Page 10 of Just for a Taste

“How was your afternoon?” she asked after taking a long sip of what smelled to be freshly brewed hibiscus tea.

I mirrored her action, relishing in the chance to have a bit more time to think of my response. How had the afternoon been? Lonely, lovely, jarring, eerie? Many possible answers swirled in my mouth, alongside the floral taste.

“Strange,” I answered, truthfully. “It doesn’t feel like I’m supposed to be here. It’s like I’m playing pretend. Like I’m in some childhood daydream.”

Doctor Ntumba cast a meaningful gaze to my hands and revealed her own. Thick lines creased them, the calluses permanently embossed. Their general coarseness mirrored mine. I saw this reflection of her upbringing for only an instant as she turned them to reveal the smooth, perfectly lotioned and pampered backs of her hands.

“Your palms may remain like mine, but you’ll get soft skin within a few weeks of milk-and-honey baths.”

Within a few weeks. It was presumptuous of her to assume I would agree before actually discussing the deal—but not entirely untrue. My wallet was empty, and my mind was full of intrigue. I had nothing to lose and she knew it.

“Now, for the details of your offer,” she said. “As previously mentioned, your position would entail you living here full time. The specific duration of your employment is to be continually negotiated by both parties on a quarterly basis but has the potential to be indefinite if both parties are amenable. During this period, you are considered a member of the abbey, and you will be following its schedule, along with a designated maid.”

I forced my lip not to curl. Based on all of my past experience, a job usually involved some sort of sacrifice: Burns from frying grease at the local fast-food joint. Being uncomfortably hit on by an old man at a cash register, only to be scolded by my manager for being “rude” when I wasn’t receptive. Headaches and heart palpitations from excessive caffeine while grading essays at three a.m. Clearly—unless I was missing a detail in the job description—someone was being taken advantage of here, and it was probably me. I was becoming more and more frustrated at being invited all this way, only to have the reasons why hidden behind smoke and mirrors.

“Okay, but what is my actual job?” I countered once I could no longer bite my tongue. “You haven’t touched upon my duties, and I have a hard time imagining you’re giving me room and board to try on fancy clothes.”

Doctor Ntumba stared at me intently, and for a moment, I considered apologizing for the interruption. While I certainly had a temper, it was typically smothered by a strong distaste for confrontation, and wielding such bluntness felt incredibly awkward.

I feared I’d enraged my interviewer irreparably, but her reply was as cool as ever.

“Your secondary responsibility as an employee will be to maintain your health by having as little stress as possible. You will maintain a strict regimen of supplements and exercise planned by myself, as well as eat at least 70 percent of all meals prepared. You are required to abstain from all aspirin, alcohol, and other blood thinners. All of this will ensure your blood is of high quality for donation.” Doctor Ntumba followed my gaze to my inner arm, where faded, amber-greenish smudges still remained a week after an apologetic nursing student had butchered my veins.

“My primary duty is to donate blood?” I asked, quirking a brow. “That’s it?”

“It is an important duty. Zeno requires one quarter of a liter of whole blood every month to replenish the blood cells he cannot adequately produce as a vampire.”

“Even so, having me live here full time and giving me all these luxuries doesn’t make sense,” I retorted. “It would be less expensive—not to mention easier—to get monthly transfusions.”

Doctor Ntumba gave me a peculiar expression, which I could only assume was a combination of annoyance at my interruption and some sort of amusement. She laced her fingers, leaning forward in her chair. “You assume correctly. However, it is not truly the blood itself that is your purpose.”

“What’s my purpose, then?” My tone sharpened.

To my surprise, Doctor Ntumba furrowed her brow. “I have been searching for someone to be Zeno’sbeniamina.”

Images of famousbeniaminiflashed through my mind: muses, courtesans, concubines, assistants, confidants, advisers. All the main blood sources for powerful vampires. More than that,beniaminiwere the right hand of their vampires. They had waged wars, and wars had been waged over them. Hell, some medieval Christian cults argued Peter had been abeniaminoof a vampiric Jesus, connecting Him with humans.

There was really only one interpretation of her words, one I refused to accept. It was simply impossible that one of the wealthiest families on earth would have any interest in appointingmeas the partner to its presumed heir. There must have been some grave misunderstanding, and the only way I would look more naïve than sitting here, wordlessly, would be by acting like I knew what the hell was going on.

Silence proliferated. Doctor Ntumba tapped the inside of her teacup with a spoon, and Lucia immediately refilled it.

“It’s a coming-of-age ritual for vampires to gain abeniaminoduring confirmation, typically, or otherwise around fourteen or fifteen years old,” she said. “And it is a responsibility that Zeno has opted to push back for the past fourteen years.”

“Why would he do that? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“For the same reason that he is living in an abandoned abbey in rural Sicily rather than at a gathering in Venice. Zeno is not fond of the expectations of vampire society. He would much rather continue to go to a blood transfusion center than bother with the human component of the partnership, and he doesn’t hide that from prospectivebeniamini. Of course, he still requires a source of blood, and the Abbazia di Santa Dymphna is not a family heirloom. Zeno wasn’t able to purchase it and leave Venice without behaving. That includes fulfilling the step of getting abeniamina.”

A dull ache emerged behind my eyes. I pinched the bridge of my nose. Doctor Ntumba was knocking down questions quickly, and all that remained were the ones that had spawned the moment I opened that first letter.

I finally let out those two simple words: “Why me?”

Doctor Ntumba let out a strange, exasperated combination of a laugh and a scoff.

“The mere presence of someone with the title ofbeniaminais enough to placate upper society and his family, regardless of who they are or if they even interact with Zeno. The only truly relevant requirement to this position is that the individual’s presence is tolerated in the abbey. Several candidates have interviewed for this position, but you are the only one he has permitted to stay.”

I had a hard time seeing how immediately arguing with my host made me worth tolerating, but that wasn’t something to complain about. More importantly, I hadn’t received an answer to my question.

“But how did you find me? Where did you get my address?”

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