JD Devine

 The Crimson Lugger sliced through the night fog, its three masts stark against the Hunter’s moon. Jane gripped the helm, knuckles white, the vessel’s carvel design straining as they outran the Revenue officers. 

“Human blood cargo secured, Captain,” hissed Towzer, his face hidden beneath a blood-spattered shepherd’s smock. His identity, like all runners, remained shrouded in darkness. 

Jane bared her fangs. Still warm, fifty barrels of premium human blood awaited transport to London’s thirsty elite. The Hawkhurst Clan had ruled this coast since Victoria’s transformation, symbolically painting the shores crimson with deliveries. 

She wrenched the fore-and-aft rigging, the ship heeling in the shallow waters. While hungry crew members, behind fortified breastwork, manned swivel guns, their eyes glowing with bloodlust. 

“The Revenue officers are closing in fast!” Nasty Face shrieked from above, his finger pointing starboard. 

“Old Joll, ready the convoy,” Jane snarled. “Miller, unleash the mist for cover!” 

Too late. A blinding lantern light flooded the deck. Six Revenue officers were on shore, weapons gleaming with silver in the moonlight. 

“Surrender your unholy cargo or burn!” 

Jane leaped to the gunwale, moonlight catching her razor-sharp fangs. “Gentlemen, you’ve made a fatal error tonight.” 

A dozen vampires, who had shown up to take delivery, materialized from the fog, surrounding the officers, Fangs bared in anticipation. 

The lead officer’s flintlock pistol clattered to the ground. “God save us—” 

“God abandoned these waters long ago,” Jane laughed, suddenly beside him. “You’ll escort us to Stonechurch now. Your weapons—and perhaps your lives—will be returned. Eventually.” 

The Hawkhurst clan blood runners rarely needed violence. The promise of it proved far more effective.