Sang Rouge

The blood caught the light like liquid ruby.

I tilted the decanter, watching the viscosity, thick enough to coat the crystal, thin enough to pour cleanly. Type B, donor 847, harvested this morning. Young male, excellent diet, emotional state at time of collection: calm with undertones of anticipation.

"Notice the color saturation," I said to the client seated across from me. "The donor has been eating primarily Mediterranean for the past three months. You'll taste olive oil undertones, subtle but present. Brightness from citrus. A clean finish."

Mr. Harrington, two hundred years old, hedge fund manager, particular about his feeding, leaned forward in his chair. The velvet creaked beneath him.

"And the emotional notes?"

"Anticipation creates a slight effervescence. Not as aggressive as excitement, not as flat as contentment." I poured a measured taste. "He was looking forward to something. A date, perhaps. Or a promotion."

Harrington lifted the glass, inhaled, tasted.

"Remarkable." He set the glass down with the reverent care collectors reserve for rare vintages. "You've outdone yourself, Ms. Moreau."

"Elise, please. After three years of monthly consultations, I think we've earned first names."

He smiled, carefully, so as not to show fang. Even the integrated ones learned that habit, hiding what they were when politeness required.

"Elise, then. And this pairs well with my current dietary restrictions?"

"Perfectly. The Mediterranean notes will complement your palate without overwhelming the baseline you've established." I made a notation in my leather-bound book. "I've reserved three units. Shall I have them delivered, or will you take them tonight?"

"Delivered. Tomorrow evening."

The transaction completed, payment handled through the usual channels, delivery arranged, satisfaction guaranteed, I walked Mr. Harrington to the door of the private tasting suite.

Sang Rouge occupied the second floor of a brownstone on the Upper East Side. No sign out front, no advertising. My clients came by referral only, and the waiting list stretched into next year.

Ten years since the Revelation. Ten years since vampires announced their existence to the world. The integration had been rocky, still was, in some ways, but humans had done what humans always do. We adapted. We monetized.

I'd made my career in the new industry: blood sommelier, curator of feeding experiences, matchmaker between palate and donor.

My assistant, Margot, met me in the hallway.

"Harrington satisfied?"

"As always." I handed her my notes. "Log the preference updates. And pull the file on tomorrow's new client."

"Already on your desk." She hesitated. "Have you looked at it?"

"Not yet."

"You should. It's..."

"It's what?"

"It's Maxim Vane."

I stopped walking.

Maxim Vane. The name carried weight even in vampire circles. Ancient, truly ancient, one of the originals. Over two thousand years old, if the rumors held. He'd been one of the first to support the Revelation, had used his considerable influence to smooth the integration process.

He was also, according to every sommelier who'd ever worked with him, utterly impossible to satisfy.

"He's seen every specialist in the city," I said.

"And rejected them all. Nothing tastes right to him anymore. His advisor reached out directly, said you were his last hope."

Last hope. Dramatic phrasing for a feeding consultation.

"When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock."

I walked to my office, Margot trailing behind. The room was warm compared to the rest of Sang Rouge, I kept the public spaces cool for vampire comfort, but this was my space. My sanctuary.

On my desk: a thick file, a bottle of wine I'd been meaning to open, and a framed photograph of my parents.

I touched the frame before sitting. A habit, a ritual. They smiled at me from twenty years ago, Mom's Vietnamese features, Dad's French ones, both of them bright with the optimism of early integration activists.

They'd believed humans and vampires could coexist peacefully. They'd died for that belief when I was nineteen, killed by extremists who disagreed.

I carried their work forward in decanters and presentations because I couldn't carry it any other way. The heart was too dangerous. The heart got people killed.

I opened Maxim Vane's file.

The details were sparse, vampires that old had learned to control their narratives. But what was there painted an interesting picture.

He'd stopped feeding properly about a century ago. Not abstaining, that would kill even an ancient eventually. But taking only what was necessary, showing no preference, no pleasure.

According to his advisor: "Blood tastes like ash to him now. Nothing satisfies. He continues to exist because he has not yet found a reason to stop, but he has stopped seeking reasons to continue."

An ancient who'd lost his taste for everything.

I closed the file.

Tomorrow, I would meet a two-thousand-year-old vampire who was essentially waiting to die. I would present my selections with all the expertise I'd accumulated. And probably, like every sommelier before me, I would fail to give him what he was looking for.

But I would try.

That's what Sang Rouge did. We tried.

And sometimes, trying was enough.