Casey had been recruited to the Montreal Canadiens at twenty-one, fresh out of the QMJHL. He still felt keenly that he was too new for a professional league, despite having been playing for the past three years, and doing quite well. A rising star in the hockey world, and a quiet emerging leader in the locker room, he was known for his friendly, if reserved, demeanor.
That night’s hockey game had been against the New York Rangers, and had been brutal. The locker room was busy with guys recouping after the game. It was a close win, but a win nonetheless. Casey took his time getting out of his gear before seeing the team medic, and getting his ribs taped up due to bruising.
He knew there were reporters waiting outside the area, and knew they would want to talk to him. The problem was that he just wasn’t up to it. Not tonight. Not when he was in pain, and feeling particularly worn down, despite his team’s win. Making a decision, he said goodbye to his teammates, and took a different route through the arena, to slip out a side door.
No reporters. No fans. Just peace. He looked up at the night sky, and took a deep breath inward, letting it out slowly. It was a cold March night toward the end of the season, and soon he would be headed back to Montreal. As he let his breath out, he came to realize just how tired he was. Tired physically, tired mentally, and most of all, tired of the work needed to hide himself.
Casey closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the New York evening fill his ears. And then another sound, a closer sound caught his attention. It was the sound of a match striking and flaring to life, followed by the smell of a cigar. With a sigh, figuring it might be a fan, Casey turned.
The smoker was leaning against the wall of the arena. He stood slightly over 6’ tall, and Casey guessed close to 200 pounds. The man wore a pair of faded bluejeans, and a worn button-up shirt under a leather biker style jacket. His face was unshaved, the beard itself dark with shocks of gray throughout. His hair retained most of its dark color, however. Overall he had a rough, weathered look about him, and his hands were scarred; eyes intense.
The smoker spoke then, his voice calm, collected. He was deliberate with his words, asking simple questions, which Casey politely answered, though all he wanted at that moment was escape and solitude. This entire exchange was a little odd; uncomfortable. It felt like he was being evaluated; measured by that face which held an expression in the eyes of unsettling clarity.
“You’ve spent your life letting others tell you what you are,” the smoker said, voice low. “How much longer will you let them?”
Casey didn’t know how to answer. The other man didn’t make him.
The man, dropped his cigar, crushing it underfoot. Then, he took a step forward. Casey looked around for a moment, wondering if a teammate might be nearby so he could make an excuse to leave, but then the other man was upon him. He had a hand on Casey’s shoulder, and the next thing he knew, the man was at his throat. It was a deeply pleasurable feeling, and he was vaguely aware of being held upright as the life drained from him.
It was peaceful; free of burdens. It was a moment of bliss. Then, a wrist was thrust at his mouth, a few drops of a thick, heady liquid his his tongue, and he found himself drinking, his hands clutching to the arm of the other man as he did so.
Eventually, the source of this intoxicating substance was pulled away, and Casey was let go. He took in the other man doing something with his wrist. Casey himself was waking up, and it felt like a release. As he looked around, the world seemed deeper, shaper, louder…unbearably real.
The other man introduced himself as Étienne Bouchard. He explained, only in brief, what had happened to Casey. It was more important, he’d stated, for Casey to feed right now. Needless to say, Casey did not head back to the hotel with his teammates. Instead, he hunted with Étienne, and was given refuge for the day. The teachings would begin later.