Feeder (Tagged Universe Book 1)

By Abby Vincent

Quiet child, or the monsters will come.
No one really knew what brought about the Change, when the human population had been reduced by more than 20% in the span of a week. No one really knew who ruled the New World, only that an entity called the Commission had risen to place the survivors under surveillance.
Keep your head down, do your job, and the Commission will protect you.
If.
If you follow their laws.
If you do not protest.
If you do not tamper with your tag.
Tags separated the good from the bad. The healthy from the sick. Blue Tags were supposedly safe from harm. Red Tags, on the other hand, were marked as prey for the undead.
Because with the Change, the Vampires had risen.
Quiet child, or the monsters will come.
For May Pearce, it was too late.
The monster was already here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abby Vincent
• Release date: Nov 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463335086

Abby Vincent

Abby Vincent is the shared pen name of cowriters Marlee P. Louis and Mariah Garell, authors coming together to build dark worlds of raw sex, romance, kink, mouth-watering Dominants and their toys, and so much more.

Book preview

Chapter One

It was well past 2 a.m. by the time I practically pushed the last customer of the night out the door and locked it behind her. Last call had been half an hour ago, but the regulars—as expected—sat nursing their drinks even after the lights had blazed on and I’d started stacking the chairs onto the tables. I really didn’t blame them. Anyone who came into this bar didn’t have much to go home to.

I knew each of them by name and all their stories by heart, but I still laughed at the joke about the truck driver and the glory hole from Frank, an old man with long straggly white whiskers and stains on his shirt. I’d heard it a hundred times, but it was as much my job to nod and smile from behind the bar as it was to refill their glasses. It was an old joke, held over from a time when supply trucks had freely wandered the roads; back before Frank’s time, even. Some things were timeless, though. Like handwritten letters. Or the smell of old books. Or glory holes.

I turned back to look at the bar with a sigh, taking in the un-swept floor and dirty glass racks still waiting for the dishwasher. It would take me at least two hours to finish up here before I finally dragged myself home and fell into bed. It was like this every night, though, with the patrons lingering until they had no choice but to venture into the dark streets and make their way back to whatever small, shitty apartment they’d been assigned to. None of them had cars, but that wasn’t surprising. Cars were expensive—far too expensive for most to keep on their monthly stipend. There were ways of earning more, of course, but the Frank’s of the world had given up trying a long time ago.

I hadn’t quite reached that point, but I knew I wasn’t far behind. Anyone who took a job in a bar like this was already circling the pit of despair, waiting for that one final push to send them over the brink. Bartending was monotonous work, and that was likely the only thing that had kept me from tumbling headfirst over the edge. I was a slave to the routine, addicted to the repetitive nature of my life. There was nothing interesting, or exciting about my days. There was only the need to survive them.

Simply surviving had begun to wear on me, though. Survival wasn’t enough anymore. It was boring.

Really, really fucking boring.

I moved behind the bar and made myself a gin and tonic on the rocks, downing half of it in one go, and then the other half when my gaze strayed to the clock above the door to check the time. Almost 2:30.

The text had said he’d be here at 3.

Nervously, I made myself another drink—sipping at this one as I started again with the chairs, lifting them onto the tables before beginning to sweep. I’d been on edge all night, adrenaline spiking through my body whenever I thought of what was coming for me.

Of who was coming for me.

It had been the boredom that had decided for me two weeks ago. Boredom, and gin, and the back section of the weekly free paper always kept stocked just inside the door. I’d turned to the very back of the back section—where the ads were printed that didn’t even bother being subtle, and every masseuse offered a happy ending. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I skimmed with amusement until a small block of text caught my attention. It was placed discreetly between two large phone sex advertisements, the font tiny and almost lost on the page.

Feeders Wanted: No drugs, no smoking, no STDs

A crazy impulse had come over me then. It was almost hysterical, and I’d laughed the entire time my fingers had tapped out my drafted response.

Why not? I’d thought to myself, Why the hell not? And I'd sipped my gin with a feeling spreading through me that I’d never known before. The feeling of taking chances.

I’d wondered if that was what being alive really meant.

Of course, everyone knew what a Feeder was, though it was a word rarely mentioned in polite company. Even Frank would have abruptly ended a conversation and turned away if the subject came up, scandalized. Feeders were the lowest of the low—lower even than the thinly veiled ads from prostitutes offering their services on the same page of the paper.

Maybe it was because everyone also knew what being a Feeder really meant, in the end. In the New World, it was hardly a shock to find a small, niche industry building up around the needs of the undead. They paid extremely well. And the tales that eventually began to spread of wild, euphoric nights and hazy memories of mixed pleasure and danger by those few who had the courage to answer that demand… well.

It was the opposite of my life so far. The opposite of that steady circling down the drain of survival. And I knew I could either wait for the eventual push that would send me into the swirling depths.

Or I could jump.

And maybe I didn't think I would receive a response back to my tipsy message.

Dear Sir or Madame, (I'd erased that greeting with a laugh.)

I am writing in response to your advertisement from this week's issue of The Sentinel.

Per your requirements I am drug and STD-free, and do not smoke. I am interested in further information and next steps. My Tag number is 815344217. I look forward to hearing from you.

Best,

May Pearce

I'd sent it with another laugh, pleased with myself at how professional it sounded coming from a woman who spent her nights pouring cheap liquor into smeared glasses. Immediately my heart had begun to race, but I had downed the rest of my gin and poured another.

Then I'd nearly screamed when my phone had vibrated within five minutes.

May, the text had read, your Tag number and latest health check have been verified. I am pleased to receive your response. Would you like to discuss compensation first, or the stipulations of the position?

I’d dropped my phone onto the counter like it was on fire, staring down at the message with a conflicting rush of excitement and terror.

Your Tag number and latest health check have been verified.

My right hand wrapped around my left forearm, where a faint blue glow and the outline of a disc could be seen just beneath my skin. My heart began to pound in my chest, horror creeping in at what I’d done. I’d spent my life with that dull blue glow promising my survival, marking me as one of the compliant. As one of the saved. I hadn’t realized until that very moment how much faith I’d put into its steady, unchanging presence.

And now, within five minutes, I’d managed to do the one thing everyone in the world knew was a mistake. I’d willingly given them my Tag number.

I’d made myself known.

I’d only been a very small child when the Change had come, and The Commission had risen to power. Promising safety and protection to the survivors. Their message had been a simple one, but in a world governed by chaos, it had been an effective.

Keep your head down, do your job, and The Commission will protect you.

If.

If you followed their laws.

If you did not protest.

If you did not tamper with your Tag.

Tracking devices was the explanation at first, in case we went missing. In case we were taken. I could still feel the sting of the razor and the burn when they’d pushed it roughly into place while my mother tried to calm me, blood running freely down her arm from her own Tag. The memory still made me squirm. Now, they tagged us when we were too young to remember it.

Quiet child, or the monsters will come.

Over time, it became clear that the Tags were far more than simple tracking devices. They held information; information about our health, our legal status, and when the stipends were introduced, they held our currency, as well—credits, issued by The Commission. Everything vital about each and every human was contained in that single disc that soon became a part of our daily lives. It seemed like a simple enough trade for the safety they promised, and I didn’t blame my mother for clinging onto the hope that finally, Change had come.

After all, if the stories I’d been told were true, it was a miracle any of us were alive at all.

Quiet child, or the monsters will come.

I wondered what she would say if she’d known that I hadn’t waited for them to come. That instead, I’d invited them in.

It had taken a full drink and half of another before I’d managed to work up the courage to reply. I also wasn’t sure how to reply. What did I care more about...what they were going to do to me, or how much they were going to pay me for the privilege? Finally, I typed in my single word answer with a shaking hand.

Stipulations.

I was healthy and wanted to stay that way. If you listened to Commission propaganda with any degree of faith, you’d know that most of us were, now. Since the Change,