Page 26 of Just for a Taste

S ignora Rafia took full advantage of our generous timeline to drive at an ambling pace. Flickering streetlights interspersed the path sparsely, so we were cast into complete darkness for a full second before entering the glow of the next. However, the darkness around these parts felt welcoming rather than ominous.

Zeno had begun planning the ritus sanguinous on his own, much to my combined relief and disappointment, as it meant I saw him less and less in the final month before the ceremony. This would be the last time we saw one another until the ceremony in a week, I knew.

“It’s surprising you were able to find a museum that has such late admission time,” I said after a bit. “After dark is odd for a place to be open, isn’t it?”

“That was only per my request. The gallery is famous for its glass walls. I wanted us to be able to see them in the moonlight, at least.” He paused, chuckling. “If only someone had told the sky that it shouldn’t be so cloudy tonight.”

The lights outside were growing closer and closer together, the roads more manicured. We were approaching a small city. Signora Rafia turned into a small, overgrown alleyway I hadn’t even seen through the tint of the windows. As we approached the wrought-iron gate, an attendant of some sort took a cursory glance at us, not even bothering to check the plate upon seeing Zeno’s face, and unlocked the fence. It squealed open with a bit of force from the attendant. Our car wheeled toward the back of the building.

Part of me wished I could see it in the daylight. The museum had been built in neither the elegant baroque styling of the abbey nor the simplistic, homey style of the rural houses. Instead, it had been built in a delightfully over-the-top art nouveau style that had clearly been inspired by Museo Casa Lis. The entire building was made of stained Tiffany glass. The front door was already propped open for our arrival, and I couldn’t help but rush in.

“Wow!” I cried upon entering.

The interior of the building was as garishly extravagant as the exterior, with vivid furniture and countless chandeliers. I spun to Zeno, who was giving me his usual smile—one side of his lip curved up, a single fang visible.

“Are you ready for your tour, Signorina Bowling?” he asked, strolling over with his hands folded behind his back.

It had been so long since he called me by that name, and now it made my face feel hot. I rubbed the back of my head and stared at the ground. “Yes!”

Zeno walked slowly to the first work, a tall oil painting, and tilted his head up. “Here we have the 1862 oil painting, Sir Galahad by George Frederic Watts. Beside it is the Lady of Shallott , painted only twenty-six years later by John William Waterhouse. As you may have guessed from the chain in her hand, it is based upon the tragic death of Elaine of Astolat, Galahad’s mother.”

My eyes widened at the seemingly extensive research Zeno had undergone. “Have you been here before or something?” I asked.

Zeno shook his head and replied, “No, I have not.”

I shot him a skeptical look. At this, Zeno gave me his usual lopsided smile, one fang visible, and looked around meaningfully.

It took me little time to recognize what he was trying to show me. All the works were anachronistic and stylistically disparate, and there was only one connection between them all: each and every masterpiece was related to something I had talked about. Dido from the Aeneid on one wall, The Death of Julius Caesar on another. Every work, song, and book we had ever discussed had its own representation. Even titles or ideas I had mentioned only once or twice in passing had their places amongst the gallery.

“Holy—how did you—when—? How long—?” No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t finish a single sentence. I sputtered out half questions and whole expletives, and Zeno’s gaze softened.

“It took a while,” he answered once it became apparent I wouldn’t be able to talk. “But it was worth it if you like it.”

Zeno sat patiently and wordlessly for the few seconds it took me to gather myself fully, then resumed the tour with a softer, more genuine tone, albeit with the occasional joke scattered throughout. I spoke rarely, but this did not seem to discourage Zeno from asking me about my thoughts or knowledge. When we approached a recreation of Landscape with Orpheus and Eurydice by Nicolas Poussin, however, the torrent poured forth.

“Look how beautiful it is!” I cried. “I did a paper about this a long time ago, in my art history class. I got a bad grade on it because I focused too much on the legend itself.”

“Well, what were your thoughts, then?” he asked, giving me a sideways glance.

“The story can’t be separated from the art. It’s the moment just before Orpheus realizes Eurydice has been bitten. Before you see that, it’s beautifully idealistic, but once you realize it, all that’s left is just pure and utter dread.”

Zeno listened intently, then responded, “I must argue with you, signorina.”

I rolled my eyes but still smiled. “Of course you must, you contrarian. Let’s hear it, then.”

“I think everything you need to know is in the painting. The artist does a good job of making you focus on Orpheus and how happy he is outside of the shadows, but when you look into the background—”

“I know, I know,” I cut in, making sure my tone was audibly teasing. “The castle is burning, and the clouds are overcast. All the dread is already in the painting. That’s what my professor said too.”

He reddened slightly but tilted his head up for show. “Sounds like quite the brilliant professor. Have I impressed you with my artistic eye, then?”

I laughed and shook my head. “Maybe you would have impressed me if you used the big words she did.”

After several paintings, we approached the last piece, Dante and Beatrice by Henry Holiday. I stared up at Dante, gazing lovingly at the angelic Beatrice. The idea that Zeno had looked at her like that made me feel sick.

“I never thanked you for telling me about Serafina the other night,” I told him, continuing to stare at the painting and trying not to tear up. It wasn’t my place, not when he and I would never be together.

In my periphery, I saw Zeno’s expression alter slightly, frowning with worry. He masked it with a smile once I looked over at him and shrugged. “Tit for tat. I did not tell you about my family, and you did not tell me about your love life.”

“There’s not much to tell,” I muttered with a dry chuckle. “A casual ex-boyfriend in my early college days and a serious ex-girlfriend in London who had the gall to break up with me last Valentine’s Day.”

“There’s not much to tell for me either. A father, stepmother, and cousin who despise me, and an extended family who want nothing to do with me. That, and a mother who is either out of the country, in the ground, or both.”

“Your father didn’t tell you where she is?”

He laughed bitterly. “Sure he did. He said she was an actress who left shortly after I was born, when she learned he was engaged. But even as a child, I never believed him. The death in my veins came from her just as much as him. I’m sure she died long ago.”

“Oh,” I replied.

What else was there to respond to such a thing? I guess we can bond over our mutual dead-mommy issues , maybe? Or perhaps, Good thing you’re the one drinking from me, since death isn’t known for having the best flavor?

No, that one syllable certainly sufficed.

Zeno walked in no particular direction, clasping his hands behind his back once more in what I assumed was a futile effort to brighten the mood. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the best at actually steering conversations.

“Last Valentine’s Day wasn’t long before you came here. I’m rather surprised you were living in London before then.”

I joined his side but stared at the ground, rather than any of the art around us. “That’s why I left London. Emily and I were together for three years, living together for two. And she wanted us to go out constantly when we were together, so it seemed like everywhere in that entire city was somewhere we had been before, some memory that was tainted with my inability to just be a normal person. For most of that time, she tried to get me to be open with her, but I just . . . couldn’t. Maybe some part of me knew that if I said the wrong thing or had too much baggage, it would be over. That I would just be too much.”

Zeno’s brow furrowed deeply, and he stopped walking for a moment. “Cora, you could never be…” he trailed off, running his fingers through his hair. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, continue.”

“It was a pretty bad breakup. She said she had tried everything, but I was incapable of being open with someone. It wouldn’t have stuck with me so much if she was wrong, you know? Even before we got together, I knew it wasn’t possible for me to have love or a happy relationship. That’s why it isn’t lonely in the abbey, you know? I’ve always known there isn’t anything out there to miss.”

Zeno went quiet, his expression grave and eyes low. We walked another wordless lap around the museum before leaving, but to my horror, gloom seemed to stick to us as tightly as the sweat on the back of my neck.

The unease was latched onto us even as we exited into the cool night and ducked into the warm, cozy car. Every tiny dip in the road felt like it would jar me from my seat. The scratching of branches sweeping over the roof sounded razor sharp, and even my perfume turned pungent. And my God, did the silence itself gnaw at my skin.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck . What’s wrong with you? Why are you being so weird? Why would you talk about something from so long ago? All that mopey bullshit! You must look pathetic!

The thoughts sprung out faster and faster, the sorts of self-conscious scoldings I hadn’t given myself after months of therapy. They were enough to start that dreadful ringing. I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I could.

Zeno’s cool hand rested on mine, and all the noise in my head stopped.

All I could hear was the gentle whir of the engine and my quickening heartbeat in my ears. I turned to Zeno, who was staring out of his window at the rolling hills. Even so, I saw the redness of his ears.

“I, uh—there is something I must tell you. I wanted to say it way back there.”

It is human nature to predict the ends of sentences and connect dots to fill the silence. And yet my mind was blank, for I knew there was no way to predict his words. I held my breath.

“Someone will love you like you’re meant to be loved, Cora,” Zeno said in a low but certain tone. “You’re one of those people the universe has chosen to be cherished.”

Anxiety pulled at Zeno’s brow and caused it to furrow heavily over his eyes—those beautiful coral eyes I had painted so many times but could never fully capture. Would I ever get used to them?

Impulsively, I kissed him, then pulled away moments later, alarmed by my own actions.

Now it was my turn to try reading his expression. Luckily for me, it was easy. Zeno’s mouth parted and allowed a small breath of relief to escape, then curled at the corners. Clearly, he was trying to conceal his elation—and just as clearly, it was showing.

“Your lips are dry,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say.

The vampire held my gaze for a second, then replied, “I’m sorry. Yours are soft.”

His sincere tone made me chuckle, and just as I was about to say something else, his lips were suddenly on mine.

One hand rested on the small of my back while the other gently cupped my face. I swept my tongue across his teeth, feeling the fangs that had bore holes in my wrists, and Zeno countered by drinking me in and catching my lower lip with his.

I pulled away to catch my breath for an instant, and he pressed his forehead against mine.

The heat of his breath and the gentleness with which he caressed my cheek made warmth smolder in my chest.

“I’ve wanted this—you—for a long time.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Since the moment I lit that first candle in front of you, and you told me about Vivaldi.”

I laughed and said, “Oh, I didn’t know nineteenth-century composers got you going.”

He smirked in return, planted a small kiss on the corner of my mouth, and replied, “Only when you talk about them.”

I pulled back and gestured pointedly toward poor Signora Rafia, who was presumably horrified at our open display of intimacy.

“Who gives a fuck?” Zeno’s voice was a low growl, though not devoid of mirth.

I smiled despite myself and pulled his face closer to mine.

By the time we got home (much to the relief of Signora Rafia), the clouds had cleared, and the night sky glowed with thousands of stars. I paused in the garden with Zeno’s hand in mine. We stared at it in silence for what felt like hours, until I struggled to keep my eyes open.

He led me to my room, lingered at the door for a moment, then departed for his own.

Curled up beneath my sheets, I wondered how I would bear that week apart before our ritus sanguinous , and if I would ever have it in me to leave the abbey.