Thoughts of the frightening high noble seemed to flutter out of my mind with each passing moment. An excited grin marred my face. It was probably quite a sight: a skinny little girl covered in sweat, grime and vomit staring at a cheap hospital logo – one belonging to a quack known for his eccentricities – with hopeful enthusiasm.

It had taken me much longer to find the rundown place because the quack changed the hospital's location every other week. Word of mouth, from mostly anemic, but living, patients sent hushed whispers of its new location.

Somehow, the quack had managed to really let the place go, it looked even more rundown than the last time I'd come without an appointment, not that this time was any different, even the neon red logo had some letters unilluminated.

It was supposed to say: St. Blood Samaritan.

Was the quack actually as religious as the rest of the pretentious peerage were? I doubted that, but the wording was interesting.

I'd seen him only once but I knew right away that the quack was the type that feigned a proper upbringing: whitened teeth, a faint odor of pepper aftershave and tobacco constantly about him, and a nearly perfect Western Fortress accent.

But the blood red cherry that gave him away was the smell of Death – a heavy, distasteful musk of iron that told me of his nightly throes with her, she'd had her hands all over the quack alright, not letting him sleep a wink – typical of a capitalist buying his way into the peerage. Many others like the quack smelled of her, Death, the whore of the slums.

Still, I didn't take him for a pious fool and a Samaritan, both. Was this really the right decision?

'It has to be.' I thought, gritting my teeth, as I eyed the flickering red logo, my hand reaching for my growling stomach.

Any other hospital would turn away a street rat like me faster than you could say: oral rehydration fluid. I didn't look like I came from money, and I'd certainly never had more than a few thousand Copper Coin at a time. Let alone the millions they'd demand.

That's where the Samaritans came in. There was nothing selfless about their operations, but compared to the greedy nobles of the peerage, they might as well have been saints.

Samaritans distributed medical drugs as well as other exotic, for the slum anyway, commodities. It was mostly powerful painkillers, stimulants or depressants, to dull the pain – psychological or otherwise – in exchange for small errands and favors that usually led to the loss of an appendage, organ, or – if you're unlucky – a life.

They weren't interested at all in conventional currency, only Pentacles – the currency of hanged men with nothing but their lives to lose.

It wasn't the best kind of life, but a girl had to survive now if she was to thrive later.

Action dictated that I rely on the Samaritans a lot – lest I reached the desperate extremities of prostitution – I seemed to excel at small errands: tailing a lesser noble's cheating wife, spiking a banker's drink, stealing the steak off the plate of a politician's daughter for some perverted noble – escaping mostly unscathed.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

It was the favors that had me at a loss: with a few toes, teeth, and even a kidney missing. I'd kept all my fingers, and both eyes, luckily– some people had only stubs left.

I figured they thought I'd be more valuable if kept mostly whole for when I would be old enough to owe favors fit for a lady of the night.

There would be more currency to earn then, even the prospect of marrying a noble or a politician wasn't out of the question for a 'pretty little thing like [me]' I'd been told, on more than one occasion.

Daydreaming about coin I wouldn't earn for another three years wasn't going to do me any good, however.

Regardless, making runs for the Samaritans was the only reason why I had lasted this long on my own. The Pentacles I made from the kidney fed me for six months – nine, if you counted the last three when it was all a tasteless raw mush that made me sick!

The whole operation was so elaborate. The type and grade of the prescription, commodity, or favor you needed determined what small errand you'd run, or favor you'd owe in return.

It was when I'd had a retinal tear – from the fistful proper gentleman of the steak incident – and risked going blind in one eye that I'd used the last of my Pentacles for my first surgical favor – the loss of a kidney was an imposed one.

I was certain I'd have to give up another organ, surprisingly, all I had to do was donate blood.

'Blood, that's it?' I couldn't believe my luck. This was practically a free service they were offering!

I didn't know it then, but the blood business was a bloody one. Seriously. It was all the rave, where all the big dogs played. Everything in the slums, every dealer, small favor, lost limb, missing organ, it all led to St. Blood Samaritan – the blood bank.

So many Pentacles were flowing through here – even in the slums – that it was arguably the most valuable venture west of the Central Pillar – everyone wanted to get into blood. But it remained a monopoly led by a friendly noble quack. Death's whore.

The alleyway was quiet now. Save for the thundering squeals of the flying seahorse beasts high above. 'They're probably vegetarian... Right?' I took a deep breath, looked back at the door where the two men had disappeared, and crawled, slowly, towards the rundown hospital. I couldn't afford to turn back. I'd come this far already.

***

I felt like a zombie, crawling my way into the hospital.

The inside was pristine and smelled sterile. There were multiple benches lined up that oddly, were just as empty as they'd been the last time I was here. The little Beast Tech vacuum bot that was cleaning the shiny tiled floors shot a glance at me.

I smiled crookedly. I had a strong suspicion that the quack was watching on the other end. He was the type to do that.

A blonde receptionist wearing a nurse's white uniform, with cleavage spilling out of her tight dress, was at the reception. She was listening to music, earphones in her ears, humming to some melody I'd never heard. I staggered towards her, dragging myself on the floor. She finally noticed me and frowned, scrunching up her nose.

"Do you have Pentacles to offer?" She asked, clearly annoyed at my intrusion. The stern glare of her clear blue eyes made me feel naked, her tone suggested the question was mere formality. As if she just knew that I was here to offer a part of me in exchange for something I desperately needed.

"No. I offer my blood." I said, my hoarse voice sounding like glass against marble. I could've sworn I saw a light smile reach the corners of her lips. Like she loved the feeling of being needed.

Vampirism. It's no different from a cancer of the blood one has from conception. There is no early detection, no cure, I'd learned. Not for slum rats like me, anyway. Even then, it made little difference, I was dying.