Page 14 of Just for a Taste

I squinted my eyes, trying to ignore the pounding in my head. It seemed like the text before me had grown smaller, closer, and lighter with every page, and now the letters were battling and overlapping.

I need to get a new pair of glasses, I thought, flicking on a lamp. I sighed. Who was I kidding? The glasses weren’t the problem here. I had been at my desk in the abbess’s suite with my latest thesis lead, and while I didn’t know exactly how long it had been, the sun had set, and I had entirely drained a highlighter. I hadn’t seen Duca de’ Medici since that night on the hill, and instead of continuing to dissect our truncated conversation, I distracted myself with my work.

“Hello.”

I raised a brow and turned toward the door, unsure if Lucia was directing her dulcet tone toward me. My heart thudded in my chest; I hoped to God that wasn’t the case. I doubted she would understand the significance of the book in front of me, The Unexpected Heir: The Untold Story of Enzo Armando de’ Medici, but that wasn’t something I could risk. I slammed it shut, looking around the room for a hiding place.

“Signorina Bowling.” Signora Carbone’s voice came through the door this time, crisp and sober as always. Everything she said sounded like a statement, a command.

I quickly stuffed the book in my drawer and replied, “Come in!”

Signora Carbone entered immediately, with Lucia waddling awkwardly behind. A flat, pink box was in her arms, tied loosely shut with a white ribbon. Balanced atop it were smaller boxes of various sizes, all of which were pink with white ribbons. Presents, quite literally overflowing in Lucia’s arms, so I only saw her lower half.

“Where should I put these?” the stack of boxes asked.

As my heartbeat returned to normal, I flickered my eyes pointedly between the presents and the end of my bed. Lucia practically fell into it. Boxes tumbled every which way, and she quickly knocked aside any stragglers when she tried to escape the fluffy mattress. I bit my lip to suppress a laugh, but eventually joined in her fit of giggles.

“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed after finally rolling off.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am. Now I know why you sleep so deeply in that bed!”

Signora Carbone glared at the younger maid, but she had no room to talk, considering her empty arms. Instead, she gathered up the presents that had joined Lucia on the floor, examined each briefly, and placed them with the largest present gingerly. I looked up at her, awaiting orders from the true mistress of the house. Surely these all couldn’t be for me?

“Open them, signorina!” Lucia crooned beside me. “Signora Carbone wrapped them just for you!”

“And Signorina Lucia flattened them just for you,” the other maid added in a monotone.

Was that a joke, a jab, or something in between? I searched her face, attempting to discern her intent, but found something entirely unexpected: Signora Carbone looked excited . Sure, she was trying to maintain her normal stony visage, but I could see the shimmer in her eyes and her fidgeting hands. In fact, I sensed something more profound than the enthusiasm of the younger maid beside her.

What the hell was in all the boxes, and why were they here? I opened my mouth to ask as much, but a sharp look from Signora Carbone stopped me. Instead, I tore into them.

Inside the largest box was a violet satin dress. Holding it up to the light, intricate embroidered patterns and inlet gems adorned every inch. The borders of the sleeves and the collar were crafted with a web of black lace. I opened the other boxes carefully to reveal my treasures: black high heels, violet ribbons for my hair, golden rings and bracelets, and a gorgeous amethyst pendant with matching earrings.

“What is all this?” I asked once my awe subsided. “Who is this from?”

Lucia clasped her hands together and murmured something to herself in Sicilian. Signora Carbone stepped forward and gathered up the gifts. “This,” she said with a small smile, “is something I never expected to take part in.”

“Huh?”

“It may not be ritus sanguinous, but I did not expect that Duca de’ Medici would allow me to perform my duties.” She was speaking mostly to herself, and to the dress in her arms. “How proud would my mother have been?”

I didn’t realize I was making a face until she reacted to it. If her abrupt, forced sobriety said anything, I had been gawking.

In my defense, however, even Lucia appeared taken aback by the whimsy that had possessed such a stoic individual. Signora Carbone spoke again, this time more soberly: “We must prepare for tonight. You must have the traditional meals. There is sizing to be done. We must bathe you and give you sacrament.” Signora Carbone pulled a list from her apron, muttered to herself a bit more, and left after giving a quick bow.

I looked down at the silks and satins surrounding me, not entirely unconvinced I was dreaming. Lucia helped me up, and I dazedly followed her through the gardens to the dining hall.

I hadn’t thought it was possible before, but the table was more abundant than usual, though the food was simpler. Rather than the herbed omelets or tarts I was used to, my breakfast consisted of various cheeses, boiled eggs, fresh breads, and local fruits. Instead of the fine china I was used to eating from, all the plates on the white tablecloth were metal. I recognized the scene immediately: panis largitoris , the traditional meal given before vampires drank from their beniamini , an ascetic meal meant to cleanse the spirit of worldly sin.

Now this felt real.

“You will do your duty soon,” Doctor Ntumba told me last month, when drawing my labs. “Zeno wants to drink from you, and he wishes for you to offer him company.” Even after that conversation, I had convinced myself she was wrong. There was no way a Medici would want to drink my blood, no way my host would want to engage in something with such romantic undertones after we had just had such an awkward exchange.

But now, with the meal before me, I couldn’t deny it any longer.

That meant the dress in my room had been chosen in lieu of more traditional robes, the bath would be filled with traditional cleansing herbs, that I would be given Eucharist, and most of all, that my blood would soon be on the Duca de’ Medici’s tongue.

Too stupefied to do anything else, I forced myself to eat before I was fetched for the next steps.

Rather than the usual mixture of milk and honey, my bath was filled with a fragrant mixture of frankincense and hyssop, and Lucia scrubbed me more aggressively than ever before. Though the oils burned, what came after was far more uncomfortable.

Signora Carbone was ruthless in her efforts to fit my dress. She tied measuring tapes taut, pricked pins through fabric with little consideration to the flesh beneath it, and ripped ribbons every which way. On and off the dress came, with such minute alterations that I could not discern them, no matter how hard I looked. But by the time she finished, Signora Carbone’s skills were undeniable. Everything fit perfectly, and once Lucia added all the accessories and a touch of makeup, a doll was staring back at me in the mirror.

For the first time, I saw myself as beautiful as my mother had.

“Thank you,” I said to them both.

Both women beheld me with such reverence, they didn’t need to respond. I wondered who had been the one to choose these clothes, and how they had known which colors complimented my eyes, or how the dress would render my boyish frame into something elegant.

For some reason, I didn’t think I wanted the answer.

Signora Carbone led me to the room I had spent the first night in. How shockingly small it seemed now, how utterly plain. When had I gotten so used to luxury? The bed had been stripped clean, and the only inhabitant of the room was a single plate, which held a single piece of bread and a glass of grape juice, meant for sacrament. The door shut behind me quietly.

Now, left alone, I was dumbfounded. I had prayed in this abbey out of fear the first time I ate, but this was different. I wanted to honor this tradition, but I certainly wasn’t Catholic; I had long forgotten how to pray. After teetering from foot to foot a bit, I decided to kneel at the altar, which proved to be an immense challenge, considering the dress, but I committed to it, nonetheless.

“Hello, God—or Jesus, I guess?” I whispered, pressing my forehead against my clasped hands. “I don’t know. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to say when I talk to you all by myself like this. I guess . . . thank you for the flesh and blood? It looks tasty, and I appreciate it not being alcoholic.” Where were crickets when you needed them? The silence was painful, so I cleared my throat.

“Um, anyway, hopefully this drinking goes well. Wish me luck?”

I inhaled and exhaled sharply, whispered the Lord’s Prayer as I could think of no other, and ate the cracker and juice. A stray droplet of juice ran down the side of the glass and onto the back of my hand. I quickly licked it off before it could roll off and stain the unfinished wood.

I wonder, I thought, if my blood will be so red, or taste so sweet.

There were three soft raps at the door and a soft, “Are you ready, signorina?”

“Y-yes!” I jumped to my feet.

Duca de’ Medici’s room was exactly as I remembered from that first day. Like before, darkness blanketed the room almost entirely, staved off only by the dim light of a few candles. The sweet scent of leather and wood wafted throughout the room, and Duca de’ Medici sat in his usual spot.

There were differences too. Instead of Tchaikovsky, some aria I could not place filled the air. Instead of truffles, there was a plate of shortbread cookies on the table. What was most different of all, however, was Duca de’ Medici.

When I entered, he was sitting with both feet on the ground, his elbows on his thighs, and his head in his hands. His hair was visibly parted from having run his fingers through them so much. At the sound of my footsteps, he lifted his face so that his chin rested on his thumbs, and his fingertips pressed against the bridge of his nose.

Our eyes widened in synchronization.

“Wow,” he said, sitting up slowly.

Feeling my face flush, I folded my arms tightly and bit my lower lip. “Yes?”

A smile spread across his face. “I chose your clothes well.”

Duca de’ Medici was looking at me just like he had on that day in the aviary, just like when we walked to the hill—with warmth, and something else I couldn’t decipher. When the slender man rose to his feet and stalked gracefully toward me, I froze.

He knelt on one knee as if to propose and looked up at me with a sincere expression.

“May I?”

“Yes.” The answer sprang from me automatically, despite not knowing what he was asking permission for. Half of me would have said yes to almost anything, and the other half cowered.

Duca de’ Medici’s slender fingers slid beneath mine. He turned my arm palm up, exposing my wrist. My veins pulsed prominently beneath my chestnut skin. His cool thumb, contrasting with mine in temperature and tone, rested lightly along my radial artery, and the pointer finger of his other hand traced along my artery. Duca de’ Medici's breath was hot against my wrist, and as poised as he was, his body radiated eagerness.

“Relax, I’ll be gentle.”

He must have felt the uptick in my heart rate when I realized what was happening. I didn’t know if I should watch or look away, but I didn’t have a choice either way. My body was frozen.

Duca de’ Medici looked up at me with those coral eyes, filled with emotions intense yet indiscernible, and plunged his teeth into me.

My body went hot, then cold. I closed my eyes. I felt his tongue gently caressing the flesh of my inner wrist, his long eyelashes fluttering dreamily against me, his soft lips pressing into me. For all this tenderness, his grip on me was strong and he drank in greedy gulps.

This was nothing like donating blood. This was intimate and vulnerable for both parties. A soft whimper escaped my lips, and instinctively he pressed his lips to me harder and began drinking more feverishly. My legs began to shake, and the shaking traveled up my body. When my arm faltered, his free hand traveled up my dress and between my legs to grip the back of my thigh so tightly, the keen pain of his fangs on my arm was mirrored by his nails digging into me.

He scooped me close, chest heaving, his body surging with electricity. I moaned, soft and quivering.

We sat like that for only a few seconds. When he separated from me and pressed a piece of gauze against my wrist, a mixture of relief and disappointment struck me. He retreated into the darkness, expression flat.

It appeared nothing had happened at all. Or maybe that it meant nothing.

I touched my shaking fingers to the indents on the back of my thigh and trailed my fingertips across the grooves. The heat of his hands still lingered, and the remaining blood in my body rushed to my face, burning the tips of my ears. I fell to my knees, cupped my face in my hands, and squeezed my eyes shut. Humiliation washed over whatever I had been feeling.

The noises I had made! The way my body had reacted! To have acted so lewdly with a man I barely knew, who likely had no interest in me in that way, was beyond humiliating. In a matter of seconds, I feverishly planned my resignation from this position, along with my subsequent move to some remote cabin in the woods, where I would never see another living soul.

As I was midway through my mental packing list, something I didn’t notice before caught my attention. I held my breath, listened beyond the heartbeat in my ears, and peeked through my fingers. Despite Duca de’ Medici’s cool appearance when he’d stalked back across the room, I heard his heavy breathing; I could smell the intermingling of sweat and cologne. He had unbuttoned the collar of his shirt down to his sternum and flung himself onto his sofa. Even with only the flickers of candlelight across his features, I could see his normally opalescent face was bright as a tomato.

I caught his eye, and he quickly shifted into the darkness. “You can go now.”

I stood quickly, staggered back a few steps, and cried, “Yes, of course, thank you!” before rushing to the door.

I slammed it behind me, shielding myself from the peculiar dimension I had clearly wandered into. I crashed into someone immediately.

I fell onto my ass hard and hit my head against the door.

“Shit,” I hissed between my teeth, my hand bounding to a freshly blossoming knot on the back of my head.

Since when was it such a challenge to remain standing? I squinted into the light, saw the blurry figure of a hand reaching out toward me, and grasped it. As I rose to my feet once more and my vision adjusted, Doctor Ntumba came into view.

“You’re going to need an ice pack and some ibuprofen for that,” she said with a frown.

I rubbed the bump again and winced. It had already grown. But that wasn’t my concern right now. I had forgotten Doctor Ntumba had been waiting in the hall for me. I had forgotten anything but he and I existed.