It was an unbreakable tradition of the Karnsteins to gather around the Grand Mansion on the thirty-first of December to celebrate an ending of a year and a beginning of a new one.

We're very traditional. All Southern Rednecks of Alabama. My great-great-great grandfather, Collin Karnstein, was one of the black slaves' owners, making it big with the cotton and the sugar. During the Civil War, he was amongst the biggest suppliers of food and clothes to the Confederacy, although he turned his rapport to the Union just as quick as his loyalty pledge. As Grandma would say, "Our history was not a mightily proud one, but we're here today to celebrate it nonetheless." If it's not for Collin's sly tongue and betrayal instinct, we wouldn't own these beautiful mansions and fields and stretches of Alabama land.

We don't tolerate absences and traditional-breaking.Travelling abroad is not a good enough excuse. I've holed up in China, Netherlands and Germany, moving across Vietnam, Thailand and Singapore, purposefully purchased tickets whenever another gather is looming around the corner, gone off the grid and cut off my phone line for a month prior and after the gathering. However, the Finale Gathering is definitely not the one I can escape from. Even though they did not threatening me or anything, the piled-up anger was at a tipping point where I cannot risk further suspicious.

The Karnsteins worship tradition more than blood. Everything in their house runs in a neat freaking order, so predictable and unavoidable that causes the tensed feud between my Dad and his younger brothers become much more than breathes hitch in your throat or dire glances exchange across the table.

The Finale dinner party has always follow a simple formulaic: we all sit down, hold each other's hands. Grandma would recite a passage of prayer, words muttered so fast all syllables blur into a single stream. When the meal commences, Grandma would go around the table, asking each of us how we're doing. When she reached Dad, he would somehow manage to make a retort that trigger one, if not all, of his brothers. Something about money, or bank, or heir right, or probably all. A war would break loose.

Yet, for the first time, as soon as the prayer just finished, instead of complimenting Grandma's nicely crafted masterpiece Uncle Wilt casually said, "There's a killer roaming near our area."

"Wilton Rolf Theodoulos Karnstein!" Grandma exclaimed, raising the knife she was using to slice the turkey meat. "Shut your foul trap!"

The kids were so startled they dropped their forks. Gasps sweep across the dining table, and I followed everybody and settled my gaze on Uncle Wilt.

Uncle Wilt's lips twitched, suppressing a grin. He clearly enjoyed the rare moment. As one of the sixth child of an eight-children family, his whole life solely rotated around his desperate crave for family attention. He shifted his chair closer to the table and steepled his hands. "It was on the news this morning, didn't you read?"

The mothers giggled nervously, murmurming that they're in out-of-service area.

"No wonder there were sirens this morning." Dad said.

Uncle Wilt nodded. "A gruesome death. A cab driver found with his car rammed in the wood and his neck practically torn apart. Poor man, naked in his death."

"An animal," Uncle Coen said. "A coyote, of course."

"That's what I thought. The thing is, the teeth mark on his neck look of human's." Uncle Wilt gestured at his jaws.

"The Indians." Uncle Adam snorts under his breath.

Across from him, my Mom raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" She's a human right activist, and God forbid but their seats have to be directly opposite of each other.

"Actually, it's vampire poison in his bloodstream." Uncle Wilt said.

The silence cascaded abrupt and sudden.

"A vampire?" Uncle Coen guffawed.

"Lucky that he's dead, then." Aunt Maja, Uncle Coen's wife, piqued up as she fed her newborn.

"Perhaps he himself is a vampire?" Dad said.

"They didn't mention it in the article, but they did say that the 24+Gros clerk talked to him when he asked to use the washroom," Uncle Wilt said. I pushed the food around, mimicking the little children's bored expression. "The driver is quite sane. Tired, but sane. No bloodlust symptoms show. He even has proper reflection."

"Oh, Jesus, this is a dining table for heaven's sake," Grandma grumbled. "You boys can bring your bloody detective discussion outside once we finished our desserts."

As the helpers bring the first course out, Grandma begun her inspection round. The kids chirped about their art projects, their classes, their early drama. She laughed and cooed at them.

I pushed my food around, occasionally taking an enthusiastic bite out of the chicken breast on my plate. Aunts and Uncles nod and ask me questions about my trip and the magazine site I worked for, although I mostly let Mom and Dad handled the answers. They are the spokesman and the spokeswoman, after all. Q&A is in their blood. My head drifts back to a few nights before, recalling the taste of beautiful burnt copper on the tip of my tongue.

I had waved a cab once landed at Birmingham-Shuttlesworth from Korea. It was nearly twelve, and the driver looked deranged and slightly drunk as we shoved my suitcases into the trunk. His eyes widened a fraction when he saw it's nearly a three-hour drive to get to the suburban.

The driver was a heavy-set man, black like the farming fertile soil. He smelt nice, different from the Korean boys and girls. There's something much thicker in his scent, almost like ages and fat accumulated around the walls of his veins. I pretended to be asleep at the backseat, dropping my eyelids, however my fingers as a habit started rubbing around my bottom lip as I contemplate him. My fangs ache to sink into flesh, after a long flight. He seems unaware of my watch, although once or twice, I caught him nervously glancing back, fat beads of sweat roll down the side of his neck.

My stomach rumbled.

After about an hour and a half, we stopped at a 24+Gros Station. He fumbled with his seatbelt and raced to the washroom.

I can hear the water splashing from twenty feet away, hear the driver's ragged breath and gruff hiss as he pumped his cock then collapsed on the sink, sticky white substance coated his palms, hear as he cursed himself and zipped himself up, sighing. When he emerged from the washroom, smiling at him.

He swallowed, then shoved himself into the driver's seat.

I climbed from the backseat to the passenger side. The driver's Adam's apple bobbed unsteadily. He cleared his throat a few times before started the engines. The car sputtered. Then finally the wheels rolled forward.

"Cale?"

I raised my eyes to the voice's direction.

Grandma's voice hardened a bit. Just a tiny bit, but so different compared to the gentle, biased tone I used to.

"Cale?"

"Yes?"

Dad shot me a glare, whil Mom pinched my thigh under the table.

"How's France?" Grandma started.

I dabbed a corner of the handkerchief at my mouth. "You mean Korea?"

She smiled. "You keep moving around every now and then. Hard for my old mind to keep up with you."

"I'm sorry for didn't call home more often." I said.

"It's fine, darling. I get that you're enjoying your job. You're a travel journalist, anyhow."

I glanced down at my uneaten plate, pushing the cold mashed potato to the side of the dish.

Uncle Wilt jerked his chin at me before Grandma continued her Q&A. "Hey, didn't you take the cab here a few days ago, Cale?"

I smiled, amused. "Are you suspecting I killed the man?"

"No. I was just wondering about your safety. The man has semen splatter around him, so I was scared that—" He broke off, blushing.

"Thanks, Uncle Wilt." I said. "But I'm a grown woman. I can defend myself."

"Yes, Caledonia is a big girl, now, eh?" Uncle Coen said, his perverted laughter shook the table. Mom's pinch started to feel tickle. Mom didn't like any man in the Karnsteins family, including Dad. She only married him since it's a strategic business move that can leverage her own family's little business.

"Are you Infected?" A timid voice interrupted the laughing and low chatting.

I turned my eyes to the other end of the table.

Ava, Uncle Adam's third wife, hastily turned and swatted the girl beside her's elbow. "Oh, don't mind her. She's thoughtless."

My head took a long while to grasp the right name, shuffling through a couple hundred more snapshots of blonde, gray-eyed girls. She must be the sick adopted daughter I've always heard Uncle Adam complained about. What was her name again? Something with an N, I believe. She's about ten years younger than me. Eighteen, perhaps.

"I don't think we are introduced to each other yet. I'm Caledonia." I said.

The girl stared at my lips and whispered quietly, turning away. "Korea is the origin, and it has the highest infection rate. There's no appearances change to indicate Cheaeg Infection. The Infects will lose their sensories within a month, not bothered by mortal hunger and sleep." She let her bang fallen over her cheeks. "There were no vampire incident before. Not until you show up."

"Nathalia, be quiet." Ava hissed.

"No, it's fine." I said coolly, set down my fork and squaring my shoulders. "You're a very smart girl, Nat. But if I were Infected why would I come back to the States?" I asked. In Asian and Europe, the governments are willing to look the other way as long as the Infects stay in the internment camps and bear the tattoo, but here in North America, they drive a stake through your heart and burn you under the sun. The Karnsteins would be amongst the first one to support the correct, traditional way to go about terminating blood-suckers. "Everything you just said is frankly pure accusation, right?" I smiled tight-lipped, ignoring the bleeding of my gum and the itch to turn and scrub the scrutinize of my relatives' off my skin. The salty iron taste filled up my throat.

She still refused to meet my gaze. "Why would I accuse you?"

I narrowed my eyes, then shrugged. "Because your Father wants to kick my Dad out of the Heir line-up?"

Uncle Adam jumped up, snarling at me. "What the hell are you saying?"

"Cale," Dad snapped sharply.

I splayed out my palms. "I mean, Adolf Karnstein's only daughter is Infected. Bad for business reputation, no? The next in line, the second to the talented Adolf is obviously you, Uncle Adam."

"That certainly sounds very true to Adam's nature." Aunt Katerina, Uncle Coen's wife says.

"Indeed," Uncle Coen nods. I noticed Aunt Katerina's eyelid twitches when her husband's hand slipped under the table, presumably for some squeezing her thigh.

Uncle Adam yells, shoving his fork at the front like a weapon. "What?"

Mom raised her chin. "Well, it's true, right, Adam?"

Ava fluttered like a panic swallow, waving her hands. Her ginger curls bounced frantically as she turned this way and that, trying to sooth everybody. "Oh no, please, Gessica and Adolf, Nathalie didn't mean anything by that."

"Gess," Dad hisses.

Mom ignores Dad, sneering at Adam. "My daughter has just come home shortly from and yet you are so quick to throw dirt on her."

"Y'all. Sit down and zip it." Grandma roared, slamming both fists on the table which caused the silverwares to rattle. "You're staying under my roof, my rule. Do not bring foul attitude here." She glared at every single individual. Paused particularly long at me. "Caledonia had just came back from a long trip, so I shall make an exception."

I didn't say anything.

I shoveled a spoonful of gravy and dry chickens and swallowed without chewing.

The food slides down my trachea, leaving a shitty taste burning in my throat. I can feel my relatives' hot breath caressing the back of my neck, feel their eyes crawling along my skin, feel their pursued lips as they tried to glimpse for the fangs. Sweat started to condense along my hairline.

I counted. Exactly six minutes later, I stood and excused myself.

I stepped outside to the courtyard, breathing in the thick, viscous air. My senses had heightened while my blood can now adjust to the temperature around me.

Alabama has changed. Sharper, more putrid and colder.