Page 5 of Just for a Taste

D octor Ntumba was waiting for me in the tearoom. She was as elegant as yesterday in a flashy, geometric-print pantsuit. Even her pose—sitting on the edge of a recliner with her legs folded tightly at the ankles—looked out of a magazine. Of the half dozen rings on her fingers, only one lacked a gem corresponding to a color on her pantsuit. Instead, it was identical in shade to her electric-green earrings and shoes. Her braids were meticulously styled and pinned in a tight up-do. It was no less intimidating meeting her for the second time, but at least I felt prepared. As invasive as my run-in with Duca de’ Medici’s maids had been, I was grateful for it now. Doctor Ntumba looked the picture of professionalism, and I actually matched her.

She trained her eyes on some figure in the behemoth of a textbook in her lap and only broke contact with it once she’d dog-eared the page, shut the book, and placed it on the ground beside her.

In a fluid gesture, she beckoned me closer and poured some tea into two cups from a china pot. I sat in a recliner perpendicular to hers and gave a small nod in greeting, hoping to look as nonchalant as she appeared.

“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’s beniamina .”

Images of famous beniamini flashed through my mind: muses, courtesans, concubines, assistants, confidants, advisers. All the main blood sources for powerful vampires. More than that, beniamini were 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 a beniamino of 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 appointing me as the partner to its presumed heir. There must have been some grave misunderstanding, and the only way I would look more na?ve 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 a beniamino during 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 prospective beniamini . 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 a beniamina .”

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 of beniamina is 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?”

“I saw you last fall at a conference in London,” Doctor Ntumba replied so quickly, I wondered if I was only imagining her trying to be evasive.

Last fall—and London—both seemed decades away, but even in the haze of distant memory, that conference was clear. Along with manning the lab’s table, I had given my first and only presentation that day, earned through the luck of having my thesis adviser get sick at the last minute. The booth had been sequestered away in the corner of the dingiest hall, and it was clear I was just taking up space. The paper I was presenting on, Perspectives on Vampiric Syndromes in the Papal Conclave of 1492 , was a crowd-pleaser I wasn’t proud of. But none of that had mattered. Drenched in sweat beneath the nicest suit jacket I could rent, I had the time of my life, thrilled at sharing and being heard.

But only a few people had stopped by my booth, and I didn’t remember Doctor Ntumba amongst them. I studied her features carefully in the hopes that some previously unnoted freckle or dimple would unleash a memory, but nothing did.

“We did not exchange words,” she clarified, “but I saw you throughout the night. There was a manner in which you spoke that made me believe Zeno might be fond of you. You were astonishingly vibrant when speaking about your work, only to fade into the background entirely whenever you stopped speaking. You never joined in on conversations uninvited, but I also never saw you with a lack of opinion when prompted.”

She continued on, explaining how she had found my name on the lab website, but I wasn’t paying attention. My mind was already racing, and it couldn’t handle much more information.

Seeing the look on my face, Doctor Ntumba shot me a pointed gaze and stated, “Cora, this position is incredibly straightforward. I was telling you the truth when I talked about your sole duties—you’ll be a beniamina in name and blood bond alone. There are no parties to attend, no formal meetings, and no decisions to make. Zeno may not even speak to you on a regular basis.”

“I see.”

A complex array of emotions washed over me, crossing and knotting like sloppy weaving. The warp was disappointment and the weft was relief, with countless other embedded feelings. But what had I expected out of such a bizarre situation?

“Think about it,” Doctor Ntumba said, organizing her papers but pointedly leaving one behind. “I’ll meet you tomorrow morning with either a contract or passes for a ride home.” With the rest gathered neatly into her arms, Doctor Ntumba rose from her chair to leave.

“W-wait!” I stammered, taking a step toward her.

She swiveled to look back at me, brow raised. “Have you made up your mind so soon?”

I shook my head and wrung my hands, nervous under the intensity of her gaze. “No, I just wanted to know the name of the butler.”

Her confused expression remained, now slightly mottled with annoyance. “There is plenty of help. It doesn’t matter whom you bring it to.”

“I meant the name of the one who showed me to my room the other night. He had dark brown hair and seemed nervous, but he was nice to me. I should at least know his name.”

A strange smile crossed her lips. “That would be Signore Urbino. He will probably be ordered to keep a distance if you choose to stay.”

“What?”

She shrugged and turned back to the door. “I won’t say much further, as it isn’t my business. Good night.”

I muttered my goodbyes as she left and, as before, found myself alone. I lingered for a moment on the strange detail regarding Signore Urbino, but it passed through my mind quickly, overtaken by the more pressing matter at hand. I had a decision to make.

∞∞∞

I ate dinner in the same dining hall I had eaten breakfast in earlier. Like before, there was an excessive amount of food to eat, and like before, I was eating it alone.

Beniamina. I traced the word on the table in front of me until my fingertip felt numb. I mentally combed through the job description that had brought me here: Healthy adult wanted for paid blood donations in rural Sicily. Room and board provided. Long-term gig with a generous salary. Discretion required.

It was an accurate description, wasn’t it? One day out of the month, I’d get a needle or fangs in my arm, and for the remainder, I’d be spoiled rotten by maids and have access to a whole host of treasures. Nothing would truly change for me to decline what seemed to be godly intervention, other than that one word: beniamina.

I dissected the job description again, sentence by sentence.

Healthy adult wanted for paid blood donations in rural Sicily.

Paid blood donations were what I did in college. This wasn’t really so simple, though, was it? Being a beniamina was something far beyond such a simple thing; beniamini were partners to the powerful and elite. Whether that partnership was platonic, romantic, sexual, or solely economic was private information. Many considered the pact between a beniamino and their vampire to be as deep, if not deeper, than that between spouses. I doubted anyone had ever interviewed for it like this, especially someone like me. And even now, one month after our breakup, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at the notion of a pararomantic relationship when Emily still existed.

Room and board provided.

That was the easy part, wasn’t it? But why was Doctor Ntumba rushing me and pushing so hard for something so nice?

Long-term gig with a generous salary.

Doctor Ntumba said my position was to be reviewed quarterly, but how long did it have the potential to be? Oculocutaneous albinism and pancytopenia—an inability to produce blood cells—were the core mutations involved in vampirism, and neither was inherently life-shortening if managed. But even with modern medicine, many subtypes of vampirism led to significantly shorter lives, often with much of them spent in hospitals. Would I be wasting their time when I inevitably left after getting all the information I needed?

A trio of sharp knocks shattered my trance. Instinctively, I sat up straight and folded my hands in my lap. Signora Carbone greeted me with a vaguely annoyed glance, so I tried to make myself as small as possible as she tidied up my dishes and cleaned around me.

“Signora Ntumba says you have not made up your mind yet,” the older woman said in a low tone as she continued to scrub. “Please do so quickly so I can know whether to fully prepare your room.”

“It’s . . . not a simple decision,” I replied, fidgeting with my skirt.

“It would be if your resolve were firmer.”

As offended as I was, I couldn’t argue with her assessment.

“My family has been associated with the Medici for generations,” she continued. “For generations, we have sweat for them. We have bled for them and by them, and not once have we had the honor of being beniamini . For you to so lightly look at such an opportunity—”

“I’m not looking at it lightly. I would have said yes by now if I was.” My tone came out sterner than expected.

Signora Carbone rested a fist on her hip but allowed me to continue.

“I know more about the Medici than you might think. I know about the centuries of death and life and power that have followed the family, and how much influence the beniamini within it have held. But you must understand that this was never a possibility I could have imagined.”

“Then why hesitate if you understand what a chance you have?” A combination of perplexity and exasperation sharpened her tone. “Why turn down what so many others have only dreamed of? Why deny me my chance to perform my duties as a conservatrix ?”

I clutched my phone to my chest and said nothing. So she was a conservatrix , meaning she’d trained for years on the minute details of rituals associated with housing beniamini . But even so, how could she understand? How could I even communicate the feeling of treachery pulsing within me at the mere notion of getting into some farce of a relationship when I had only just gotten out of one? And why even bother explaining it to someone who seemed so predisposed to judge me?

The older woman sighed and loosened her fists. “I am sorry, signorina. You must have a reason. Pardon my impertinence.” She returned to scrubbing with greater diligence and avoided my gaze altogether.

I, in turn, rolled my food around my plate with a fork.

You’re not wrong , signora, I thought as I stabbed a trio of peas. This should be a simple decision.

After gently placing my fork on the table, I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly through my nose. There was the musty scent of the ancient abbey, the spices from my food, even my own perfume, but beneath that all, the Sicilian air was distinct. I was, I reminded myself, in Sicily. Not in London, not in Emily’s apartment. Not in her arms, her bed. I would be cheating on the memory of her, nothing more.

This position, unorthodox as it was, was the answer to everything I had been searching for. If I said no, what would I be left with? I had no apartment, no funding, and no one waiting for me beyond the abbey walls, other than an increasingly stressed thesis adviser. Beniamina or not, I would be a fool to turn this down.

The sound of pen scribbling on paper caused Signora Carbone to whip her head in my direction. I folded it tightly once, twice, and thrust it into the stunned woman’s hand. She waited for any sort of explanation, but I knew the resolve on my face was enough.

Despite having only cleaned half the room, she set down her supplies and left to deliver the message.