Chapter 1
THE POISONER
Present Day
Buffalo, New York, America
Condensation dripped as my finger swiped a line along the cool glass, outlining the chapel steeple across the square.
Fresh snow settled like confectioners’ powder over the streets, muting the colors of the town smothered beneath it. Carriages dragged their tracks through the virgin coating, staining them a sodden color before it churned into an inevitable slush.
A new cylinder slipped onto the phonograph, the music player crackling to life on the small table in front of the window. A steady waltz was a pleasant tune for a bitter day. The scratching of the needle lured my mind back inside the room.
Over my shoulder, a wide-eyed man stared back.
He reminded me of a bat pup, sweaty and disoriented, but instead of his mother’s teat, an old rag plugged his agape mouth.
He hung upside down, his ankles bound to a meat hook and hands tied and dangling above a bucket like a stag prepared to be bled.
My fingers wrapped around the hilt of the butcher’s knife, placed neatly on the table, caressing the walnut handle as I inspected both sides. The stain was wearing off where my hand had held it many times. It served me well when preparing hog and lamb, so it would do just fine on a simple man.
It was a temporary stand-in while the rest were being sharpened. The dull blade scraped along the wood of the table as I lifted it tenderly, the weight comfortably balanced in my hand.
My guest squirmed. A whine or two made it past the fabric filling his mouth. His eyes darted at anything but me.
“Shh, shh,” I soothed, crouching in front of him.
The vocal strain of a tired cry, praying someone could hear him. He threw his head over one shoulder, then the other toward the open door.
Leaning forward beside his face, my cheek nearly touched his as I looked in the same direction.
“Crying for ghosts, are we?” I whispered before sloping my head to the side.
His eyes flared wildly. A noise, pleading, muffled words I would never hear through his gag.
I dragged a finger over the side of his face, feeling every weather of the skin down to the slightest prick of unshaven scruff.
His eyes were bloodshot, a web of black blood vessels like I had just flicked a piece of untempered glass.
“This will only take a moment,” I assured.
It may have been cruel to stall, letting his heart palpitate like that.
There was no good reason for letting the panic ferment like a fruity mead.
My issue was that I simply couldn’t help myself.
Teasing was part of the fun, and I was in a phenomenal mood today.
My bedside manners had improved quite a bit in the last year, all things considered.
The cleaver blade dragged across his throat, tearing through the trachea. The cut might have been cleaner if I had something sharper to work with, which was my mistake, waiting so long to tend to my saws.
There was no yelp, no cry, no more pleas—only a gurgle before the sight faded into oblivion. The obsidian fluid drained into the bucket in a steady slick.
How interesting that a man could be reduced to one and a half liters of blood.
While my original goals were more in line with extermination, I realized sustainability is more important than anything. These things were pests, of course, but it was disrespectful to waste the remains of any living thing. Vipera were more useful alive than dead.
“Do you have venom?” the timid girl spoke from the door. “I’m leaving for my shift.”
“On the table.” I watched the bucket fill sluggishly, creeping up to the half line.
“Could we keep them alive a little longer next time? Gather more fluids from them in one go?”
“That means someone has to be here and watch them. I’m too busy.”
“I don’t mind staying and helping one of these nights.”
“You have night shifts at the hospital.”
“I can take a night off!”
“Edith.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “That is all I have for now. Make do.”
Edith’s throat lurched, as if my words were stones. Her nursing uniform was already starched and cleaned, her personal addition of a white head scarf hiding most of her head and neck. A few curls of blond peeked out from under her covering, framing her freckled face.
Phoebe and I had met Edith in the apothecary, the new one, all those years ago.
She was looking for common medicines for her charitable home visits for the elderly.
Only after bonding did we find that she was a young Vipera, about fifty years old.
Of course, in Vipera fashion, she did not look over twenty-five.
With her unassuming demeanor, she could pass for younger.
Little did we know, she would be the first of many.
“I’m sorry.” I approached, cupping her face with both my hands as if to convince her not to cry. “I will get more. We can ask the girls to help. I will bring glassware home so you can bring the samples to work tomorrow. Deal?”
“Deal.” She allowed herself a skittish smile, my promise thawing some tension.
I patted her cheek and let her go.
When I turned back, the man was nearly the color of chalk. I placed my index and middle finger on his neck. His arteries were still. My chore for the day was officially finished.
I transferred the blood into an amber glass jug and into the ice box in the corner. The best way to store it was away from light and in cooler temperatures, safe and sound, until it was ready to be used.
One thing I have learned about Vipera is that their blood is dead, that is why it is black. The chemicals, however, are very much alive and fermenting. It was similar to how stepping on a dead bee would still envenomate you through its sting. Safety when handling such toxins was crucial.
The sky dulled almost as fast as a corpse on ice, the day’s postmortem leeching what little warmth was left as it settled into night. Most were safe and sound at home by now, kissing their wives and children and eating a hearty meal fresh from the stove to fight off the dreary night ahead.
I climbed on my mount, my extra weight not generating so much as a flick of an ear. With a mammoth like him, I wasn’t sure there was anything that could bother him. If a landmine went off beside him, he would let out a yawn. My blue roan steed was the most reliable man I knew. His name was Horse.
I know what some may think—how lazy must I be for naming a horse after itself?
The truth is, I had trouble picking a name.
I could not decide on the absolute perfect one.
It became a joke for me to just refer to him as Horse; then it stuck, and he began to respond to it. A simple thing like him never minded.
Adjusting the reins, I clicked my tongue and encouraged him forward. His form heeled forward and started on the path home.
The dirt road was long, and soon the sight of the charming city turned into trees with an occasional home along the trail.
Our own humble abode was elevated on a slight hill before it turned a corner into the dark wooded road.
The farmhouse was a concept Phoebe and I wanted to try.
Inexpensive and in dire need of repairs, it was nonetheless a convenient thirty-minute ride outside Buffalo.
It was a comfortable property nestled into the temperate landscape.
A field spanned behind the house, surrounded by maples, firs, and oaks.
It was the perfect grounds for burying bodies for natural decomposition, a respectable end to disrespectful men.
The field bloomed with wildflowers in spring, and the grass stayed long until the frost weighed it down before winter. When autumn came around, the trees turned the brightest oranges and reds, like the world set afire when the air began to bite; a reminder to keep warm thoughts.
The front porch steps creaked, most notably the third, since I had neglected to replace the warped wood. The house was white—or rather, it was supposed to be white. Chipped paint faded and peppered the facade. Charcoal trim turned to an ashy slate around the shutters and porch railing.
But even with its run-down exterior, the stirring silhouettes in the windows made me forget I was nitpicking the aesthetics of a place I called home.
Phoebe and I had bought two properties when we arrived in Buffalo: the farmhouse and the apothecary. Our only trouble was with the law. Only married women could buy property in New York.
Phoebe had to forge marriage papers. She took my last name.
Admittedly, we were unsure if they would verify the records.
Turned out to be a nonissue, as Phoebe brought a large amount of cash from London.
We made up an imaginary brother. I suggested the name Alin Lis for her imaginary husband, who worked overseas.
As far as strangers knew, I was her sister-in-law.
I gripped the brass doorknob, pushing twice to get it unstuck. When I entered, the scent of cooked rabbit, potatoes, and fresh bread embraced me like a lover after a long trip at sea.
It was home, every time, no matter what horrors awaited me in the world.
The hall stretched past the living room and a narrow stairway to the second floor. At the end of the hallway was the kitchen. A fire burned leisurely in the living room fireplace, with women scattered about and settled into their spots for the evening.
I shed my scarf and coat upon entry, piling them on whichever hooks I managed to find among many other coats. Immediately, I was drawn down to the kitchen, dodging a few women as they left it.
“Smells like heaven.” I inhaled deeply, sousing in the scents.
“It’s the same as the past three nights.” Phoebe wiped her forehead with a sleeve, her face physically flushed from the heat of the stove. The very sight was the highlight of my day, particularly on long ones.
“My remark remains,” I laughed.
I sat on the other side of the counter, watching as Phoebe kneaded dough for one last batch of bread before supper. Cooking was the perfect hobby for a detail-oriented mind like hers.