Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with Terry Pratchett or Discworld.

What Drives Them To It
by Amazon Syren

She’s everything I could have wanted in a donor: Healthy, clean, even beautiful, even willing to come here tonight, to be my dinner guest.
I don’t know where he found her, but Igor did his work well tonight.
“Good evening, Miss,” I say to her, “I’m very glad you came.”
I want to smile, to reassure her that she’s not in any danger, but I don’t think the sight of my teeth will help matters much. I guide her into the dining room instead. There are two places laid. Of course, mine is only for show. She already knows what – who – I’ll be dining on tonight. There’s no need for such a crass reminder.
She dines on filet mignon in wine sauce, new potatoes, snow peas. I wonder if she’s ever eaten food like this before. Her hands are calloused, a worker’s hands. This is probably quite a new experience for her.
I sip consommé from a silver spoon, and watch her eat. I watch her watching me, and trying to forget why she’s here. I watch her gulp her wine – red wine, which I do not drink – and wonder if she’s trying to make herself drunk. I watch her hands begin to shake as the meal draws to a close.

There are rules, you understand. Bite, but don’t impale. Sip, but don’t drain. And the cardinal rule is this: Accept what is offered, but never, ever take.

She is terrified.

Fifty years ago, when I was in my sixties, I actually enjoyed this. The fear, the way the men trembled half from lust, half from terror. The way they’d surrender, despite it, every time.
Now it stings like a razor’s edge, like wine in an open wound.

“I’m ready,” she says, barely more than a whisper, her eyes shut tight.
Gods, I want her. Every part of her. I want to please her with my mouth. I want to hear her moan with pleasure when I pierce her skin. I want to taste her life on my tongue.

Never take.

I know that I could take the fear away. I could whisper to her, take her in my arms, and tell her what I want her to want me to do to her. I could tell her that she wants to kiss me, touch me. That she wants my hands on her thighs and my mouth… everywhere. I could tell her she would only feel pleasure. That it wouldn’t hurt. That she’d like it.
And she would.

But there are rules. I can’t steal her fear any more than I can steal her blood.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
She nods.
“You can say no.”
I circle the table. I can already taste her on the air. If she backs out of this, I’ll have to hit the slaughterhouse. It’s been too long since I’ve eaten.
She shakes her head.
“I’m okay.”
My hand on the back of her neck, gently. I inhale her scent, hidden by the sweat of her fear: fresh hay and clover flowers. A country girl in the city.
“If you’re sure,” I whisper into her hair.
She nods, again, and tilts her head, baring her throat to me.
“It won’t hurt for long,” I promise, wishing I could give her a more intimate trade than what has been arranged, that I could kiss her throat, her mouth, that could draw this out as long as possible.
But I can’t.
The older hunger wins out, and I sink my teeth into her shoulder.
Oh, gods, the sound she makes – pain and fear, her voice raw with shock.
I retract my teeth, sucking gently at the wound I’ve made, holding her shaking body steady.
So fine, so fine. Ambrosia in my mouth. Her blood washes over my tongue, salt and iron and all the subtle flavours that make up her scent. High blood sugar from the meal, from the baked apples and the wine, spiked with adrenaline. I could sip her for hours, days. But I know I can't go that far.
I never heard her sobbing.
It’s not until after that I realize she cried the whole time. Igor led her way, took her upstairs to the guest-room I won’t see, to repair her shoulder and put her to bed with a drink to help her sleep and heal.

“What did it take to convince her?” I ask, when he returns.
“Her father’th a gambler, mithtreth.”
“Ah.”
Money.
That’s usually it. Money for another bottle, or to pay off the debtors, or the landlord, or the doctors. To buy somebody’s silence, or someone’s help.
Part of me wants to double whatever it was we promised her.
Part of me knows that’s a bad idea.
Part of me wonders when she’ll be back, her father’s debts on her mind.