December 22, 1906 – Melbourne

People spill onto the streets as the humans prepare for drunken celebrations and warm houses filled with love. But we do not show affection with spiced cakes or ale. My mother takes my hand, guiding me through the hallway. Opening the door to my room, she shows me the two human women that sit on my bed patiently.  

Marcella kisses my cheek as she whispers, Merry Christmas, my son, and leaves me to my bidding. Their hearts beat like hummingbird wings cutting through the silence. The smell of their blood will soon stain my sheets. 

A very delectable gift indeed.

They know what I am. Marcella has told them. But humans are so naïve. Easily intrigued, they want to see for themselves. They are not afraid of what a monster with black eyes will do to them. But they should be.

May 11, 1698 – Venice

Flour hangs in the air like a fog, rolling over her every curve. Her laughter, as light and airy as the dough in her hands, drifts across the table toward me. I forget myself here. In her kitchen. Among the dried flowers and hanging herbs, the rice and the barley, she smiles at me as though honing my inept culinary skills has given her some small hint of purpose.
    She does not ask why I only meet her at night, why I do not try the recipes she teaches me, or why I do not sleep when I lay next to her. Her silence serves me well since the answers would corrupt our time together. And I do not wish to expose my true self to her. I do not intend to end the life of such a beautiful creature. Particularly not after she has given me such an immense gift. It is not love but benevolence. Somewhere amidst these dried cranberries, she has given me that fraction of myself I believed was gone long ago. The part that is capable of seeing humans as more than sustenance.