I Found a Baby with Fangs in a Dumpster

§PROLOGUE

The baby was in the recycling bin.

Not in, precisely, but next to it, tucked into the grimy alcove of The Meridian Court’s dumpster area that always smelled faintly of sour milk and rain-soaked cardboard.

It was nestled in a Moses basket, of all things.

A ridiculously expensive-looking one, woven from some pale, clean straw that seemed to repel the city's grime.

I only noticed it because I was taking out the trash at an ungodly hour, hoping to avoid Mrs. Gable from 3B and her endless interrogation about my "prospects."

The night was thick and humid, the kind that makes your shirt stick to your back.

A tiny, choked sound, almost like a kitten’s mew, cut through the distant city hum.

My heart did a stupid little lurch.

Please don't be a box of abandoned kittens.

I couldn't afford kittens.

I couldn't afford my own electricity bill this month.

I nudged the basket with the toe of my worn-out Converse.

The sound came again, louder this time.

A whimper.

A very human-sounding whimper.

Oh, God.

My hands felt cold despite the heat.

I knelt, the rough concrete biting into my knees, and gently pulled back a corner of the soft, grey blanket.

The baby was tiny, impossibly so.

A little scrap of a thing with a cherubic face, a button nose, and a tuft of hair as black as spilled ink.

Its eyes were closed, its face scrunched in a pained, sleepy frown.

It was perfect.

And completely abandoned.

My breath hitched.

Who does this?

Who leaves a baby next to a dumpster?

My fingers trembled as I reached out to check if it was warm, if it was real.

As my hand hovered over its chest, the baby stirred, its little back arching.

The blanket slipped.

And I saw them.

Folded neatly against its tiny shoulder blades, like a bizarre birthmark, were two wings.

They weren't feathery angel wings from a Christmas card.

They were small, leathery, and shaped exactly like a bat's.

My mind refused to process what my eyes were seeing.

It had to be a toy.

A cruel, elaborate prank.

I reached out, my finger shaking, and touched the tip of one wing.

It twitched.

It was warm.

And it was real.

The baby in the recycling bin had wings.

And my life, as I knew it, was officially over.

§01

The first twenty-four hours were a blur of panic and instant coffee.

Getting her back to my apartment was the easy part.

I’d scooped up the basket, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, and sprinted up the three flights of stairs to my shoebox-sized home.

I locked, bolted, and chained the door.

Then I just stood there in the middle of my living room, which also served as my dining room and home office, staring at the sleeping infant.

She was a she.

I’d checked.

She was also, apparently, some kind of mythological creature currently snoozing on my coffee table.

"Okay, Corinne," I whispered to myself, pacing the worn patch of carpet. "Think."

But my brain was serving up nothing but static and a looping highlight reel of the tiny, leathery wings.

First things first: food.

Babies need food.

I didn't have baby food.

A frantic search of my mostly empty cupboards yielded a can of lentil soup, half a box of stale crackers, and a packet of ramen.

Not exactly baby-friendly.

A lightning raid on my dwindling bank account and a sprint to the 24-hour convenience store later, I was armed with a can of generic infant formula, a bottle, and a pack of diapers.

I felt like an alien trying to assemble human technology.

The baby woke up while I was wrestling with the formula instructions.

Her eyes, when they opened, were stunning.

Not blue or brown, but a deep, dark grey, like polished obsidian.

They watched me with an unnerving, silent intelligence.

She didn't cry, not really.

She just made that same soft, mewing sound from before.

"Okay, little one," I murmured, my voice shaky. "Dinner is served."

I cradled her awkwardly in one arm, her body feeling impossibly light and fragile, and offered her the bottle.

She turned her head away.

"Come on," I coaxed, nudging the nipple against her lips. "It's food. Yum, yum."

She pursed her perfect little mouth into a firm line of refusal.

We repeated this dance for what felt like an eternity.

Me, begging.

Her, silently, stubbornly, refusing.

Desperation began to set in.

She hadn't eaten.

She must be starving.

What if she got sick?

What if she... died?

The thought sent a spear of ice through my chest.

I tried everything.

I warmed the formula.

I cooled it.

I tried to spoon a little into her mouth.

She just let it dribble out, her obsidian eyes fixed on my face with an expression that looked suspiciously like disappointment.

"What do you want from me?" I pleaded, my own stomach growling in sympathy. "I'm doing my best here!"

It was in the middle of this desperate plea that I fumbled the can opener while trying to start on my own sad dinner of lentil soup.

The sharp edge of the lid sliced across my thumb.

A bright, perfect bead of red welled up.

"Ouch! Dammit."

I instinctively stuck my thumb in my mouth, but the metallic taste of blood was strong.

The baby, who had been lying listlessly on a pile of blankets on my sofa, suddenly went rigid.

Her head snapped in my direction.

Her tiny nostrils flared.

And for the first time, I saw them.

Just barely peeking out from under her upper lip, two minuscule points, whiter than bone, sharper than needles.

Fangs.

Oh no.

My blood ran cold.

The mewing sound started again, but this time it was different.

It was deeper, more guttural.

Urgent.

Her obsidian eyes were locked onto my bleeding thumb.

A tiny drop of blood escaped the cut and rolled down my skin.

Her gaze followed it, hypnotic.

This couldn't be happening.

This was insane.

But she was fading.

Her skin seemed paler, her movements more sluggish.

She was starving to death right in front of me.

I was out of options.

And out of my mind.

Slowly, hesitantly, I pulled my thumb out of my mouth and held my hand out towards her.

"Just... just a little," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Okay?"

She didn't need any more encouragement.

With a speed that was startling in such a small creature, she latched onto my thumb.

The prick of her tiny fangs was surprisingly sharp, a tiny sting of pain.

And then, I felt it.

A soft, rhythmic pulling.

It didn't hurt.

It was just... strange.

I watched, mesmerized, as a faint flush of color returned to her cheeks.

Her limbs, which had been so limp, now seemed to gain strength.

After a few seconds, she released my thumb and sighed, a tiny, contented sound.

She looked up at me, her eyes seeming to hold a flicker of gratitude.

Then she promptly fell asleep, a faint smear of my blood at the corner of her mouth.

I sank back against the couch, my head spinning.

I was officially in over my head.

I wasn't just hiding a baby with wings.

I was hiding a vampire baby.

§02

The next few weeks were a masterclass in controlled chaos.

I named her Cleo.

It felt right.

Short, simple, and it didn't sound like the name of a future dark overlord.

My life rearranged itself around her needs, which were, to put it mildly, unique.

My sleep schedule was annihilated.

My diet consisted of whatever I could eat with one hand.

My apartment, once a sanctuary of minimalist-by-necessity clutter, was now a minefield of diapers and baby blankets.

And my blood volume was becoming a serious concern.

She was a surprisingly moderate eater.

A few drops from a pricked finger were usually enough to satisfy her, a tiny "snack" a few times a day.

It was more than the mosquitos in summer, but not by much.

Still, the constant, tiny donations were taking their toll.

I was perpetually tired, a low-grade dizziness a constant companion.

The world seemed to be wrapped in a thin layer of cotton wool.

The worst part was the loneliness.

I had no one to talk to.

I couldn't exactly call up my one and only friend and say, "Hey, so I found a vampire baby, any tips on teething?"

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