would escalate to searing pain if he didn't acknowledge it within thirty seconds. He pressed the small recessed button at his throat before even opening his eyes. Six o'clock, exactly. Another day in service to the house of Lennox.

  Igor rose from his narrow bed, the weight of his folded wings heavy against his back—a constant, cumbersome reminder of his birthright and his bondage. In the dim light of his quarters, barely larger than a storage closet, his crimson eyes adjusted instantly. Superior night vision was one of the many "gifts" that made Alucards valuable as servants and workers. That, and their ability to detect the faintest traces of toxic gas that had once made them indispensable in the coal mines.

  He shuddered at the memory. The damp, suffocating darkness. The constant fear of cave-ins. The stench of firedamp that clung to everything, carrying with it promises of silent, invisible death. No, he would endure any indignity in this manner before returning to that hell.

  Igor caught his reflection in the small cracked mirror above his washbasin. Pale skin that has never seen enough sunlight. Wavy deep-red hair that he kept neatly swept to one side—one of the few choices about his appearance he was permitted to make. He was taller than most Alucards, lanky but strong from years of labor. His wings, large and bat-like, folded tightly against his spine, the membrane tissue a deep obsidian that absorbed rather than reflected light.

  From the shelf beside his bed, he traced a finger along the spines of his secret treasures: ancient vampire novels, brittle with age and exorbitantly expensive at the bazaar where he'd found them. Dracula. The Hunger. 'Salem's Lot. Each one a portal to another world that both resembled and diverged from his own reality.

  The similarities between fictional vampires and his own kind had always fascinated him. The pale skin, the unusual eye colors, the connection to bats. Yet vampires in stories could shed their wings, could transform at will. Alucards remained forever trapped in their hybrid form, neither fully human nor fully... whatever they had once been. And they certainly didn't drink blood.

  The distant sounds of the manor coming to life interrupted his thoughts. The morning routine was unforgiving, and seven rules governed his existence:

  No intimate conversations between servants, Alucards, and their masters shall occur.

  Servants shall only eat after their masters, and only when granted permission to do so.

  The curfew is at 20:00.

  The rising time is at 6:00.

  Servants must wear their electric collars at all times, except during shower time.

  The electric collar's alarm will activate at 6:00, vibrating and escalating into various shocks until the servant wakes and presses the button on the door.

  There shall be no mating between humans and Alucards. Any violation of this rule is punishable by death.

  Igor dressed quickly in his servant's uniform—a charcoal gray suit with special accommodations for his wings—and made his way to Mistress Maisie's chambers. Of all the Lennox family, she alone treated him with something approaching respect, though he knew better than to mistake basic courtesy for equality.

  He knocked softly at her door.

  "Enter," came the sleepy command from within.

  Mistress Maisie sat at her vanity, her chocolate-brown hair tumbling in loose waves down her back. Even half-awake, there was a quiet intensity to her hazel eyes that Igor had never seen in the other Lennoxes. She was only 20, five years his junior, yet carried herself with a naturalness that made her seem older.

  "Igor, bring me my makeup," she said, her voice still thick with sleep.

  He retrieved the ornate bag from its place on the shelf and presented it with both hands, head slightly bowed as protocol demanded. "Here is your bag, Mistress."

  Maisie took it from him with surprising gentleness, her fingertips brushing his for the briefest moment. She opened the bag and began sifting through its contents.

  "Red or black today, Igor?" she asked, holding up two tubes of lipstick. "For my lips."

  Igor hesitated, caught between the rule against intimate conversation and the implicit command to answer. "I think it's your decision in the end, Mistress, but... the red suits you better. It complements your hair."

  A small smile played at the corners of her mouth as she twirled a lock of hair between her fingers. "Why, thank you, Igor." She applied the red substance to her lips with practiced precision, then turned to him with an expectant look. "Don't I look gorgeous?"

  Igor shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze carefully averted. "Mistress Lennox, I can't confirm that... as I'm forbidden to."

  Her smile faltered, just slightly. Something in her eyes—disappointment? Frustration? Igor couldn't be sure. Human emotions remained a mystery to him, despite his years of service.

  Maisie wore a flowing purple blouse that draped elegantly over her slender frame, paired with tailored black slacks. Her hair was gathered in a deliberately careless bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. The yellow eyeshadow she'd applied highlighted the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, and the red lipstick stood out vibrantly against her fair skin.

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  The truth was, she was beautiful—undeniably so. But that was a dangerous thought for an Alucard servant, one that Igor quickly buried beneath layers of practiced indifference.

  His future was already mapped out for him, as it was for all his kind. By thirty-five, he would be assigned a mate from among his species, expected to produce offspring that would inherit his servitude. His people's delayed puberty and prolonged fertility, from twenty-five to sixty, was yet another trait that made them valuable commodities in this world. A longer breeding window meant more potential servants.

  The practice sickened him, but there was no escape from it. The Alucard population dwindled year by year, not just from their unusual fertility cycles, but from the systemic oppression that drove many to early graves—or worse, to take their own lives rather than continue in bondage.

  "It's time for breakfast, Mistress," Igor said, breaking the momentary silence. "Your family will be gathering soon."

  Maisie nodded, her expression shifting to one of resignation. "Very well."

  He opened the door for her, stepping aside as she passed through. "Why, thank you, Igor," she said with that same grace that set her apart from the rest of her family.

  They walked in silence down the grand staircase that led to the dining room. The familiar aromas of the morning meal wafted up to meet them—warm biscuits, sizzling bacon, freshly squeezed orange juice. Igor's stomach clenched with hunger, but he'd learned long ago to ignore it. Servants ate last, if at all.

  The dining room gleamed with polished silver and fine china, a feast laid out upon the long mahogany table. Golden southern biscuits steamed in a covered basket at the center, surrounded by small dishes of jam, honey, and butter. Plates of crispy bacon rested nearby, filling the room with their tempting scent. Pitchers of milk and orange juice stood ready for pouring, and individually crafted omelets waited at each place setting, protected by silver domes.

  Maisie took her customary seat at the far right edge of the table, adjusting her posture with the unconscious perfection of someone raised in luxury. Igor pulled out her chair, then stepped back to his station against the wall, hands clasped behind his back.

  A human maid approached, her movements deferential. "Mistress Maisie, would you care for some coffee and milk?"

  "Yes, please, with two spoons of sugar," Maisie replied.

  "Of course, Mistress, right away," the maid hurried off.

  Igor stepped forward. "If I may inquire, Mistress, what would you like to eat?"

  "I'll have a biscuit with a dab of butter and honey on each half, and four pieces of bacon," she said, her attention already drifting to the door where her parents would soon appear.

  "Yes, Mistress." Igor moved to prepare her plate, his movements precise and practiced.

  Each dish on the table was a torment to his hungry senses—the rich aroma of butter melting into warm bread, the savory scent of perfectly cooked bacon. If fortune favored him, there might be leftovers after the family finished. Otherwise, it would be tasteless oatmeal or dry toast for the servants, washed down with water from the tap.

  He lifted the silver dome protecting Maisie's omelet, setting it aside with practiced care. Using silver tongs, he selected a biscuit from the basket and placed it on her plate, followed by four strips of bacon arranged in a neat row beside it.

  "Here is your meal, Mistress," he said, placing the plate before her.

  She looked up at him with a fleeting smile that seemed to hold a whisper of genuine gratitude—or perhaps that was merely his imagination.

  The dining room doors opened again, admitting Mr. and Mrs. Lennox. They moved to their places at opposite ends of the table with the coordinated precision of dancers who had long since tired of their routine.

  Mr. Harry Lennox was absorbed in his advanced smartphone, seamlessly integrated into his reading glasses. His blue suit was impeccably tailored, his white shirt crisp and spotless, his shoes polished to a mirror shine. He shared Maisie's hazel eyes and facial structure, though his hair was short and dark, meticulously styled to project authority and success.

  Across from him, Mrs. Lennox clutched a small powder mirror, scrutinizing her reflection with far more interest than she'd ever shown in any of the servants. Her green eyes, enhanced with blue eyeshadow, darted constantly between her mirror and the room around her. Her blonde hair bounced in perfect ringlets with every movement of her head.

  "I'll have what Maisie is having, and so will my wife," Mr. Lennox said without looking up from his device, his voice flat and impersonal.

  "Right away, sir," Igor replied, moving to prepare two more plates.

  The heavy silence that permeated the dining room seemed to press down on Igor's shoulders, more burdensome than the weight of his wings. Mrs. Lennox powdered her face between mechanical bites of food. Mr. Lennox's voice created a monotonous backdrop as he dictated instructions into his device.

  "Mary, get my papers together. Yes, they're on the computer. Print them out and put them in a folder for me. Thank you."

  No acknowledgment of the person on the other end, no warmth in his tone. Business, always business.

  The stillness was broken by the arrival of Maisie's brothers, entering from different directions as if to avoid encountering each other.

  Leo shuffled in first, hunched and disheveled despite the early hour. At thirty, he was the eldest Lennox child, though he carried himself like an old man. His amber eyes were dull beneath his unkempt strawberry-blonde hair. Despite his PhD in Biochemistry, earned two years prior, he had yet to seek employment, content to drift through the manor like a ghost, sustained by his parents' wealth.

  Moments later, Dash burst through the doors, his movements frenetic and careless. At eighteen, he was Maisie's younger brother by two years, and in every way her opposite. His blonde hair was tousled in a way that suggested deliberate styling rather than neglect, and his green eyes, so like his mother's, darted around the room, never settling on any one thing for long. Already late for school, he would bolt down his breakfast in minutes, then race off in his hovercraft "Jaguar" to arrive at class well after the bell. Not that he cared. School was merely an inconvenience that occasionally interrupted his true vocation: collecting admirers and breaking hearts.

  The Lennox family epitomized new money, their fortune built on technological innovations and, more significantly, the exploitation of Alucard labor. They had profited handsomely from the system that kept Igor and his kind in chains.

  Yet Maisie seemed cut from a different cloth. From conversations Igor had overheard, he knew she harbored ambitions beyond maintaining the status quo. She wanted to study Political Science, to challenge the shadow organizations that perpetuated Alucard slavery. She had already earned an associate's degree in Humanities and was working toward her bachelor's, staying with her family not out of necessity but out of comfort and habit.

  As Igor watched her eat in silence, occasionally glancing at her phone, he wondered if her apparent compassion was genuine or merely a different form of self-interest. Could a human truly understand what it meant to be property? Could anyone born into such privilege ever truly see beyond it?

  The collar at Igor's throat hummed softly, a reminder, should he ever forget, of exactly what he was and would always be in this world. A servant. A possession.

  And yet, as Maisie raised her eyes briefly to meet his gaze, something passed between them.