“You seem all right. I like your dog,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do so I thought I’d say hi.”
What an idiot, she thought. He wasn’t even there to blackmail her, not that he had the air of a blackmailer. But maybe she was the greater fool because she was starting to think, starting to consider … a tlapalēhuiāni. They had different names for them—some called them Renfields or blood lackeys or other nicknames, but she thought that was a disservice—although the rules were pretty constant regardless of names. Human servants, loyal to a vampire. The particulars might vary, but in general it was a type of vassalage, taken rather seriously by vampires. Renfields represented an extension of the value of the vampire’s clan, so you would not have a Renfield dressed shabbily or behaving in a dishonorable way. Killing a vampire’s Renfield was akin to injuring a family member, and Renfields were protected by whatever treaty was arranged between vampire clans. Vampires tended to keep only one or two Renfields, though they might employ many humans in their service. Or in the case of the Necros, they might enslave many humans and still keep a Renfield.
She’d never had one. Not yet. She was still a girl in her mother’s eyes, meant to live with her clan, in the shadow of the older women, for a few decades more. To learn and assist. She was not yet old enough to earn the privilege of tlapalēhuiānis, nor of weapons and warrior’s marks, nor the trappings of an adult.
And yet … Atl was alone, adrift. She needed food. She needed help.
Atl began to move toward the kitchen. She wanted a cup of tea with lots of sugar. She wanted to open the windows and feel the night air against her skin. She wished he would leave. Or not. She could smell it. His life, his youth.
“I’ll give you a cup of tea and you leave afterward, all right?”
“Sure. What were you up to before I got here?”
Atl didn’t reply. She put the kettle to boil, observing the steam curl up. She grabbed the cups, the tea bags, and poured the water, adding three sugar cubes to her tea. They sat at the kitchen table. He watched her with interest, a man attempting to solve a puzzle.
“Do you have a sweet tooth?”
She stared at him, frowning. He shook his head.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean it as a joke. I only see vampires in the papers.”
“Go figure.”
Atl lifted her cup. Like a mirror, Domingo raised his own and took a sip. Humans gave many physical clues about their thoughts. Perspiration, heart rate, inflections. He was nervous, but not scared.
“I’m not trying to be obnoxious. I just think you’re interesting.” Domingo said.
“Oh, you’re just trying to get into my pants,” she replied.
He looked at her from above the rim of his cup, mortification making his lips tremble.
“Not really,” he mumbled.
Cualli curled down by her feet as she finished her tea. There were benefits to humans, of course. Her dog was useful, had saved her life before, but it was not infallible. A human servant.
“You should keep the watch,” he said, sliding it toward her, across the table. Then he walked out of the kitchen.
Atl blinked in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“You said you wanted me to leave after I drank my tea,” he said, shrugging, hands in his pockets. “I’m heading out.”
“I’ll buy you dinner,” she said.
It sounded like it would be the nice thing to do. Not that she really cared to eat with him, but she wanted to make a good impression. Atl needed Domingo to feel at ease.
“No, I don’t—”
“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Like you weren’t hoping for that.”
He grinned at her. Atl grabbed her vinyl jacket and Cualli’s leash.
*
Atl nursed a glass of water, ignoring the salad in front of her, while Domingo wolfed down a whole plate of eggs rancheros. She watched him as he pushed every last morsel around the plate with a tortilla, gulping his soda and removing rolls from the bread basket. He was slim as a bamboo stalk, but she thought just like bamboo he wouldn’t break.
“You’re not going to eat?” he asked her when he paused to look up at her.
Atl leaned her chin on the back of her hand and shook her head. “I can’t eat that,” she said. Just seeing him eat was kind of gross. His meal looked utterly greasy. But she thought it best to order at least one thing.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“This junk would make me sick.”
“But it’s very good,” he proclaimed, and held up the bread basket.
Atl looked at the bread rolls with disinterest. He might as well have offered her a plate full of stones.
“It doesn’t matter. My body can’t process it.”
“That sucks,” he said.
“On the other hand, I have a much higher tolerance for alcohol than you’ll ever have,” she replied.
“Do you get hangovers?”
“Not from drinking booze.”
“From what, then?”
Atl looked out the window, making sure Cualli was still sitting outside the restaurant, where she’d left him. He wouldn’t go anywhere without her order, but she was still nervous when he wasn’t right by her side.