A Symphony of Blood

With only six hours until his master awakens, the familiar Germ races against time to secure a suitable meal. It must meet the master’s exacting standards; anything less is rejected in disgust and cast aside. Worse yet, the meal must be delivered promptly, or the master’s performance at tonight’s grand symphony debut will suffer, perhaps disastrously. He’s been practicing for years for this concert. He is, after all, the main attraction.

The master only needs to feed once a week, and Germ wouldn’t be under such pressure if the last two feedings hadn’t gone horribly wrong.

Two nights ago, he brought home a young gentleman for the master to dine on. The man arrived in the standard uniform of the modern age: a graphic T-shirt, baggy jeans, and, unforgivably, a baseball cap.

The master took one look and sneered. “Unkempt! Improper!”

He nearly killed the poor soul on the spot for the insult of wearing a hat indoors.

“Etiquette has gone out the window!” he bellowed, then flung the man toward the courtyard. “Let the dogs have him!”

See, the master has become increasingly particular about his meals—so much so, it’s almost like he’s developed an allergy to humans.

Germ once tried to make things easier by bringing home donated blood. Lucien took one sniff, then hurled the vials across the room, crimson splattering the walls and soaking into the floorboards.

“It’s not even fresh, Germ! What are you trying to do, kill me?”

He said it with a wry smile, but the edge in his voice was sharp enough to draw blood.

Oh yes, the name Germ.

Lucien went through several dark little incantations before settling on that moniker for his ever-loyal familiar. He started with Virus, declaring that humans were parasites, “a disease upon the world, good only for feeding.” From there, it evolved into Plague, and eventually, perhaps mockingly, maybe affectionately, Germ. Germ never complained. He figured it could’ve been worse. Lucien once had a cat named Contagion.

Last night hadn’t gone any better. In an attempt to redeem himself, Germ brought home a cultured young man in a pressed suit. He was fluent in several languages, including Latin. Upon entering the estate, he bowed before Lucien.

Lucien stared at him, dead-eyed.

“You brought me a fan?” he whispered, as if Germ had just served him a rat on fine china. Then, louder: “I detest sycophants. The blood curdles with the slightest touch.”

With all the pomp and disdain he could muster, Lucien turned his back, letting his long, flowing cape sweep across Germ like a velvet rebuke. “Get him out of my sight before I do something I’ll regret… like indulge him.”

For his sake, the young man was escorted out without enduring a single scratch, just thoroughly humiliated. Germ was starting to wonder if any human was good enough. Had his master lost his taste for humanity… what then?

In less than an hour, the… ahem… dinner guest would arrive, just in time for Lucien’s nightly awakening. With any luck, this third attempt would finally be to his liking.

Germ hurried through the echoing halls toward the master’s bedchambers, arms full of ritual supplies, anxiety nipping at his heels.

The nightly awakening was no simple affair. It required precision, reverence, and, most importantly, silence. Lucien hated to be greeted by clumsy noise.

First, Germ lit the perimeter candles, moving clockwise and replacing any whose wicks had burned down past a quarter. The flames had to flicker at just the right height; anything too dim was “melancholic,” anything too bright was “garish.”

Then came the incense: a blend of sandalwood, clove, and a pinch of grave dirt, Lucien’s personal preference. Germ fanned the smoke toward the coffin lid with a black ostrich-feather fan, purchased from a Parisian antique dealer who had no idea what it was really for.

Finally, he adjusted the velvet drapes to allow exactly one sliver of moonlight to fall across the coffin’s surface; any more, and Lucien might wake with a headache. Lucien would still be off the whole night in the case of a new moon.

Germ took a steadying breath. Soon, the coffin would creak open, and the real performance would begin.

He stepped carefully behind the coffin. Lucien had made it painfully clear that he did not wish for Germ to be “the first thing I see upon waking.”

“It’s not personal,” Lucien had once said. “You’re just… tragically symmetrical.”

A long silence followed. Only the crackle of candle flames remained. Germ stood silent, at times almost holding his breath. The incense billowed around Lucien’s coffin.

Finally, a soft click came from beneath the coffin, like an old lock turning. The lid creaked open gently. It was slow and deliberate, as if it, too, didn’t want to disturb the dead.

Inside the coffin, a plush, blue velvet cloth lined it, smooth as water beneath moonlight. Pale fingers emerged first, wrapping around the edges with practiced precision. On the underside of the lid, intricate carvings twisted into peculiar patterns, symbols that held no meaning for Germ, though he’d studied them more times than he’d admit.

Then, Lucien rose. Effortless. Unnatural. As though lifted by unseen strings. His eyes opened last, twin slivers of crimson flame.

“Another night,” he murmured, voice low and theatrical. “Germ. Is everything ready for the Grand Symphony tonight?”

“My name is Roger, sir,” Germ muttered, unconvincing even to himself.

“Huh?” Lucien replied, already moving on, entirely unmoved by the correction.

“Has my meal been prepped for me? I won’t endure another disaster like last night. You know how poorly I play when I don’t feed.”

“He will be arriving shortly, master.”

Lucien glided through the manor’s grand halls with natural grace, his long coat trailing behind like shadow-stained silk. Even in his weakened state from not feeding, he moved with ease. Germ hurried to keep pace, shoes tapping awkwardly behind him. He kept an ear trained toward the entryway, hoping for the knock that might end the evening’s tension, or begin it.

As Lucien settled at the long, candlelit dining table—arms folded, eyes heavy with skepticism—a gentle knock echoed through the estate.

Germ darted to the front door and pulled it open. Standing on the stoop was a middle-aged man with glasses, brown leather shoes, crisp black slacks, and a striped button-down shirt. In one hand, he carried a sleek, black leather-bound violin case.

“Good evening,” the man said, offering a polite smile. “I’m Alfred—the one you spoke with about the violin.”

“Ah, yes!” Germ said a bit too eagerly. “Please, come in. I’ll introduce you to my mast, the maestro.”

He led Alfred down the hallway, heart pounding like a snare drum, every step toward the dining room a question mark.

“Sir,” Germ began, voice taut, “allow me to introduce Alfred. He’s an accomplished violinist and craftsman. He’s brought something special for you to examine.”

Germ stood aside, watching carefully. If this didn’t work… he wasn’t sure what would.

“Ahhh, nice to meet you, Alfred. Please sit, and be my guest for the evening.”

Germ glanced at his watch, nerves prickling. One hour remained until the performance, and he still needed to get Lucien to the venue thirty minutes early.

The minutes ticked by. Lucien and Alfred were still deep in conversation, like old chums catching up after being apart for years.

Germ’s optimism began to shrivel. In trying to find someone with common ground, he had accidentally created a peer, not a meal.

Another glance at his watch—twenty-five minutes until curtain. Lucien hadn’t fed. The violin case, still unopened, now represented one more delay.

“Ahem,” Germ coughed gently, shooting Lucien a pointed look—equal parts urgency and desperation.

Lucien didn’t so much as blink.

“Ahem. Ahem,” Germ tried again, this time sharper, laced with urgency.

Lucien didn’t look at him. “Go clear your throat somewhere else, Germ. You’re polluting the atmosphere.”

“Sir,” Germ pressed, lowering his voice, “you’re expected on stage in sixteen minutes.”

Lucien finally turned his gaze, slow and deliberate, as if being asked to abandon a candlelit dinner for a tax audit.

“Germ, retrieve the violin from Sir Alfred,” Lucien said, lacing his fingers together. “I’d like to examine this exquisite instrument for myself.”

Feeling like progress was finally being made, but still very much at war with the clock, Germ hurried to collect the case. He snatched it too quickly, drawing a startled look from Alfred.

“Germ,” Lucien chided without raising his voice, “mind your hands. Apologize to Sir Alfred, you seem to have misplaced your manners this evening.”

“It’s quite alright,” Alfred offered, eager to showcase his work despite the awkwardness.

“I’m sorry, Sir Alfred,” Germ said, bowing slightly as he placed the violin case before Lucien.

He glanced at his watch and nearly choked. Twelve minutes. Twelve minutes until the curtain rose, and Lucien still hadn’t fed.

Lucien slowly unlatched the case and opened it with reverent care. His eyes widened as the violin came into view, and even Germ stood silent, mouth agape.

Alfred watched eagerly, eyes darting between the expressions in the room.

Lucien ran his fingers lightly across the strings. They answered with a soft, resonant vibration—so pure it seemed to hum with age and memory.

The violin was impeccably balanced, light in the hand, yet sturdy as a cathedral beam. Its aged tonewood exhaled the faint, honeyed scent of rosin and time, and the scroll was so precisely carved it bordered on sculpture.

Lucien cradled it with practiced grace, then drew the bow across the strings. A warm, aching note filled the room, floating upward and bouncing gently off the high, shadowed walls.

Alfred listened, entranced, as Lucien worked the bow like a dancer’s blade, precise, fluid, and impossibly elegant.

As Lucien began placing the instrument back into its case, Germ stole another glance at his watch. Four minutes until curtain.

The violin was gently nestled into its velvet cradle, the case latched with care, one final, delicate gesture before chaos.

Without warning, Lucien moved in a blur. In a single, fluid motion, he closed the distance between himself and Alfred and sank his fangs deep into the man’s neck.

Alfred let out a sharp gasp, then silence.

Lucien drained him completely, savoring each second as if relishing a vintage wine. When finished, he lifted his head, crimson staining his lips, and let the last drop linger on his tongue.

Eyes glowing, posture renewed, he turned to Germ.

“Why are you still here?” he said with a smirk. “You’re going to be late for my Grand Opening.”

Then, in a flourish of smoke and shadow, Lucien vanished, leaving Germ alone in the candlelight with a corpse, a ticking clock, and the scent of rosin still hanging in the air.

As the curtain rose on the Grand Opening of his debut symphony, Lucien emerged in a swirl of smoke, standing tall at center stage, renewed, radiant, and utterly composed.

The audience erupted in applause, breathless at the sight of him.

Clad in his finest ensemble, Lucien lifted his instrument and began to play, every note a thread of seduction, elegance, and power woven into the air.

Twenty minutes later, Germ burst through the theater doors, panting and disheveled. He slipped into a seat at the back just in time to catch the final twenty minutes of his master’s triumphant performance.

From the stage, Lucien never missed a beat.