I pour the glass. It’s a beautiful crimson color, so deep, so rich. When I swirl to check for sediment, I am shocked to find there is none. The smell is nothing I have smelt before. Yes, it’s metallic, but it’s also one of the most beautiful smells. A quick taste, there’s a more than a hint of blood, this has been fermenting for quite some time.

“Mam, I am confident that this is an 1788 vintage. There’s blood in this, but it’s been transformed—fermented into something exquisite. It is a very delicious wine.” As I poured her a glass, she smiled, her fangs began to show.

"Would you mind sharing a glass with me?" she purred, the sound a low vibration that was for him alone. He watched the dim candlelight glint off the freshly revealed, pearlescent tips of her canines. He could almost feel the familiar, cool silk of her skin, could almost taste the illicit warmth radiating from the glass. Her scent, night-blooming jasmine and the faint, clean ozone of her power was a promise.

“Of course, my wife,” I smiled, that fang filled smile she adored sauntered across my face. “My shift ends in an hour.”