Lamia Bloodline

I'm hungry again.

My family comes from ancient mountain range.

The blood of Lamia, the serpent woman, flows through every member of our clan.

Because of that, every twenty years, our family must undergo a shedding ritual.

And the ritual requires a human heart to complete.

Sitting in the Starbucks at downtown Philadelphia, I stared at the Tinder profile on my phone screen, my index finger mechanically swiping left.

Wall Street broker, suited up, "passionate about charity" - I could smell the rot emanating from him.

But it was just slightly nauseating. Many capitalists carry that scent.

My mother once told me that though the ritual needs human hearts, the Lamias only sacrifice the hearts of the wicked.

It's been nineteen years and eight months since my last molting.

I can feel the scales beneath my skin stirring restlessly, fine cracks beginning to appear at my fingertips.

In a while longer, if I still can't find a suitable "offering," I'll probably turn into a pile of dried bones some morning.

Just then...

A new profile popped up on screen.

Blond hair, blue eyes, radiant smile, wearing a college football team jersey.

Ron, 19, Penn State quarterback, enjoys working out and small animals.

I almost laughed out loud.

What evil could this puppy possibly harbor? Peeked at his roommate in the shower? Cheated on an exam?

But just as I was about to swipe left, a familiar stench drilled into my nostrils.

It was the smell of blood.

Fresh blood. Young girl's blood.

...

Ron asked me to meet at the movie theater downtown.

He was more handsome than his photos, wearing a clean white T-shirt and jeans, holding a bouquet of sunflowers.

The moment he saw me, his eyes lit up.

"Hey!" He walked over quickly, "I thought you might stand me up."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you're too beautiful." He scratched his head, revealing a shy smile, "A woman like you probably wouldn't be interested in a poor student like me."

I took the flowers and smiled at him: "Let's go, the movie's about to start."

Throughout the entire film, he was well-behaved, didn't make any moves, even carefully passed the popcorn to my hand.

After the screening, he suggested going to a nearby motel to "chat."

I agreed.

The motel room was small, but he'd cleaned it well.

He poured me water, adjusted the air conditioning temperature, asked if I was cold. Then sat on the edge of the bed like a big dog waiting for praise.

"Hey," he suddenly said, "do you believe in love at first sight?"

"No."

"I do." He leaned closer, his eyes excessively sincere, "From the first moment I saw your photo, I knew you were the one I'd been waiting for."

I stared into his eyes.

In those azure eyes, my face was reflected.

...

Over the next week, Ron performed like a textbook-perfect boyfriend.

He sent good morning texts every day, good night texts every evening, with various expressions of care in between.

He opened car doors for me, pulled out chairs at restaurants, and even when he saw a stray cat on the street, he crouched down to feed it.

"Look how thin it is," he said softly, "must have been hungry for a long time."

I watched him gently stroke the kitten, beginning to doubt myself.

Had I really been wrong?

That night at home, I stared at myself in the mirror.

The cracks on my arms had deepened another degree.

On the seventh night, I decided to end it.

"Ron, I don't think we're right for each other."

In the motel room, I threw several thousand dollars in cash onto the bed: "This money is compensation for you."

Ron froze, his eyes instantly reddening: "Did I do something wrong?"

"You're too clingy. I need space."

"Please," Ron grabbed my hand, his voice choked, "just have one more drink with me, one last drink. I promise I won't bother you again."

He pulled out a bottle of bourbon whiskey from his backpack and poured two glasses.

I picked up the glass and drank it down.

Ron's expression changed, just for an instant.

"Hey, are you okay?"

My vision began to blur, my limbs went weak.

I watched the corners of his mouth gradually curl upward.

I knew I hadn't been wrong.

...

When I woke again, I was in the bed of a beat-up Ford pickup.

My hands and feet were tightly bound with nylon rope, tape over my mouth.

The truck bed reeked of motor oil and sweat.

I heard voices from the front seats.

"This chick's got a nice body, old Earl's gonna love her." A tattooed brute spat out smoke, laughing lecherously.

"No shit, I picked her out special."

Ron's voice had lost all tenderness, leaving only naked greed, "These stupid bitches are easiest to fool, shed a few tears and you've got them."

"I'll give you thirty percent?"

"Forty." Ron haggled, "I'm risking getting kicked off the football team for this job."

I lay in the cold truck bed, but my heart beat faster and faster.

Until the truck stopped.

Ron jumped down from the driver's seat and opened the tailgate.

Night wind rushed in, carrying the dampness of mountain forests.

He ripped the tape off my mouth in one motion, that sunny boy's face now full of savagery: "Awake now? Baby?"

"Ron, please let me go..." I squeezed out tears, my voice trembling.

"Let you go?"

Ron crouched down, scraping my face with his fingertips.

"Soon enough, I'll hand you over to the redneck old bachelors in the sticks as their toy, enjoy it, bitch. They'll take real good care of you."