Lamia Bloodline

I was hungry again.

My family comes from ancient mountains.

The blood of the snake woman Lamia flows through every family member's veins.

So our family must undergo a skin-shedding ritual every twenty years.

And the shedding requires a human heart to complete the ceremony.

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

Wall Street broker, suited up, "loves charity"—I could smell the rotting scent emanating from him.

But it was just disgusting. Many capitalists carried that smell.

My mother once said that although the Lamia family needs human hearts, Lamia only sacrifices the hearts of bad people.

Nineteen years and eight months had passed since my last shedding.

I could feel the scales beneath my skin stirring restlessly. Fine cracks were beginning to appear at my fingertips.

In a little while, if I still couldn't find a suitable "offering," I might turn into a pile of dry bones one morning.

Just then.

A new profile popped up on the screen.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, sunny and bright, wearing a college football team uniform.

Ron, 19 years old, University of Pennsylvania quarterback, enjoys fitness and small animals.

I almost laughed out loud.

What evil could this puppy boy have? Peeked at his roommate showering? 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, young girl's blood.

...

Ron asked me to meet at a movie theater in the city center.

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

The moment he saw me, his eyes lit up.

"Miss!" He walked over quickly. "I thought you'd stand me up."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you're too beautiful." He scratched his head, showing a shy smile. "A girl like you wouldn't be interested in a poor student like me, right?"

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

Throughout the entire movie, he was very well-behaved. He didn't make any moves, even carefully placing the popcorn within my reach.

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

I agreed.

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

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

"No."

"I do." He leaned closer to me, 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 blue eyes, my face was reflected.

...

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

He sent good morning messages every morning, good night messages every evening, with various caring greetings in between.

On dates, he opened car doors for me, pulled out chairs at meals, even squatted down to feed stray cats on the street.

"Miss, look, it's so thin." He said softly. "Must have been hungry for a long time."

Watching him gently pet the little cat, I couldn't help but doubt myself.

Had I really been wrong?

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

The cracks on my arms had deepened another degree.

On the seventh evening, I decided to lay my cards on the table.

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

In the motel room, I threw several thousand dollars in cash on the bed: "Take this money as compensation."

Ron froze, his eyes instantly reddening: "Miss, what did I do wrong?"

"You're too clingy."

"I need space."

"Please, miss." Ron grabbed my hand, his voice choking. "Then 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 from his backpack and poured two glasses.

I picked up the glass and drank it down.

Ron's expression changed, but only for an instant.

"Miss, are you okay?"

My vision began to blur, my limbs weakening.

I watched his gradually rising smile.

I knew I hadn't been wrong after all.

...

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

My hands and feet were tightly bound with nylon rope, mouth taped shut.

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 will definitely like her." A tattooed strong man spat out smoke, laughing lewdly.

"No shit, I picked her out specially."

Ron's voice held no gentleness anymore, only naked greed. "These stupid women are the easiest to fool. Just shed a few tears and you've got them."

"Three percent for you?"

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

I lay in the cold truck bed, yet my heartbeat grew faster and faster.

Until the truck stopped.

Ron jumped down from the driver's seat and pulled open the truck bed door.

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

He ripped the tape off my mouth. That sunny boy's face was now full of savagery: "Awake now? Baby?"

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

"Let you go?"

Ron squatted down, scraping my face with his fingertips.

"Soon, I'll give you to the redneck bachelors in the mountains to use as a toy. Enjoy it, bitch. They'll treat you real good."