It has been four years since she last saw him. She thought he had forgotten her, and now he speaks to her as if all those years haven’t passed, as though the vampires hadn’t long since won the war and turned the world to their slow, long-burning purpose.
“Emotions change your flavor,” he says. “And food. And sex. And pleasure.”
And love? she wonders, but Tetsuo has never drunk from her.
“Then why not treat all of us like you do the ones here? Why have con—Mauna Kea?”
She expects him to catch her slip, but his attention is focused on something beyond her right shoulder. She turns to look, and sees nothing but the hall and a closed feeding room door.
“Three years,” he says, quietly. He doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t understand what he means, so she waits. “It takes three years for the complexity to fade. For the vitality of young blood to turn muddy and clogged with silt. Even among the new crops, only a few individuals are Gold standard. For three years, they produce the finest blood ever tasted, filled with regrets and ecstasy and dreams. And then…”
“Grade Orange?” Key asks, her voice dry and rasping. Had Tetsuo always talked of humans like this? With such little regard for their selfhood? Had she been too young to understand, or have the years of harvesting humans hardened him?
“If we have not burned too much out. Living at high elevation helps prolong your utility, but sometimes all that’s left is Lanai and the work camps.”
She remembers her terror before her final interview with Mr. Charles, her conviction that Jeb’s death would prompt him to discard his uselessly old overseer to the work camps.
A boy from one of the other houses staggers to the one she recognizes from unit two and sprawls in his lap. Unit-two boy startles awake, smiles, and bends over to kiss the first. A pair of female vampires kneel in front of them and press their fangs with thick pink tongues.
“Touch him,” one says, pointing to the boy from unit two. “Make him cry.”
The boy from unit two doesn’t even pause for breath; he reaches for the other boy’s cock and squeezes. And as they both groan with something that makes Key feel like a voyeur, made helpless by her own desire, the pair of vampires pull the boys apart and dive for their respective shunts. The room goes quiet but for soft gurgles, like two minnows in a tide pool. Then a pair of clicks as the boys’ shunts turn gray, forcing the vampires to stop feeding.
“Lovely, divine,” the vampires say a few minutes later, when they pass on their way out. “We always appreciate the sexual displays.”
The boys curl against each other, eyes shut. They breathe like old men: hard, through constricted tubes.
“Does that happen often?” she asks.
“This Grade Gold is known for its sexual flavors. My humans pick partners they enjoy.”
Vampires might not have sex, but they crave its flavor. Will she, when she crosses to their side? Will she look at those two boys and command them to fuck each other just so she can taste?
“Do you ever care?” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “About what you’ve done to us?”
He looks away from her. Before she can blink he has crossed to the one closed feeding room door and wrenched it open. A thump of something thrown against a wall. A snarl, as human as a snake’s hiss.
“Leave, Gregory!” Tetsuo says. A vampire Key recognizes from earlier in the night stumbles into the main room. He rubs his jaw, though the torn and mangled skin there has already begun to knit together.
“She is mine to have. I paid—”
“Not enough to kill her.”
“I’ll complain to the council,” the vampire says. “You’ve been losing support. And everyone knows how patiently Charles has waited in his aerie.”
She should be scared, but his words make her think of Jeb, of failures and consequences, and of the one human she has not seen for hours. She stands and sprints past both vampires to where Rachel lies insensate on a bed.
Her shunt has turned the opaque gray meant to prevent vampires from feeding humans to death. But the client has bitten her neck instead.
“Tell them whatever you wish, and I will tell them you circumvented the shunt of a fully-tapped human. We have our rules for a reason. You are no longer welcome here.”
Rachel’s pulse is soft, but steady. She stirs and moans beneath Key’s hands. The relief is crushing; she wants to cradle the girl in her arms until she wakes. She wants to protect her so her blood will never have to smear the walls of a feeding room, so that Key will be able to say that at least she saved one.
Rachel’s eyes flutter open, land with a butterfly’s gentleness on Key’s face.
“Pen,” she says, “I told you. It makes them… they eat me.”
Key doesn’t understand, but she doesn’t mind. She presses her hand to Rachel’s warm forehead and sings lullabies her grandmother liked until Rachel falls back to sleep.
“How is she?” It is Tetsuo, come into the room after the client has finally left.
“Drained,” Key says, as dispassionately as he. “She’ll be fine in a few days.”
“Key.”
“Yes?”
She won’t look at him.
“I do, you know.”
She knows. “Then why support it?”
“You’ll understand when your time comes.”
She looks back down at Rachel, and all she can see are bruises blooming purple on her upper arms, blood dried brown on her neck. She looks like a human being: infinitely precious, fragile. Like prey.
Five days later, Key sits in the garden in the shade of the kukui tree. She has reports to file on the last week’s feedings, but the papers sit untouched beside her. The boy from unit two and his boyfriend are tending the tomatoes and Key slowly peels the skin from her fourth kiwi. The first time she bit into one she cried, but the boys pretended not to notice. She is getting better with practice. Her hands still tremble and her misted eyes refract rainbows in the hard, noon sunlight. She is learning to be human again.
Rachel sleeps on the ground beside her, curled on the packed dirt of Penelope’s grave with her back against the tree trunk and her arms wrapped tightly around her belly. She’s spent most of the last five days sleeping, and Key thinks she has mostly recovered. She’s been eating voraciously, foods in wild combinations at all times of day and night. Key is glad. Without the distracting, angry makeup, Rachel’s face looks vulnerable and haunted. Jeb had that look in the months before his death. He would sit quietly in the mess hall and stare at the food brick as though he had forgotten how to eat. Jeb had transferred to Mauna Kea within a week of Key becoming overseer. He liked watching the lights of the airplanes at night and he kept two books with him: The Blind Watchmaker and A Guide to the Fruits of Hawai’i. She talked to him about the latter—had he ever tasted breadfruit or kiwi or cherimoya? None, he said, in a voice so small and soft it sounded inversely proportional to his size. Only a peach, a canned peach, when he was four or five years old. Vampires don’t waste fruit on Grade Orange humans.
The covers of both books were worn, the spines cracked, the pages yellowed and brittle at the edges. Why keep a book about fruit you had never tasted and never would eat? Why read at all, when they frowned upon literacy in humans and often banned books outright? She never asked him. Mr. Charles had seen their conversation, though she doubted he had heard it, and requested that she refrain from speaking unnecessarily to the harvest.
So when Jeb stared at her across the table with eyes like a snuffed candle, she turned away, she forced her patty into her mouth, she chewed, she reached for her orange drink.