Page 14 of Just for a Taste

Duca de’ Medici’s coat billowed as he strode quickly to the door. I reached out for where he had been.

“W-wait!” I cried, hoping to salvage the conversation. This was my employer, after all. “What about your cookies and music? You haven’t chosen—”

“I don’t have an appetite anymore,” he snapped. “And I have a collection of records that serves me well enough.”

Once again, I was at a loss for words. An awkward silence hung between us. I considered apologizing and discounting his former assertion that I wouldn’t want his presence but feared it would look forced. Then I thought about inviting him back in and starting the conversation anew, but I knew I was far too rattled to come up with anything to discuss.

Instead, I asked the question at the forefront of my mind. “You know I accepted the position, right? I’m technically yourbeniamina?”

He gave me a single, quick nod. “If that is acceptable to you. I’m sure Noor informed you that the title won’t require much of you out here. You’re welcome to change your mind, but I will gladly keep my distance for the time being if you find that preferable.”

“I don’t want . . .” I trailed off. Maybe Ididwant him to keep his distance. Doctor Ntumba had insinuated that Duca de’ Medici only needed to tolerate my presence, and it was possible he would keep interactions with me to a minimum. Had she been wrong in guessing there was something about me he would be fond of? Perhaps in future discussions, Duca de’ Medici would discover he found me neither “peculiar” nor “interesting enough to keep around.” Perhaps I would continue to flounder in conversation after conversation and get kicked out before I even finished a single book.

I should at least clarify I didn’thatehim.

I didn’t get the chance to finish my sentence, or any other for that matter. With little more than a tense nod, Duca de’ Medici departed.

In the two conversations I’d had with him, he had shown himself to be many things: pompous, peculiar, and blunt. But over the next few days, I discovered another trait: he was true to his word. I didn’t see him in the library or anywhere else, and soon it felt like our conversations were some imagined figments of the past.

Of course, that couldn’t last forever.

Chapter 6: Libiamo ne’ lieti calici

Despite the rough start, the next several days of my stay were an utter fantasy. The morning progressed like clockwork, where I played the role of a gentlewoman: I was woken up and brought down to a gourmet breakfast, then a bath was drawn for me. After being dressed by Lucia, Signora Carbone would provide a light afternoon snack, paired with some sort of local drink.

After that, Lucia would bring me down for afternoon tea with Doctor Ntumba, and the two of us would chat briefly. I would listen as she explained Sicilian culture, the latest advancements in medicine, and her surprising interest in anthropology. Now and then, I’d get a peek into her personal life: the antics of her two college-aged sons, the crafts she’d liked to do with her late husband, and her young life as a Christian in Egypt. She stated to me often that she had an unusual and even controversial specialty in medicine, but did not go in any further depth. She served as a grounding point, someone whose pragmatic presence would remind me the rapping outside my window at night, or the scratching in my walls, were likely twigs and small animals, respectively—not specters I had conjured up.

While I enjoyed these conversations, I was always more eager for what came after: the rest of the day in the library. At this point, I wasn’t brave enough to venture into the Medici family documents themselves, but I was content enough with a seemingly unlimited supply of novels from the past five centuries on all four walls around me. I had a good idea of where to start and felt confident that my eventual search would be fruitful. There were ample CDs and records, along with the books, and in the corner was enough art supplies to last me a few years. I had dabbled in painting during my undergraduate years and was pleasantly surprised to find I had a bit of technique in me still.

Despite being surrounded by the richest architectural beauties I could ever imagine, I found myself sketching the elusive Duca de’ Medici time and time again. I would set out to paint the interior of a lovely greenhouse, but by the end of the painting, he would be a statue standing in the middle, ivy twisting around his legs. I would try to paint a sunset on the beach, and his intense eyes would find their way to swirl into the crimsons in the sky. Soon enough, the vampire turned into a fictional character in my mind, along with Beowulf and Heathcliff and Tristan.

Occasionally, I saw flashes of him. He would sometimes pass me in the hall, his chin raised high, not giving me a single glance. There were a few instances where I walked in on him stretched out like a cat in front of the fireplace with a book in hand, and he tossed me an annoyed glance for the intrusion and angled the cover away from me. More often, I heard music coming from his room and saw trays of chocolates and tea placed at the foot of his door.

By the time I was brought down one day into a unexpectantly modern exam room within the abbey, I had almost forgotten my purpose.

“I’m just going to run a standard CBC and CMP on you,” Doctor Ntumba informed me. “Assuming your labs are good, I will be drawing a liter of blood from you tomorrow to transfuse to Zeno.”

Transfuse? I had never heard of abeniaminadonating blood via any route other than direct drinking. It would be a lie to say I wasn’t a little relieved at the prospect of this untraditional donation, but I also felt strangely wounded. I couldn’t help but wonder if some part of me wasn’t good enough, or if Duca de’ Medici found me repulsive in any way.

Doctor Ntumba attempted to walk me through the process, but I was too distracted by the elephant in the room. When she finished tying the tourniquet, I couldn’t bear it any longer. “Is it normal for vampires to get blood like this? I’ve never read ofbeniaminidonating blood so—” I paused, looking for the word. “—clinically.”

“You’re correct. This is inefficient,” Doctor Ntumba replied as she scrubbed my inner elbow with an alcohol wipe. “Transference can damage platelets, for instance, and it’s easy for fluid overload to occur.”

“Then why are we doing it like this?”

She chuckled more warmly than I had ever heard. “Because Zeno is foolish and shy.”

“Him?Shy?” I exclaimed without thinking.

“That and terrified of intimacy. Drinking someone’s blood is very . . . familiar.”

Portraits of the process with romantic or even erotic undertones filled my mind. I had written an entire paper on the artistic significance ofritus sanguinous, the first public drinking, simple and sweet, marking the bond between a vampire and theirbeniamini, which could be a massive occasion spanning multiple days.

As she capped a vial I hadn’t realized I had been filling, she looked up at me. “But you knew that already, and you will do your duty soon.”

I flinched. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Nothing unusual. Zeno wants to drink from you, and he wishes for you to offer him company.”

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