Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 171

If you skipped the last chapter:

All you need to know is that it was mostly Jerry, the dhampire, complaining about being stuck in Tracey’s basement. Then Tracey got home and ran to the bathroom.

**JERRY**

I hear retching from behind the bathroom door. The sound echoes off the tiles, wet and miserable, the kind that makes your stomach clench in sympathy.

“...Shit.” I mutter under my breath. Can vampires even throw up? Is that a thing? They don’t get sick, right? It can’t be food poisoning, Tracey doesn’t eat. Not unless you count drinking other people as a meal. I hover awkwardly outside the door, torn between knocking and pretending I didn’t hear anything. Against my better judgment, I knock.

“Uh… You okay in there?” I ask. There’s a pause. Then the tap turns on, followed by the gross sound of gargling. Poor guy. Don’t get me wrong, Tracey drives me insane, but nobody deserves to spend their evening dry-heaving into a sink. A moment later, the door creaks open. Tracey’s standing there, one hand braced against the doorframe, his hair a tangled mess. He’s taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, and I hate to admit it, but seeing him without the usual theatrical layers is… Unsettling. He looks wrong. Smaller, somehow.

“I’m fine.” He croaks. Yeah, sure. And I’m the Queen.

“Liar.” I say automatically. He gives a rough laugh that turns into a cough. 

“Brat.” He says, but his heart isn’t really in it. 

“Seriously…” I press, narrowing my eyes. 

“Are you sick or something? ‘Cause if you are, I’d really like to know. I don’t wanna catch whatever undead plague you’ve got.” I comment. Tracey rolls his eyes, but there’s no strength behind it. 

“I’m not sick.” He insists. 

“You threw up.” I point out helpfully. He sighs heavily, that long-suffering kind of sigh that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for a century. 

“I’m not sick. It was just… A difficult evening. I had to do something unpleasant. It had to be done, but it left a sour taste in my mouth.” He says vaguely. I frown. 

“Pretty sure that taste is the vomit.” I remark. That gets me a faint, pained smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks exhausted, the kind of tired that has nothing to do with sleep. Without another word, he brushes past me and collapses onto one of the couches. His movements are usually smooth, all that vampire grace and poise, but now he just… Slumps. Like gravity finally caught him. I hover a moment longer, rubbing the back of my neck. My brain is screaming stay out of it, but apparently, my mouth didn’t get the memo.

“If you wanna, like, talk about it or something… I guess I can listen.” I offer, immediately regretting it.

“I already kind of hate you, so it’s not like I’ll think worse of you or anything.” I add, trying to hide the nearly genuine display of emotion. 

“Gee, thanks.” He mutters, voice flat.

“What? I’m just saying…” I trail off, then sigh and drop into the armchair across from him. Tracey leans his head back, closing his eyes. For a second, I think he’s fallen asleep sitting up. Then he speaks, quiet and defeated. 

“I suppose it’s true you already think the worst of me.” He breathes out slowly, as if the air itself weighs something. 

“Fine. If you must know, I killed someone tonight.” He confesses. The words land like a stone between us. I blink. 

“…Uh. Okay.” I respond blankly. He cracks one eye open, studying me with a faint frown. His voice comes out rough, almost incredulous. 

“That’s it? No screaming? No moral outrage? No calling me a monster?” He asks. I shrug. 

“Dude, you lock me in your basement. You come home with jars of blood like it’s takeout night. I kinda assumed there was at least some light murder involved.” I respond. He huffs out something that might be a laugh, except it sounds more like a sigh that forgot how to stop. I scratch at the back of my neck, awkward. 

“So… Uh… Do you wanna tell me what happened, or are we just leaving it at the ‘you killed someone’ part?” I question. Tracey looks down at his hands, his fingers still trembling faintly. 

“I don’t… Particularly want to talk about it.” He says. I nod slowly. 

“Cool. Just making sure you’re not gonna, like, spiral into some brooding vampire meltdown or whatever.” I joke. 

“Too late.” He murmurs.

“Great.” I mutter, slumping back in my chair. 

“He’s suddenly having an existential crisis about murdering and eating people.” I say it just loud enough to make sure he hears me. It works and instantly gets his attention. Tracey’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing, outrage flickering to life like someone flipped a switch.

“What?” He sputters. 

“You brat. I buy that blood, fair and square! Who do you think I am, some stalker wandering the streets at night, preying on unsuspecting mortals?” He demands. I blink at him, deadpan. 

“Well… Yeah.” I answer, as if it’s obvious. He stares at me, utterly scandalised, then scoffs in disgust. 

“Honestly! The nerve. Do you hunt your own food, or do you buy it at the supermarket?” He asks. 

“I mean, I buy it,” I shoot back. 

“But I’m pretty sure they don’t sell human blood between the steaks and chicken strips.” I add. Tracey groans, dragging a hand down his face. 

“I don’t mean the literal supermarket. I’m talking about establishments, discreet, legitimate ones, where vampires can acquire blood ethically. Donated blood, purchased, or traded. There are systems in place.” He explains. I raise an eyebrow. 

“And you never mentioned this before? Seems like that info would be more useful than half the crap you’ve been teaching me.” I point out. He gives me a look so dry it could sand wood. 

“You forget, you aren’t ALLOWED any blood. You’re detoxing. You don’t need to know where to get it until you actually die. Which I assume you aren’t planning to do anytime soon.” He reminds me. I huff.

“Well… Yeah.” I admit. He hums, leaning back, one corner of his mouth twitching. 

“Then perhaps you understand why I haven’t exactly handed you a vampire menu guide.” He points out. 

“Still could’ve mentioned it.” I grumble. 

“I’ve been sitting here thinking you sneak out at night to snack on random joggers.” I comment. Tracey lets out an incredulous laugh. 

“Please. I have standards. I don’t drink from people who wear earbuds while crossing the street. That’s natural selection doing the work for me.” He says, disgusted. I can’t help it, I laugh, too. 

“That’s dark.” I remark. 

“You live in my basement. Everything’s dark.” He reminds me. And somehow, that ridiculous line actually makes the room feel lighter. For a second, neither of us speaks. His breathing evens out, the tremor in his hands settles. He still looks tired, centuries of tired, but at least he’s here. I shrug and glance toward him again. 

“So… Ethical blood trade, huh? You got, like, a loyalty card or something?” I ask. Tracey groans into his hands. 

“Why do I even talk to you?” He complains.

“Because you enjoy being dissed, apparently.” I say jokingly. He rolls his eyes skyward. 

“To be fair, you were basically dumped on me by Kacia.” He reminds me. 

“It’s not like I was out there shopping for a vampire sensei.” I shoot back. Although… If I’m honest, which I try not to be, now that my head’s clearer, I can kind of admit I probably DID need one.

“Yeah, yeah, we both hate each other.” Tracey mutters. 

“Let’s take a look at your list. How are you doing with it?” He asks as he plucks the notepad from the table and starts flipping through the pages. A gasp of pure outrage escapes him.

“‘Dress to impress’ is not crap! That rule makes total sense!” He insists. 

“How?” I demand.

“Because if you’re immortal, you need to blend in. Keeping up with current trends is part of that.” He explains. I stare at him. 

“If that’s the case, why do YOU dress like an extra from Romeo and Juliet?” I point out. Tracey scoffs, indignant. 

“Because I refuse to dress like a slob, that’s why.” He says primly. He tosses the list back to me, all righteous dignity and wounded pride.

 “I assure you that each and every one of these rules is completely vital.” He says firmly. 

“Oh, really?” I ask, my grin spreading. 

“In that case, I should point something out.” I say slyly. His eyes narrow. 

“What?” He asks warily. 

“Not sure if you noticed… But you’re covered in glitter.” I pause for effect. 

“In other words… You’re SPARKLING.” I inform him. The look of horror on his face is chef’s kiss.

“No… NO!” he screeches, bolting upright. In a blur, he’s gone, sprinting toward the bathroom while unbuttoning his shirt mid-run. The door slams, the shower turns on, and I swear I hear muttered curses in at least three languages. I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me, loud, evil, and incredibly satisfying. Being a dhampire still sucks. Tracey’s still annoying. But the longer I stay here, the more I realise… Maybe he’s not such a bad mentor after all.