For two weeks Bruno had refused his mother’s offer to feed on her, his pale complexion worrying her even at his age. Another two weeks went by, Bruno still had not had any visitors.
It had been two months since he was last offered blood in exchange for a vision. He grew hungrier by the day.
Another fitfull night passed, his teeth aching, his body stiff, his heart hungry.
He entered his mother’s room when all of the Encanto was asleep, save for its Madrigals. He opened her door, saying with a lump in his throat and hunger in his veins, “Um, Mamá?”
She looked up. She sat by the window, where the candle flickered. She was listening to all of the Encanto, for any disturbance entering her valley like black tendrils over the palm of her hands, but there weren’t any. Of course. It was a weary job she tasked herself with, but it settled her nerves. Still, her face was smooth, awake and bright, ageless. The yellow light of the candle glinted in her slitted pupils.
Bruno shuffled towards her.
“Maybe a little. Just a little.”
Gesturing with the flick of her mourning shawl, she said, “Come, then.”
They sat on her bed. His mother unbuttoned the cuffs of her dress and pulled it up to her elbow, exposing her arm, her full veins on display. The triplets didn’t quite know how their mother fed. She did it discreetly, must be making appointments with close friends, as far as Bruno could tell. The town never left her wanting, and although she aged — as they all physically did — she at sixty wasn’t yet old.
He sat at her side, gratefully held her arm in his hands, and pierced the skin with his fangs.
Mamá made no sound as he ate but he suckled like an infant. He knew he was far too old for this. That his mother had admonished him so many times for not being of any help to their town, not wanting to see their future and thus starving himself like his father’s blood sacrifice at the river had meant nothing. He didn’t even drink socially, like Pepa and Julieta did, whose relationship with the town was so great that they had never wanted for anything.
But Mamá did not stop him when he drank more than just a little. She brushed her hand over the side of his head, the sharp nail of her thumb caressing his curls. He withdrew from her by himself and when he looked into her face she was visibly paler. She covered the bitemarks with her hand instantly, as if hiding them, healing them already.
“That’s better,” he said to clear the air. The perpetual frown on her face whenever she talked to him perturbed him.
“Find a way to care, Bruno. For goodness' sake.”
He nodded, wiping blood off his lip. The second-hand blood, barely human anymore, would sate him for at least a little while.
