Page 2 of Just for a Taste

I wondered how my mother would feel if she knew what I planned to do with these vampires. Would she throw back her head and laugh that all the time and money I’d spent on school had gone nowhere? Would she spit at my feet and tell me that selling my body, my blood, month after month was no better than what she had spent her life doing after Pa died? Or would she muse that it only made sense for a girl surrounded in Gothic novels and Bibles to wind up in an abbey?

When I left that morning, I didn’t think my interviewer was correct in assuming I would arrive so late. After all, Sicily was a small island and the Abbazia di Santa Dymphna was well-known, so why would I need to rely on all the maps she had laid out for me?

But as I soon discovered, my formidable grasp of Italian was useless when conversing with the inhabitants of rural Sicily. I couldn’t speak a word to the man driving me. After saying something I couldn’t fully understand about the wind, he cracked open my window.

Cool mountain air rushed into the car, carrying with it the earthy scent of tilth. Intermittent clouds floated overhead, casting sunlight erratically over the patchwork land. I could see the tree-lined border of a distant town, but little else of interest. For all its beauty, the only sights Sicily had given me so far were predominantly of farmland, and that wasn’t enough to stop my mind from racing.

I turned away and dug out my phone. Considering the remoteness of my destination, this would probably be my last chance to use it.

A stock photo of heirloom roses shone through the spidery cracks on my screen. I had finally changed my Lock Screen a few weeks ago, but it still jarred me every time I checked the time or looked at a notification. Holding it close to my face, I wondered if the old picture of Emily and me in our favorite cafe was burned into the screen, or if I was imagining its shadow overcasting everything, just like I wondered if the smell of her strawberry shampoo still lingered on my clothes, or if I had willed the familiar scent into existence. At least I knew the sensation of a ring on my finger was a phantom. She took that with her when she left me last month.

I unlocked the phone, then grimaced as it opened to the mail app. There were a handful of emails sent by my thesis adviser, trailed by my various drafted responses. In all of her emails, my adviser maintained her usual professional tone, but over time, they had gotten increasingly terse. Between cordialities and academic prose, the underlying message was clear: You’ve run out of funding, Cora, and we can’t keep giving a stipend to a no-name. Get results sooner rather than later.

Many of my abandoned drafts were long-winded explanations about how I was only missing a few key documents that surely existed to prove my theory. Others were outright excuses about crashed computers or sick grandmothers. Some were just embarrassing pleas and empty promises. I almost sent a lengthy response explaining how this thesis was what I had left everything for and was now all I had in this world.

My eventual response was two sentences sandwiched between auto-generated salutations: I have a lead. We’ll talk when I find something.

Less was more, I supposed, with a “lead” as sketchy as mine.

The letter I received in the mail a few weeks ago, written in gold ink on black parchment, had initially seemed like a prank.

Hello, Miss Cora Bowling,

I am mailing you to inform you of a job offer. I have looked through your credentials and find them satisfactory. Here is the description:

Healthy adult wanted for paid blood donations in rural Sicily. Room and board provided. Long-term gig with a generous salary. Discretion required.

Please respond as soon as possible via mail if you are interested. It is my understanding that you will be.

– Doctor N.

There was no start day, pay, or even the first name of the sender. I should have thrown it away at first sight, but what did I have to lose? The only shred of information was the return address on the envelope. I recognized the insignia on the wax seal—the Medici coat of arms. The exact family I was at a dead end studying.

Sure, it could have been a scam, but at the same time . . . what if it wasn’t?

We exchanged a few letters, every reply increasingly bizarre. First, there was a basic questionnaire regarding my knowledge on a variety of topics, an official application form for me to fill out, a request for a series of my blood work, and a written essay about a subject of my choice. Finally, an NDA. Each response only vaguely acknowledged that I had sent the previous requirements; there was no sign of when the correspondence would end. The last letter contained airline tickets, car vouchers, and a small note.

See you soon for the interview.

—Doctor Ntumba

Coming here was stupid and dangerous. But for someone in my situation, this was too valuable a chance to pass up. This position provided too many opportunities for an authentic look into the world I’d spent my entire life studying, and an income to boot.

As soon as I tried to switch to another app, my phone died—not that I had signal anymore anyway. I returned my phone to my bag and watched the clouds pass, trying to steady my breathing.

By the time I reached my destination, the sky was a mottled mixture of pinks and blues and the abbey itself was a bare silhouette against the orange sun. It was only thanks to the old-fashioned lantern, held by a woman I assumed was Doctor Ntumba, that I could spot her among the shadows.

After I gathered what little luggage I possessed and hopped out of the taxi, it puttered away, leaving me alone to approach the abbey and my interviewer. With a gulp, I sized up the woman before me.

The presumed doctor was a curvy woman wearing a white button-down shirt, a knee-length tweed skirt, and a matching fitted jacket. The conservative color-scheme of her clothes helped bring out the brightness of her hot-pink heels and the deep red ombre of her braids. Behind a pair of rectangle glasses were discerning, heavy-lidded eyes, which were as rich in color as her umber skin.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Signorina Bowling,” she said in Italian, her deep tone lilted with an accent I couldn’t decipher. Even so, I was relieved to hear a familiar dialect.

“Please,” I replied, shifting my suitcase into my left hand and holding out the other, “call me Cora.”

“In that case, call me Noor.” She accepted my hand with a robust shake.

To call such an esteemed woman by her first name seemed an impossible task, but I didn’t protest outright. The doctor opened a heavy iron gate and led me into the front perron. I stared in awe at the land around me as the streetlights flickered on. I had seen images of fantastic duomos and basilicas in Rome and other major Italian cities, but I had not expected such majesty from a rural abbey.

In the middle of the garden, a plume of water burst from the center of a massive fountain surrounded by a ring of gravel and a flawlessly trimmed wall of flowering shrubbery. On the periphery were flower-beds as intricately woven and colorful as a tapestry, and alternating, evenly spaced rows of trimmed hedges and olive trees. And the chapel . . .

It was completely and utterly magnificent, the sort of Sicilian Baroque architecture you could write a thesis on. A beautifully detailed lava-stone stairway led up to a garden terrace and a pair of towering wooden doors. Elaborate statuary featuring grinning masks stared down at me from above, and numerous sets of eyes and swirling vines seemed to be embedded in pillars. Through large rounded windows, I could discern paneled murals all along the ceiling inside. All of this stretched impossibly long and tall in every direction.

In my moment of awe, Doctor Ntumba’s words slipped past me entirely. “English or Italian?” she repeated, though not harshly.

“English, please,” I replied a bit too quickly, picking the first word that came to mind. “Or whichever you prefer, I suppose.”

“English it is, then.”

After giving the door a hefty shove, she led me into the chapel. Despite my desire to stop and marvel at every historical inch, Doctor Ntumba’s swift pace and countless turns allowed for little more than glimpses at the art crowding every inch of the walls and the flowery engravings on the twisted columns. After what seemed like a dozen lefts and rights, I was swept quickly into what I later learned was a minor scriptorium.

Doctor Ntumba stepped out briefly, giving me a chance to look around the small room. I sat in a floral armchair facing a broad oak bureau and an outswing window. Dusty cobwebs swayed against a scarcely open window, the only source of freshness in an otherwise musty room. A stained-glass lamp served as the only artificial light in the room, for all the candles seemed to have been snuffed out long ago. I could tell the furniture had received a single cursory dusting.

Two bookcases spanned the walls, crammed with books that appeared as if they would fall apart if they were so much as touched. My eyes immediately skimmed the contents of the shelf closest to me, but before I got the chance to examine the titles more closely, the door behind me closed gently.

Doctor Ntumba took her seat in a simple wooden chair in front of me, rather than in the plush chair behind the desk. Perhaps she meant to make me feel more comfortable, but it had the opposite effect. For a second, it seemed like she would berate me and point out the obvious truth: a mere peasant didn’t belong in such a castle.

Her focus instead shifted to the clipboard in her hands. She glanced over my labs so quickly, I knew the act was purely for show.

“These look quite excellent,” she said, looking up at me. “You have some excellent hematology labs and no discernible nutritional deficiencies.”

“Yes, I try to keep a healthy diet despite my—” I paused, trying to find the right word. “—limited budget.”

At the mere mention of money, the student-loan debt and backlogged credit card payments I had accumulated over the last few years burned at the forefront of my consciousness. Seeing the extent of the riches around me, I couldn’t help but fear Doctor Ntumba would look down upon such a high number if she knew about it. I took in a shaky breath and tightened my fists, now painfully scared she could tell my dress was thrifted.

Doctor Ntumba set aside the lab results and tapped my resume with the tip of a ballpoint pen. “I see you attended the London School of Economics, but you don’t have your major listed.”

Heat rushed to my face. I had deliberately not written down my major because I feared my intent in coming here would become clear. Maybe leading with honesty was the best idea, though I didn’t know if Doctor Ntumba was as tight-lipped as the rest of the Medici family was known to be. Shouldn’t you know? I wanted to ask. You’re the one who reached out to me!

“I majored in Renaissance vampiric history,” I finally admitted, “with a minor in biology.”

She gazed at me for a pronounced period, her expression inscrutable, then finally replied, “That sounds interesting. And what brings you to Italy?”

“I’m doing my thesis on Italian history, but I’m on . . . an extended break. I came here to save up for a bit and organize my current research.”

I conveniently neglected to mention any specifics, and she did not pursue them. Instead, she returned her attention to another document. After several moments, she spoke once more. “You realize that, given the remote nature of the Abbazia di Santa Dymphna, you are effectively cut out from the outside world, correct? No Wi-Fi, no phones, not even mail unless you travel into town. And you are okay with the fact that you will not be receiving any guests?”

I nodded, a bit more eagerly than intended. “That isn’t an issue at all! I have more than enough paperwork to keep me occupied. And I’m not exactly the most social person, either, so that won’t matter.”

Again, a pronounced silence. Unlike the former, this one was punctuated by a series of rapid-fire questions.

“Do you have any allergies?”

“No.”

“Do you follow any particular diet?”

“I try to eat healthy and avoid alcohol. Otherwise, no.”

“Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“Blood type . . . ?”

“B negative.”

“Any scheduled medications that could transfer through your blood?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Yes.” She raised a brow, and I continued, “One hundred milligrams of sertraline daily, at night.”

“For?”

“Panic disorder.”

Doctor Ntumba made a brief note of this, then said, surprisingly jovially, “Duca de’ Medici could probably benefit from a dose or two of that, as you’ll soon find out.”

My heart leaped to my throat. I would be meeting a real Medici, in the flesh. Did this count as success? Maybe I should have felt some sense of fulfillment, but all I felt was unease. I reminded myself for the dozenth time that I needed this job.

“I’ll take you to the piano room to meet Duca de’ Medici for the second part of the interview. Follow me.”