The Parisian Codex

3 - Low on Blood

I dropped into my armchair, opened my pantry drawer and the cooler it contained. It was almost empty.

"We're running low, Kitten," I muttered.

I selected a blood bag and a whisky glass, and poured myself a generous helping of O-negative. The cat stood up, stretched, and jumped onto my lap.

"Meow!" he called in a rattling voice.

"Are you hungry? Do you need milk, or are you old enough for fish?"

The cat responded by placing a paw on the glass in my hand.

"This?" I said, smiling. "I don't think so..."

I put the glass under his nose. The kitten sniffed and then, to my surprise, dipped the tip of his paw in. He gave another sniff to the liquid on his paw before tasting it with the tip of his tongue. Clearly satisfied, he licked his paw clean.

After all, why not? Cats are carnivores, and Kitten had already washed my glass from the night before.

I retrieved the blood bag from my wastebasket, and Kitten set about scrubbing it meticulously.

Once we'd finished breakfast, I picked up the phone and dialed a mobile number. My interlocutor picked up but remained silent.

"Selene," I said, "it's Germain."

She must have known it was me since I always called her from the same line. And her name wasn't Selene, but Élodie Dupuis. She was a lab assistant in a blood bank, the single mother of a severely handicapped child, and perpetually strapped for cash. Her cocaine habit wasn't helping her finances, but I wouldn't blame her. Everyone needs something to keep them going.

"As usual?" breathed Selene.

"Tomorrow night?" I asked.

"Eight o'clock."

She hung up.

I wrote down our appointment in my planner. With centuries of memories, I sometimes find it hard to remember the day-to-day.

I improvised a litter box out of cardboard and the shreds of newspaper that Kitten had destroyed. Then I filled the bowl with clean water.

"Kitten, I'm off to work. Be a good boy."

I tucked Nadine Leroy's envelope into my coat pocket and opened the door. The cat slipped between my legs and ran up the stairs.

"Okay," I mumbled. "Go back to Romane, or get some fresh air. You know which door to meow at if you're looking for me."

He was waiting for me on the building's doorstep. I opened the heavy wrought-iron and glass door, and the kitten stepped out onto the sidewalk.

"There are a lot of cars in this neighborhood," I said. "Don't get run over!"

I bent down to scratch him behind the ear. He let me, purring. As I straightened up, he leaped onto my leg, digging his claws into my jeans and then my shirt as he scaled me like a tree trunk. He snuggled under my arm and scratched the lining of my coat as if it weren't already worn out enough.

The kitten meowed until I placed him in the inside pocket of my coat. Then I felt him turn around a few times before dropping to the bottom of the pocket.

"I hope Mr. Bel isn't allergic to cats," I said, heading for the subway entrance.

The kitten was so light that it didn't even unbalance my coat.