Chapter 3 Denial is a River #2
A girl I once fed from was crazy for it, and her blood always tasted like Colombian dark roast with sweetened oat milk.
Amaris was her name. A gorgeous, full-bodied box-dye redhead who worked at the Armijo library and had a thing for vampire girls.
For six months we dated like best friends with bloody benefits.
We'd hit arcades and have late-night escapades where I'd win her armfuls of stuffed animals while she ate jalapeno poppers and drank malt beer.
Afterwards, I'd drink from her femoral artery while she threaded her fingers through my hair and made tiny content humming sounds. It was good for a while. Great, even.
But one night after an impromptu date of Battletoads and bowling, she tearfully broke it off.
As she gripped an enormous stuffed alligator by the tail, she accused me of being too impulsive.
Too reckless. I tried to point out that my spirited personality and poor decision-making were nothing compared to a girl that dates vampires.
But she'd made her point, and she made it well.
I poke at the blood pouches swirling in the pan with my finger and wonder if I'll ever be able to commit to someone the way she wanted me to. To love someone wholly and completely in the way they truly deserve. Putting their needs above yours and choosing their happiness over your own.
I doubt it.
I chose to fly.
"Sophia," comes Angel's voice from behind me. It's so faint I barely hear it.
"Coming," I say without bothering to turn around.
The blood looks about done, and I reckon Angel has to be seriously hungry by now. The book says the first signs of vampiric thirst should have started, and I want to ensure he keeps his strength up. Especially after his wall-climbing shenanigans earlier.
I dip my hand into the hot water and lift the pouches from the simmering heat, placing them on the counter before clicking the burners off.
"Sophia," he whispers, much quieter this time.
"I know, I know," I say, barely keeping the irritation out of my voice. "I know you're used to better maid service, but I'm doing my best."
For ten grand a day, the least I can do is give him a decent service, so I resist the urge to choke him out and pour the warmed milk into a mug, careful not to spill.
Then I snip the corner of a blood pouch with scissors and pour a few shots' worth in, eyeballing the 1:7 ratio and hoping for the best. The crimson swirls into the pristine white liquid, turning it a nauseating pink.
I use a teaspoon to stir it quickly, and as it blends together it reminds me of watered-down Nesquik strawberry milk.
The kind I'd drink as a kid, sprawled out on my belly in front of the TV watching cartoons while my human sisters kicked each other in the shins and squabbled.
I pour the rest of the blood into the other mug and take a sip.
Delicious and possibly Greek. Lots of oregano, feta, and olives in their diet.
I enjoy the taste of it on my tongue and swirl it around like a fine wine.
Then I catch a whiff of the lacrimae—hot dairy mixing with copper—and my appetite evaporates.
I have no idea how I'm going to sell this one to Angel.
Lying seems like the best option, and I'm going to need to give the performance of a lifetime.
I channel my inner Meryl Streep, slap on the most dazzling faux smile I can muster, and I spin on my heels.
Both mugs raised like a couple of Academy Awards.
"Order up. Look, I know I'm not the best cook, but I—"
Oh fuck. He's dead.
The mugs clatter into the sink, lacrimae and claret splashing up the stainless steel as I rush to his side.
"Angel?" I say, slapping at his burning cheeks, but he's unresponsive, his dark pupils fixed to the ceiling. My pitch rises. "Are you okay, bud? I really, really need you to be okay."
Nothing. His unblinking eyes don't even twitch.
His shirt gapes open, buttons torn open in haste and dangling from threads.
No doubt he tore them to get some relief from the raging fever.
I hear his heart, but I need to feel it.
I slide my cool hand under the fabric, placing my palm on the inferno of his chest and feeling for his heartbeat.
I almost faint with relief when it flutters beneath my fingers.
Pumping a steadily fading rhythm somewhere miles below his ribcage.
"Hey, you still in there?" I say, cupping his chin and turning his face to meet me.
Still nothing.
I lean closer, sweeping a thicket of hair behind my ear and lowering it inches from his lips. Listening for breath, for anything.
"Angel, please just give me a sign. Tell me to fuck off. Call me a bitch. Whatever you need to do, but say something," I plead as I watch his chest for movement.
Agonizing silence fills the room and stretches for an eternity. Then his lips move against my ear, barely a whisper.
"Sophia."
The sound of my name hums through me, low and rough, raising goosebumps along my neck. This close, I can smell the fever on him, feel the heat radiating off his skin.
I pull back to look at his face. His eyes have finally focused—dark and fever-bright—locked on mine with a strange, raw vulnerability that seems out of place on his face.
"Please...don't leave," he whispers.
The words crack on the way out. His hand reaches for me, trembling, and when his fingers close around my wrist, the grip is desperate—like he's drowning, and I'm the only thing keeping him above water.
For once, I don't have a sarcastic comeback. Don't feel the urge to mock him or roll my eyes. Something protective unfurls in my chest, warm and unwelcome.
"Whatever you need. I'm here," I hear myself say, and I mean it.