Then I sit on the bed with my iPhone and check my mail to see if I have any messages but there's nothing – just the usual spam and news headlines in the feed I subscribe to. In a desperate bid, I send Michel an email, but it bounces back with an error message that says the email is no longer valid. Then, I post a message to the message board where I first contacted Michel.
"Michel, please come back to me! I can't do this!"is all it says.
The door opens and Julien comes in, and he seems different, as if he's changed, as if being with Soren has done something to him. He seems harder, no longer playful. He's wearing Army fatigues and a t-shirt that reads Navy SEAL andI Survived Hell Week.
"I heard you were up," he says. "Come out and have something to eat."
I don't look him in the eye and follow him out into the main living area, padding behind him in my bare feet.
When we enter the kitchen, wonderful aromas reach my nose. I see an older man fixing something on the stove. He's the one I saw with Michel before.
"Vasily will fix you a plate," Julien says and points to the stool by the island that separates the kitchen from the rest of the living area.
" Hello little Ballerina Girl." Vasily smiles at me. "We finally meet."
"Ballerina Girl?"
"Boss says you were dancer as girl?"
I nod, and check over my shoulder to where Julien is standing, looking out the window.
"I've cooked some good Russian food," Vasily says. "Will make you feel better, give you some meat on bones, you are so tiny like little bird." His voice is deep and he has a very thick Russian accent. He places a plate of food in front of me. It looks like a roast of some kind with gravy, cabbage, and other vegetables.
"Thank you, but I'm a vegetarian."
He frowns. "Eat," he says. "You must regain strength. At least have some bread and gravy."
I sit and take a bite of the vegetables but everything's covered in a meat gravy. Surprisingly, I eat it anyway. It's so good, and I eat happily, not realizing until now how hungry I am and how much the taste of the meat appeals to me. I gaze out the window at the city skyline. To our left is the piano.
"That's a beautiful Steinway," I say, awed at its beauty. "It looks new."
"Brand new," Julien says. He comes to stand in the kitchen beside me, touching my cheek with the backs of his fingers once again. "Delivered yesterday. I got it for you. You should play."
I pull away from his touch, not wanting him to read me. Then he goes to the counter and pours himself a glass of something from a carafe, the liquid thick and crimson. It must be blood. He tips the glass up and drinks it down without stopping. When he turns to me, his eyes are red-rimmed, his pupils huge.
"That's blood?" I say, a bit shocked. I'd never seen Michel drink any.
He licks his lips and smiles. I can see his canine teeth briefly and they're bloody.
"Good old AB negative. Universal recipient." He smacks his lips. "I shouldn't drink it because it's so rare, but I have a donor on tap." He examines the empty glass. "I don't really like prepared blood. Has an artificial taste due to the anti-clotting chemicals they put it in and the preservatives. My current preference," he says and leans on the countertop, eyeing me, "is for fresh body-temperature B positive with a slightly Northern Ireland flavor, but you take what you can get."
I shiver and make a face, disgusted at the sight of him drinking a glass of blood.
"That was a reference to you, by the way, so don't make a face," he says. "If it keeps me from feeding on you, I'd think you'd be raising a toast to me."
He pours himself some more blood and then shoots it back, making a satisfied sound when he's done as if to irritate me.
"You can tell where my ancestors are from by my blood?"
He smiles. "You drink enough blood, you get to know genotypes. Like good wine."
I push my plate away, leaving the rest of my food unfinished, whatever hunger I had gone. Vasily clucks his tongue and eyes the plate.
"You don't like my cooking?"
"Your cooking's wonderful. I just lost my appetite all of a sudden when I realized I'm food, too."
"We're all food for worms," Vasily says and takes my plate away, scraping the leftovers into a trash bin. He then puts the dishes in a dishwasher and I'm amazed at how domestic he is considering he looks like a Russian Mafioso. "Why don't you play piano," he says, pointing to the Steinway. "Boss said you play. I'd love to hear."