A thousand years

Garlic

Andrea hunched over his half-eaten plate, sweat beading on his forehead. His fork trembled in his grip.

Ema hovered nearby, wiping her hands on her black apron. Estelle stood beside her, tray balanced on one hip, eyes flicking between the customers and Andre.

Andrea's voice came out raspy. "What did you put in the food? Tell me again."

Ema leaned in, her ponytail swinging. "It's just food, sir. Sea bass, some herbs, no sides as you requested. Nothing weird."

He gripped the table edge, knuckles white. "Garlic," he muttered, so low it barely cut through the din. His head dropped, eyes fixed on the floorboards.

Heads turned. A couple at the next table paused mid-bite, staring. The old man by the window squinted over his wine glass. Whispers rippled out like waves.

Estelle's sneakers squeaked on the stone floor as she shifted closer. She grabbed Ema's arm. "Ema, we gotta get him out. Hospital or something. He looks bad."

Ema nodded quick. "Yeah. Go tell the others. Cover for us?"

Estelle glanced at Andrea, his shoulders shaking. Something twisted in her gut, but she pushed it down. "On it." She darted toward the kitchen, weaving past a waiter balancing wine bottles.

Andrea's gaze stayed glued to the ground. Bloodshot veins crawled across his eyes like red spiders. The thirst clawed at his throat—worse than anything in nine hundred years. Animal blood had kept him going, hidden scrapes from stray dogs in the hills outside Split. But garlic? It burned through him like acid, turning hunger into madness. Only human blood would fix it now.

He whispered, lips barely moving. "Ema... help me up."

She crouched beside him, her hand on his arm. Cool skin, too cool. "They're getting help. Just hold on."

"Need to throw up." His words slurred, weak.

"Okay." Ema glanced around. Faces everywhere, phones half-pulled out. "Restroom. Come on." She hooked her arm under his, pulling him up. He leaned heavy, feet dragging. Pain shot through her shoulder as they shuffled past staring eyes. A kid pointed. Someone murmured "drunk tourist."

The restroom door swung open with a creak. Dim bulb flickered overhead, casting shadows on chipped white tiles. Ema eased him to the sink. Water dripped from the faucet, steady plink-plink.

She glanced up at the mirror. Her face stared back—wide eyes, flushed cheeks. But beside her? Nothing. No Andrea. Just empty space where his head should be.

Her breath caught. Heart hammered against her ribs. She forced a smile, backing toward the door. "I'll... be right outside."

He knew. The second her eyes widened, he felt it. He straightened, slower now, and turned to the mirror himself. Blank porcelain sink, dripping faucet. No him.

Then he faced her. Bloodshot eyes locked on hers, pupils blown wide.

Ema stumbled back two steps, sneakers slipping on wet tile. "Sir... please. Let me go. I swear, no one hears a word."

"I'm sorry." His voice dropped low, rough. "I need you."

He stepped closer. She pressed against the stall door. "No…"

His hand shot out, fingers like iron on her wrist. Fangs slid down, sharp glint under the light. He lunged. Teeth sank into her vein.

Ema screamed, raw and piercing. It echoed off the tiles. Blood flooded his mouth—warm, coppery, alive. Power surged back into his limbs, strength uncoiling like a spring. She went limp, knees buckling, color draining from her face.

He pulled back, lips smeared red. She slid down the wall, clutching her wrist. Blood soaked her sleeve, dark stain spreading.

"Why?" Her voice cracked, eyes glassy. "Why me?"

He stepped in again. She scrambled up, lunging for the door. In a blur, he was there—right in front of her, blocking the exit.

"Look at me." His hands cupped her face, thumbs pressing her cheeks. Forced her gaze up. Those bloodshot eyes bored in, swirling now with something ancient.

"You will not be turned." His voice wrapped around her mind, heavy fog. "Whatever happened here never happened."

Her lips moved, echoing. "Whatever happened here... never happened."

He held her there a beat longer. The compulsion sank deep, rewriting the panic. Then he let go.

Ema blinked. Shook her head. Wrist throbbed, but the fear? Gone. She straightened her apron. "You look better now. Color's back."

Andrea wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fangs retracting. "Yeah. Must've been bad fish or something."

Footsteps pounded outside. The door banged open. Estelle burst in first, eyes wild, another waiter—dark-haired Marko—right behind.

Estelle scanned the room. Andrea by the sink, casual. Ema smiling faint. Door wide open. "What the—? You guys okay?"

Marko pushed forward. "I heard screaming. Ema? You all right?"

Ema waved it off. "No. That wouldn't be me." She laughed, light and forced. Flexed her wrist. "Just... stubbed my toe helping him. Clumsy."

Estelle's gaze dropped. Blood speckled Ema's sleeve, a crusty red mark on her hand—two puncture holes, raw and fresh. "Ema... what's that on your hand? And your sleeve— that's blood."

Ema froze, staring down. The restaurant noise filtered in—clinking glasses, chatter swelling again. Andrea’s eyes flicked to Estelle, sharp now, normal. But the air hung thick, electric.