Count

18. Okay, so Maybe Blood Is a Little Sexy

Friday night, at Sergio's place.

We sat in the observatory, sipping wine while crickets chirped. Candles flickered around us, and a cheese plate sat off to the side.

"I've been consuming some vampire media," I said quietly. The vast, intimate night called for quiet, though there was nobody around to overhear us.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Wattpad books and bad TV shows, mainly."

He snorted. "I doubt they are at all realistic."

"They all try to romanticize vampirism, but I still can't get over the blood thing."

Sergio took a drink of wine, looking amused. "The blood thing?"

"I mean," this was so awkward, "I don't find it sexy—not in the way they seem to. Like, I get the psychology behind the sexualization of horror. It's the 'misattribution of arousal.' Your neurons fire fast when you're scared, your heart flutters, and that feels like being romantically aroused, so you think that's what you're feeling instead of fear, or you think the two are linked or something."

He set down his glass and rested his chin on a fist, fighting back a smile. "Please continue, Inari. This is fascinating."

"Okay. So there was this study that took place on two different bridges: one of them a swinging suspension bridge, and the other strong and sturdy. A female study participant asked men who'd just crossed the bridges to fill out a questionnaire, then gave them her number if they wanted to call with any questions. Far more men called her back after crossing the scary bridge than the tame one. When you're freaked out, you feel romantic.

"That's why vampires and werewolves that can kill you are sexy. And people with knives. And psychopaths, sometimes. What I don't get," I huffed, "is the blood fetish, in particular. To me, blood is gross."

"I cannot speak to the accuracy of most of what you said, but I will add that being bitten by a vampire is a pleasurable experience." Sergio shrugged. "Call it an evolutionary adaptation to prevent prey from fleeing."

There was another topic I wanted to discuss, but I realized it might be sensitive, so I hesitated to breach it.

Apparently, Sergio could tell. "Is something else on your mind, Inari?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "but if you don't want to talk about it, we don't have to."

He sat up straighter. "What is it?"

"When I overheard Boris and learned about vampires, he told you a man had died. Who was he?"

Sergio was unnaturally still, and his gaze was unfocused. I was worried I had crossed my bounds. After a time, he said, "Do not fret that you have upset me. I am merely contemplating where to begin." A few moments passed. "Raimondo di Sangro, Prince of Sansevero, was the vampire who turned me. He and I have—had—a strained relationship. He was not a good man. To this day, I do not know why he decided to turn me. A misplaced sense of obligation, perhaps?"

"Why would he have an obligation to you?"

Sergio laughed darkly. "Because the seduction of my mother happened in his house."

I was speechless. Did all vampires have soap-opera-worthy backstories, or just him?

"Di Sangro and my father were friends," Sergio explained. "Isabella, my mother, was a maid in Di Sangro's household. Di Sangro later told me that he noticed my father had his eyes on her, and he did nothing."

"So, he felt responsible."

"Indeed." A touch of bitterness crept into his voice. "Not enough to aid my mother through her pregnancy, though, or to pressure my father to claim me. But he did look after me growing up. And he made me immortal when I proved my worth as an adult."

I didn't know what to say. It sounded like this Di Sangro character hadn't been a glowing pillar of virtue, yet I sensed a glimmer of affection in Sergio's tone. I pictured Di Sangro as Sergio's weird, rich uncle with an "it's complicated" relationship status.

Sergio kept talking, the words spilling out. "Boris' account bothers me. Di Sangro may have been many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. He knew the penalty for turning an unapproved vampire."

"What's the penalty?" I asked.

"Death for both parties."

"So he killed himself before they could kill him?"

"So it would seem." Sergio was lost in thought, his handsome brow furrowed in the starlight.

"What can I do?" I asked.

He met my gaze and relaxed, the tension escaping from him like a sagging blanket. "A distraction would be welcome," he said.

"Lucky for you," I said, "I'm excellent at distracting."

"Is that so?" His eyes twinkled. "Would you permit me to convince you that blood can be sexy?"

I felt a thrill mixed with trepidation. What would Sergio's convincing involve? "No biting me. I'm not ready to be a vampire just yet."

"I could not even if you wished it. Turning an unregistered vampire holds a death sentence, remember?"

"That's right." Feeling a bit better, I leaned in. "Okay, Mr. Vampire. Convince me that blood isn't disgusting." I mentally prepared myself.

He set our wine glasses aside. Then he trailed a hand up my leg. Slowly, sensually. "First, I want you to become aware of the blood flowing in your veins. Feel it warm you. Feel it pulse with life." His voice was low and smooth, and I did as he commanded. "Let your mind succumb to your body's rhythm, which tells you as it quickens that now is not a time for contemplation; it is a time for primal being."

My pulse was quickening, all right. Sergio's voice put me in a trance somewhere between drowsy and wide, wide awake.

"Life is in the blood," he continued. "It fills you, cycling and swelling like the tide. Tell me, Inari, do you feel alive?"

"Yes," I breathed.

"Your life is a powerful thing, warm and bright and addictive. Can you imagine being cold all the time," he drew a cool knuckle across the sliver of skin between my shirt and my pants, "and then seeing a human brimming with heat? Imagine how irresistible that wellspring of life would be."

He ghosted his fingers across my neck, then dug his nails into my thigh. The unexpected stimulation was intense. "Blood is pain and danger, both of which lure humans. You take senseless risks just for the thrill of them. You relish self-inflicted pain of all kinds, and your sexual encounters are laced with masochism."

Not for everyone, I wanted to say, but he was sort of right, and I was too far lost in his spell to interrupt. My thoughts were a faint buzz compared to the sensations he elicited throughout my body.

Sergio took my left hand and turned it, examining it from all angles as he spoke. "Blood is red. Red like sunrise, red like fire, red like love and hate and every intensity. Above all, red is passion. Tell me that isn't sexy."

I didn't think he actually wanted an answer, nor could I construct one, so I stayed silent.

He met my eyes without shame. "Drinking blood is sexual. Fangs penetrating. Accepting another's life force inside you so that the two of you become one."

Okay, I was aroused now.

"With your permission, I would like to prick your finger."

"Sure," I said. He could have asked for my credit card number, or the nation of France, and I'd have given it to him.

He took the knife that rested on the cheese plate, dipped the blade in a candle flame to sterilize it, and waved it around to cool. His actions were controlled and hypnotic. He pressed the knife's tip into my index finger as carefully as a surgeon. I barely felt the sting.

Sergio set the blade aside and squeezed my finger until a drop of blood welled to the surface. He held it up for me to see. "Blood," he said, "is power and passion distilled." And never breaking eye contact, he darted out his tongue and licked the drop of blood from my fingertip.

I shuddered; with what, I couldn't say. Well, I could say, but it would've been highly embarrassing. "I think I get it now," I told him when I could speak again. "You win. Blood is sexy."