Stone's Thirst

Chapter 2: Blood Bag

Professor Stone gazed at me with bemused impatience. I collected myself and stammered, “I'm an English major, Professor. If you remember me from your Romantic Poets course…"

“Ah, yes." She raised perfect eyebrows. “The last class I taught before I went on sabbatical. I do remember you…You were very quiet. Self-effacing. But brilliant essays."

I blushed; I couldn't pick apart if it was because I was embarrassed or flattered. She thought my essays were brilliant? She was also right about me being quiet, though. I was terminally shy.

“Thank you," I stuttered. “Um. Yes. The department assigned me to help work you with research on your latest book."

“It will be less research and more organizational, Miss Brooks," said the professor, without missing a beat. “The book is largely written already. I need assistance with organizing the chapters, footnotes, citations, that sort of thing. I simply don't have the time with my teaching schedule."

I very much liked it how she said my name—as if it were something delectable and precious. But as her slim nostrils flexed again, I was reminded that she might be saying Miss Brooks the way my stoned roommate might say hamburger. I had a sudden, vivid image of her leaning close to me with that scenting, hungry expression on her face, feeling the slither of her breath against my shoulder, creeping toward my neck…

“Will that be a problem for you, Miss Brooks?"

“Oh, no, not at all," I babbled hurriedly. “I'm very good at quiet, careful work. A very precise attention to detail, I'm told."

“Excellent." Her wide mouth formed the word slowly, as if tasting it. Then she blinked and seemed to recollect herself. “My apologies, Miss Brooks. I understand this can hardly be a comfortable introduction. I take it you have never spoken with a vampire before?"

“No," I said hesitantly. Was it offensive to talk so openly of vampirism? It seemed like it must be a delicate subject. “Not that I know of."

“Very true," said the professor approvingly. “Many of my kind prefer to live very quiet lives. But it has always been important to me to be honest with people about who and what I am—to face it without shame. I made that clear to Watson when I turned him in the late 1960s, that if he were going to be my companion, he would need to adhere to my philosophy."

I nodded, at a loss for what to say.

“You clearly perceive my hunger," she went on, quite calmly. “I admit that I have not fed in some weeks. Our usual blood bag—if you'll forgive the crass term—canceled last week, and it has been a trying time, while Watson scheduled another."

“Oh," I squeaked, trying to be polite.

“And the fact that you came here on your period does not much improve matters."

Now I felt my face burning with a fierce blush. “You…how?"

“Blood, vampire." She waved her hand casually. “It's a rather predicable outcome that I can smell blood nearby."

“Oh," I echoed again. I must look like an i***t. A very very red-faced i***t. There was no way she would want me now.

Just then the doorbell rang mercifully, distracting her. Watson came out of the kitchen and strode past us to answer the door. On the threshold was a slim wisp of a girl—no older than eighteen, probably—wearing a nice blouse and business-like black slacks. Her face was a palish pink, with a cutesy cheerleaderish look to it, and her pale-yellow hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.

“Good afternoon ," said the girl, holding out her hand to shake Watson's. “I'm your 2 pm appointment."

“Ah, yes, come in."

This, then, was the blood bag. She was certainly younger than me and very fidgety. She seemed almost as uncomfortable as I was: she was probably much better suited to app gigs walking rich people's dogs while they were on vacation. But the lure of blood bag money was strong. I'd seen the targeted ads when they popped up on my social media feeds. You could get five hundred dollars an hour as a blood bag. But part of the high pay was accepting the risk. Vampires were bound by the same laws as humans; they couldn't kill victims openly. Death by vampire was still murder. But there were still accidents on the blood bag apps that showed up in the news once in a while. Terrible, terrible accidents.

This girl certainly knew that. But here she was, dipping a toe in anyway.

Professor Stone's eyes flickered sideways, nearly sparking with hunger. Then she turned back to me. “You don't mind, do you? I'm afraid Watson's right and I did double book my afternoon."

“Oh, that's no trouble," I said automatically. “Please go ahead."

It only registered with me a moment later what I'd agreed to. Were they going to feed on her right here, in front of me? What would happen if I fainted or threw up? The first time I ever meet a vampire, and I'm going to see them drain this poor girl of blood…

“We will step upstairs," said the professor, the hunger obvious in her voice. “We shall not be very long. Come along, miss."

Watson led the way up the stairs and into the shadows, followed by Professor Stone, who was followed by the blood bag. The girl shot me one quick, nervous glance before she vanished. I looked quickly at my knees. I heard a door close upstairs. There was the scrape of a chair moving across the floor. I closed my eyes. Would I be able to hear everything from here? Oh, and that poor girl looked so scared. But she was here of her own free will. If I rushed up to rescue her from two ravenous vampires, that wouldn't end well for anybody. Especially not for my research assistantship with the professor.

It seemed so silly to be thinking of that now, when there were vampires feeding only a few feet away.

I couldn't sit still. I stood and paced. That image returned to my head: Professor Stone's dark head leaning close to mine, her breath on my throat…

I shook my head. Absurd. I was a grown woman, not a schoolgirl ruled by crushes. And besides, I was straight. Definitely straight. As far as I knew. I'd only ever had boyfriends, and sure, me and my roommate Janis had messed around a bit when we were drunk but that didn't mean anything.

But I found myself walking with carefully silent steps toward the stairs. What was I doing? My curiosity was on fire. I couldn't just sit here, not knowing. Not seeing.

Don't, I warned myself miserably. But my feet were climbing the stairs, soundless in the thick runner carpet. There were a number of doors leading off the narrow second-floor hallways, but only one with its door shut and its light on, showing under the crack. This was an old house—one of the college's old gatehouses, from when it had been built in the mid-1800s. That meant that the doors were thick and sturdy. But it also meant they had keyholes.

Don't! I shouted at myself silently, but it was too late. I knelt in front of the closed door. From inside there were sounds of tense breathing. The girl, terrified. I fitted my eye to the keyhole and looked in.