Sanguine Snacker

Chapter 1

The last note hung in the air, a dying breath of sound swallowed by the stale, beer-scented quiet. Gina lifted her fingers from the yellowed keys of the upright piano and the usual hollow feeling rushed in. Four people in the bar. Tips would be worse than bad.

She smoothed her dress over her thighs, the fabric snugger than it had been last month. Another meal of cheap noodles, another few pounds settled stubbornly on her hips and belly. She told herself it was comfort. It felt more like ballast.

"That was beautiful. A Gershwin variation, but... darker."

The voice was a low, smooth vibration, like a cello note felt through the floorboards. She turned.

He occupied the space beside her piano stool as if he'd always been there. Tall, impossibly so, in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her rent for a year. His skin was pale, not sickly, but like marble held in moonlight. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones. But it was the eyes that held her-amber, liquid gold, and fixed on her with an intensity that made her suddenly aware of every single breath she took.

"Thanks," she managed, her voice a little rough from disuse. "You know Gershwin."

"I know everything that's ever been written on a piano," he said, and the corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. It was a strange thing to say, but he said it so simply she almost believed him. His gaze drifted from her face, down the slope of her shoulder, over the curve of her arm resting on the piano. It wasn't a leer. It was an appraisal, thoughtful and deep. She should have felt exposed. Instead, she felt... seen.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked.

"I'm technically working."

"The gentleman at the end of the bar is asleep. The couple is arguing in whispers. Your boss is in the back counting inventory. Your work, for the moment, is done." He nodded toward a shadowy booth. "Please. One drink. I'm Cain."

Gina hesitated. Stranger danger was a real thing. But normal strangers didn't have eyes that looked like captured fire, and they didn't quote Gershwin in a dive bar at midnight. Curiosity, a hunger sharper than the one in her stomach, won. She slid off the stool, feeling the stretch of her dress across her back.

He ordered a ridiculously expensive bourbon, neat. She got a house red. They sat.

"You play with profound feeling," he said, cradling his glass. He didn't drink from it. "And profound technical skill. Yet you're here."

"Jobs for jazz pianists who aren't famous aren't exactly lining the block," she said, a defensive edge in her voice. She took a gulp of wine.

"I have a proposition." He leaned forward, just slightly. The ambient noise of the bar seemed to fade. "I have a residence. A penthouse. It has a music room. A Bösendorfer concert grand, currently silent. It's... lonely."

Gina choked on her wine. "A Bösendorfer? You're joking."

"I do not joke about pianos." He said it deadpan, but the gold in his eyes flickered. "I need a pianist. A resident artist. Your only duty would be to play, eat, and enjoy yourself. To fill that space with the kind of music I heard tonight. In return, you would live there. A private suite. And you would never have to worry about money, or food, again."

The world tilted. This was a scam. It had to be. "What's the catch? Do I have to wear a costume? Is this some weird rich-guy fetish?"

He laughed, a soft, genuine sound. "No costume. The only fetish, as you put it, is for exceptional art. I find the modern world... nutritionally barren. Soul-less. Your music has soul. I wish to subsidize it while ensuring you eat well. That is all."

He reached into his jacket and placed a single, plain white card on the table. Just a name, CAIN, and an address etched in crisp black lettering. The paper felt heavy, expensive.

"I don't understand," Gina whispered, her mind racing. Rent was due. Her fridge was a monument to condiment packets and despair. The dream was a quiet, starving death in a studio apartment. This was a door swinging open into a fairy tale.

"Most people who are offered what they truly want spend too much time looking for the trap," Cain said softly. His eyes fell to her hands, where they wrapped tight around her wine glass. Then, almost imperceptibly, they traveled the generous line of her body, a slow, savoring look that made heat bloom on her neck. It wasn't lust. It was closer to... appreciation. A gourmand viewing a rare, perfect fruit.

"The only condition is that you must take the position seriously. You must eat well. You must live well. Your vitality is part of the instrument. I cannot have my pianist fading away."

He stood, suddenly, a column of elegant shadow. "Consider it. The address is there. Be there tomorrow at seven in the evening. If you choose not to come, I will understand. The Bösendorfer will remain silent. A shame, for both of us."

He left then, moving through the dim bar and out the door without a sound. He never touched his bourbon.

Gina stared at the card. She finished her wine in one long swallow. She played her last set with her fingers trembling, the notes jangling with a chaotic hope she couldn't suppress.

The next day was a blur of panic and packed boxes. She owned so little. The doubt screamed at her all afternoon. This was how people ended up in freezers.

But at 6:55 PM, clutching her single suitcase of sheet music and clothes, she stood before a sleek, intimidating art deco building in the heart of the city. The lobby was silent, all marble and hushed light. The elevator whooshed her to the top floor.

The doors opened directly into the penthouse.
It was all soaring windows and dizzying city views, tasteful, austere, and cold. And there, in a room lined with books, sat the piano. A Bösendorfer Imperial, its black lacquer finish a pool of liquid night. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Cain appeared from a doorway, dressed more casually in dark trousers and a linen shirt. He looked... pleased.

"You came."

"I came for the piano," she said, her voice hardly containing her uncertainty.

"As good a reason as any." He gestured. "Play for me. Now. Before you see your room, before you ask any questions. Play."

It was a command, but softly given. Gina walked to the piano, her heart hammering against her ribs. She sat. She lifted the fallboard. She placed her fingers on the cool, perfect ivory.

She played. Not Gershwin. Something of her own, a turbulent, hopeful thing she'd been tinkering with in her old life. The sound that poured from the piano was a revelation-clear, deep, resonant, every nuance of her touch amplified into glory. She got lost in it. She forgot the strange man, the terrifying apartment, her own swelling body in the too-tight jeans.

When the last vibration faded, she was crying. Silently. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

Cain was standing closer. He hadn't taken his eyes off her. His gaze was heavy, warm, like a physical weight.

"Perfect," he breathed. The word wasn't about the music.

He led her to a suite that was bigger than her entire old apartment. A kitchenette with a professional-grade stove. A bathroom with a deep soaking tub. A bed like a cloud.

"Dinner will be sent up at nine," he said from the doorway. "Eat everything. It's important. Rest. Play when you wish. This is your home now."

"What do you get out of this?" The question burst from her, the fear finally surfacing.

He paused, his amber eyes catching the last of the sunset through the vast windows. They glowed.

"I get to listen," he said. "I get to watch someone beautiful enjoy the things that I can no longer. It sustains me."

The door clicked shut.

At nine sharp, a silver-domed cart arrived. Under the dome was a seared duck breast with a cherry reduction, truffled wild rice, roasted asparagus, and a dark chocolate torte that looked like sin on a plate. The aromas were dizzying. Gina, who had lived on desperation and carbs for months, felt her mouth water painfully.

She ate. She ate every single bite, sitting on the floor of her lavish new wold, looking out at the glittering city. The food was sublime. A deep, satisfying warmth spread through her limbs, a heavy contentment settling in her bones, in the soft flesh of her belly.

In the silent, dark room adjacent, Cain stood perfectly still. His eyes were closed. A faint, serene smile touched his lips. On the air, richer and more nourishing than any scent, was the essence of the meal-the pleasure, the comfort, the fleeting security. And beneath it, the vibrant, unique spark of Gina's own vitality, now slightly amplified, saturated with decadence.

He inhaled slowly, deeply. For the first time in a long, hungry century, he felt full.