Page 10 of Watch Me Turn
"I don't believe your vampire bullshit," he says, easing down onto the bed with a groan.
"Oh yeah? That's funny. Your new itty-bitty baby teeth say otherwise."
His hand flies to his mouth, fingers probing his gums where the fangs are budding. He winces but stays defiant. "That's just...the drugs. Whatever they injected me with."
I fold my arms. "The famous fang-growing drugs. That classic recreational high that everyone knows about and the kids go crazy for."
He narrows his eyes. "I still don't believe you, but if it's true, I'll find a cure. I'll get out of here and see the best doctors in the world. I'll find a way to reverse whatever nasty shit you put in my veins. I don't care what it costs."
"Yeah, we get it. You're a big deal, money's no object, blah blah blah. Now lie down and get some rest." I clear a spot for him to lie in and send a flurry of feathers into the air. "I'm going to fix you something to eat. You haven't had anything in days, and you're getting weaker."
As I stroll toward the kitchen, his voice calls out from behind me, "I am not weak."
I toss my hair as I wink over my shoulder. "Good boy."
I balancethe book I stole from my sister on the counter, holding the pages open with one hand whilst I work. I weigh a chilledblood pouch in my other hand, squeezing at the sides of the plastic like a delicious little stress ball.
According to the instructions, I should dilute one part warm blood to seven parts milk and, if well tolerated, up the concentration every twelve hours or so.
I know it works, but why does it need to be so gross?
The Old Ones called this mixture lacrimae. Or if your ancient Latin is rusty,tears. I never understood it, but when you're forced to make it for a bratty, ungrateful man-child who's been screaming at you for hours, it makes a whole lotta sense.
Beside the pot of foaming milk, a saucepan of water warms on the stove. Tiny bubbles climb the sides, signaling it's time. I test the temperature with my finger—just warm enough to heat the blood without cooking it—and lower a pouch in. It bobs on the surface, the red inside swirling as warmth spreads through the plastic.
I drop a second pouch in for myself. Might as well eat while he's sleeping.
There's no mention in the text of a special receptacle for the lacrimae, so I find a couple of oversized mugs in the cupboard and line them up on the counter. Two stark, ceramic monstrosities with no decorations or fun slogans on the outside. If I'd have been more organized, I'd have brought my favorite one from home.
Not that it gets much use these days. I drink mostly from donors, and there's no shortage of willing volunteers, but every once in a while, it's a nice change of pace. I'm not always in the mood for the intensity of a live feed, so sometimes I like to take a bag of blood and decant it into my old "competitive napper" coffee mug and sip it like I'm in a Folgers ad from the 80s. Both hands clasped around the sides as steam rises from the rim.
Sometimes I really, really miss coffee.
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 jalapeño 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.
