The Price of a Drop of Blood

HIM

Jess Hart was never one for compassion. He never helped an old woman with groceries or led the blind man across the street. So how was he cooking a meal for a complete stranger today?

Jess came from a long line of shamans- his father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather and so on had all been shamans. Jess, however, had never believed any of it. It was nonsense, utter rubbish to him. His family had all been about helping people live a better life but he had never partaken in their practices. 

But today was different, it was his father’s death anniversary. Eight years ago, today his father had risked his life for his guests, his customers, and died a gruesome death at the hands of a drunk driver.

The stew was almost ready, simmering merrily on the stove. Jess knew it was now or never. He grabbed the nearest knife and held up his thumb. With trembling hands, he made a small cut on the fingertip, small enough to pass as a papercut, and squeezed his thumb for the drop of blood. 

As soon as it surfaced, Jess rushed to the stew and let the drop fall into it. The cut didn’t hurt that much, it was no more painful than getting an injection, a small pinch and then nothing. 

“Father would be proud,” he whispered to himself. 

He remembered the time when his father had taught him this recipe. Told him about guests and how important they were in every part of the world. 

“Guests are god,” Father had said. “When you serve a guest food, always stir in a drop of your blood, our secret ingredient. It is like giving a bit of yourself to the guest, a small sacrifice. If, ever, He was to show up at our house disguised, He would be pleased at your selflessness. Remember this.”

Jess smiled to himself, basking in the glow of the memory that he had saved, unable to forget. He grabbed a bowl from the counter, poured some hot stew into it and went to meet his guest. 

HER

Rory knew she couldn’t eat the stew, she would get sick. No, not sick as in ill with stomach ache or food poisoning, ill as in unable to eat. The stupid fool of a human wouldn’t hear a word of it when she had told him she wasn’t hungry. How could she explain to him that she was hungry, but not for food, for blood?

When her motorcycle had broken down in front of his house and it had started pouring, she had merely come in with the need for shelter. She had been on her way to her sire’s lair to get some blood into her and socialize with her sibling vampires.

“Here you are, my father’s recipe for stew. I hope you like it,” the boy said, somewhat incoherently. Rory had already forgotten his name, was it Jess? Or maybe Jett? Something with a “J” for sure.

Rory stared at the bowl he had placed in front of her, unsure of what to do. But then, as if her senses had a mind of its own, she took a spoonful of stew and raised it to her nose. Blood. She knew that smell as surely as she knew the back of her hand. Her fangs struggled to release themselves but she controlled herself. But what was blood doing in a stew? Prepared by a puny mortal?

She saw the boy look at her strangely, so she cleared her throat and said, “What’s in this stew?”

The boy’s gaze turned sharp. 

“Why do you ask?”

“Well it just smells delicious! Do you make this often?”

The fire went out of his eyes, replaced with something else that Rory couldn’t read. Pity? Sadness? Suspicion?

“Not really,” he mumbled, clearly done with the small talk part of the night. 

Cautiously, Rory took a small sip. She felt it go down her throat and although it wasn’t quite as good as a bottle of fresh blood, it would have to suffice for now. She could tell it was fresh blood, taken not even an hour ago. But why? The boy surely couldn’t know what she was?

No, she shook her head to clear it. It wasn’t possible, humans had long forgotten the monsters that still walked the Earth, chalking up the mysterious deaths to something like a heart attack or aneurysm. 

She finished her stew and looked up at the boy. He was fidgeting with the tablecloth, lost in thoughts, the memories of something long gone. He must have seen her move from the corner of his eye, for he looked up expectantly.

“How was it?” he enquired.

“One of the best meals I’ve had in a while!” Rory said, not completely lying. She had once been human and knew that by human standards, the dish was exceptional. 

The boy, apparently satisfied with the answer, took her bowl and went back to the kitchen. 

“He shouldn’t have done that,” Rory thought to herself. Letting her have even a small portion of his blood was like hanging a bone in front of a dog. She would be tempted to get more. 

The boy came back from the kitchen and said, “Hey, I’m pretty tired so I’m going to go to bed. Uh, you can let yourself out whenever it stops raining.”8

Huh, if the boy was trusting her in this room alone, he had clearly judged her based on the baby pink dress she was wearing instead of her long red nails, but she didn’t mind. She had plans. 

“Of course, thank you for being- I mean for making such a filling meal!” she said and grinned. She could sense the manic glow in her eyes but she didn’t care.

“Yes, no problem,” he muttered and went into his room.

So Rory sat on the couch in front of the television. Everything was set as though the boy had known what she was. The lights were all yellow instead of white and very very dim. There were no mirrors in sight and no religious objects except a crucifix next to a framed photo of a man, probably his father, with him.

As the clock struck two, Rory got up and slowly walked towards and into the room where Jess was sleeping. He looked like a baby, very at peace, as though not a worry could ever touch him. 

And that’s how he looked the next morning when the medics concluded that he had died in his sleep.