Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Longing
Gigi returns from the impromptu jam session with a steaming bowl of noodles, a bottle of blood and plenty of gossip. She places the noodles and blood on the table for me then flops onto her bed.
The bottle is warm. I can scent it even through the glass – a fruity sweetness, ripe apricots, with a mineral note, like fresh oyster.
My fangs snick through my gums, accompanied by that familiar sting.
The last time I had any blood was in Mémère’s salon, after .
. . My habit has always been a glass a day.
But since, I haven’t felt the need. Haven’t wanted it at all.
In fact, the scent, the colour – a deep brownish red, the way the blood sloshes, thick and sluggish, in the bottle, turns my stomach.
I set the bottle down quickly and cover my mouth, retching.
Gigi is by my side in a shot. Keeping my gaze averted, I shove the bottle at her.
I don’t have to ask twice. The bottle disappears from the table, the scent fading.
Our cabin door opens, shuts, muting the smell to a tolerable level.
I lay with my cheek on the table, counting my breaths until the nausea passes.
‘You’ve barely been eating and you haven’t drunk any blood—’
The mention of it brings a fresh wave of bile. I flail my arms to make her stop.
‘Alright,’ she says, ‘but eat the noodles at least.’
‘Fine,’ I grumble, and pull the bowl and chopsticks towards me. I obediently put noodles in my mouth, but the smell is too much. A few mouthfuls and I can’t stomach any more.
‘You missed a good show tonight,’ she says. ‘Marianne and Lord Aengus sang a duet while Ah Lang played his pipa. Even Mémère joined in – she has an incredible voice.’
‘I take it Lord Aengus’s conversation with her went well?’
Gigi nods. ‘He seemed quite thoughtful. I’m sure he’s very relieved he no longer has to hide. Ah Lang also taught the Durands how to play Da Lao Er.’ She lets out a frustrated huff of breath. ‘I thought music might distract him, but after a few songs he went right back to the cards.’
‘Did he always play this much?’ I try to remember if we played during our trip to mortal Shanghai.
‘It’s been a while. He has periods where it’s all he wants to do, and periods where he forgets cards even exist.’ She shrugs and makes a face as if to say: What can you do?
‘I almost forgot the best part of the evening. Max threw a huge tantrum at his losing streak, and had to be marched to his room by Mémère. I’ve never seen Ah Lang look so smug. ’
‘Max was there, too?’ I can’t believe I’m the one being left out. To dull the stab of bitterness, I recite to myself: I’m giving Tony space, I’m giving Tony space, I’m giving Tony space. And then, because I can’t help myself, I ask, ‘How’s Tony?’
‘He’s less angry,’ Gigi says. ‘Ah Lang says the pu-erh tea has really helped with Tony’s stomach cramps. They hardly bother him anymore.’
Having witnessed the Celestial’s tragic lying skills, I panic. ‘Ah Lang didn’t tell him the tea is from me, did he?’
She laughs. ‘He thinks it’s from Marianne.’ She sits up. ‘Jing, you don’t need to hide that you’re helping him.’
‘If Tony knew, he’d refuse to drink it.’
‘Avoiding each other won’t solve anything. Come join us tomorrow. You can see for yourself, he’s getting better day by day.’ She eyes my still-full bowl of noodles. ‘You also need to eat something proper.’
In the morning, Gigi drags me to the dining carriage. The Durands are seated at the large table, their plates filled with pain au chocolate and bao, drinking cups of coffee and chocolat chaud. Mémère nearly drops her cane in her rush to greet me.
She takes my hands in hers, searches my face, frowning at what she finds. Glancing for Marianne, she speaks quickly.
‘We’re so glad you decided to join us,’ Marianne says, her sharp eyes scrutinising me. ‘Let me get you some food. What would you like to eat?’
Mémère guides me to the seat beside hers as Marianne lists my breakfast options.
‘—fan tuan, xiao long bao, congee, croissant, baguette and jam, fried sticks, soy milk, blood buns—’
I press my lips together, hoping she stops.
‘—and we have plenty of fresh blood in bottles . . .’
Bile pushes up my throat; I run from the table, hand pressed over my mouth, racing back to my room.
I can see the door to my cabin; but suddenly, Lord Aengus is in the corridor blocking my way.
His eyes grow wide as he registers me barrelling down the hall.
Somehow, he manages to sidestep and I make it to my room.
The door swings shut behind me and I vomit all over the floor.
After I’ve cleaned up, Gigi brings Marianne and Mémère to see me.
Mémère sits on the edge of my bed, holding my hand and stroking my hair, a furrow between her silver brows. Gigi and Marianne sit at the table, a wicker basket between them.
‘Gigi tells us you haven’t been eating, or drinking any bl—’ Marianne stops abruptly when Gigi frantically shakes her head.
She nods her understanding and seems to carefully consider her words before speaking again.
‘Mémère wants you to know that she is very proud of you. She said you performed the ritual perfectly. Even though Tony was ill, the benesangue rooted, and bloomed. He will become – actually, he already is, a powerful vampire.’
‘He’s healthy?’ I ask.
Marianne nods. ‘Better than healthy. He’s one of the strongest vampires Mémère has ever met. His mind is clear and as fit as it was before his illness. I think he will thrive in his new life.’
A tear rolls down my cheek. He’s safe and he’ll thrive. I can’t ask for more than that.
‘The gift takes a heavy toll from the giver,’ Marianne continues. ‘Our father, and his father before that, spent decades preparing mentally and physically in order to perform the ritual. But we had no time. You did amazingly well under the circumstances.’
She opens the basket and pulls out a long baguette and a small dish of butter.
‘Not eating isn’t an option; immortal you may be but you are not invulnerable.
For vampires, room-temperature food without strong smells is best and shouldn’t trigger any nausea.
Bread and butter usually does the trick.
’ She breaks off a section, the crust crackling under her fingers, butters it with a small knife, and offers it to me. ‘Try?’
She’s right, the bread is inoffensive. The combination of fluffy bread, crunchy crust and creamy butter strikes just the right balance.
It’s gone in a few bites. Mémère nods, smiling proudly as if I’ve achieved something, when all I’ve done is cram some bread in my mouth like a greedy duck.
Even so, I squeeze her hand, happy to have her by my side.
Marianne butters the rest of the baguette. ‘Don’t eat it all at once or you’ll get a stomach ache, but you must eat it all today, alright?’
I nod.
Mémère pats my hand, speaking low. Marianne translates: ‘You’re precious to us; you must thrive, too.’
For the final days of the journey, I stay in my room and eat buttered baguette.
Mémère and Marianne drop in to chat. We even play a few games of Da Lao Er.
Gigi makes sure to update me on all the happenings: Tony and Lord Aengus’s surprise kinship over the way their conditions brought changes to their lives.
Tony and Max have come to a detente of sorts (though Gigi thinks that’s more to do with the fact that Tony is strong enough to crush Max’s skull with one hand than any epiphany or remorse on Max’s side).
And the biggest news of all: Ah Lang has finally tired of Da Lao Er and returned to his music.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gigi so relieved.
Every day Marianne reports, Tony is doing really well.
I want to see for myself, to make sure he’s healthy and well, without my every thought fleeing in panic, or feeling like shit on the bottom of his shoe. So on the last night, while Gigi snores softly across the room, I slip out and tiptoe down the softly lit corridor.
The train sways gently but silently. I lean against the wall by his cabin door.
Inside his room, three hearts murmur beneath the rhythmic breathing of deep sleep.
It’s easy to pinpoint Tony’s; his vampire heart beats much slower than the other two, but it beats, steady and sure.
His blood flows with a smooth whoosh in his veins.
I slide down the wall and hug my knees. His heart is healthy and strong, drums with the promise of his immortality. I breathe easily for the first time since we left Paris. No matter what he thinks of me, his heart is safe. It will endure.
I close my eyes and search for Tony’s scent.
Marianne said when the camphor comes to the fore it’s a sign that the benesangue has taken.
The camphor is indeed the main note now, more intense, as is the wisteria.
I prefer it to the desiccated rose the others carry.
A musky woody scent, with a touch of floral.
It suits him. The watermelon rind and snow are less distinct, almost unnoticeable, which makes me a little melancholy. My favourite smell. I’ll miss it.
Alone in the corridor, in the quiet of the night, I allow myself to forget, just for a moment, my guilt and sorrow and doubt. I sink into his scent like he’s still mine.
Eyes shut tight, I conjure details to make the lie feel real: his breath against my hair, the heat of his body warming the air between us, his heart beating against mine, undivided. Even his scent grows strong enough I can almost feel his arms wrapped around me.
The deceit is so comforting, I don’t open my eyes again until I’m safely back in my room.
Tony lays in bed; sleep evades him. His senses are so heightened his brain is overstimulated and he can’t relax, exhaustingly alert to each new scent.
The constant assault of smells makes his sinuses hurt.
Footsteps in the corridor distract him from his litany of complaints.
Strange, as everyone is usually fast asleep at this time of night.
He plays the game of identifying the person by their smell.
It’s still indistinct, but as the footsteps grow closer, the smell becomes clear: the bright citrus scent of calamansi, a woody oud undertone, a hint of chilli.
Jing.
Thinking about her gives him a headache.
He misses her dearly, but he’s also angry, and embarrassed by his behaviour, too.
She gave him a second chance; a rare gift.
A gift he was very clear he did not want.
Now that he’s vampire though, he realises he never truly understood what vampires were; only what he perceived them to be.
Talking to Mémère, learning how to be vampire from her, their protocols, rules, and basic values, he misjudged them. Worse. He misjudged her.
He mists to the corridor, the way Mémère showed him.
Jing sits huddled on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, head on her arms. He hovers around her, unseen. Her eyes are closed, a small furrow between her brows, like she’s concentrating hard. Slowly, she smiles.
He reforms, and crouches in front of her. He’s never seen her thi pale, her cheeks hollowed. She’s thin. Too thin. Ah Lang said she hasn’t been eating. He worries; Jing needs five meals a day, at least.
She stands and Tony collapses into mist, clinging to the ceiling, but he needn’t have worried. Her eyes are still closed.