Chapter 16
THE POISONER
While normally our nighttime rituals were my favorite, tonight, I could not bring myself to enjoy any of them.
Even pleasant aspects of my day were stained with overarching guilt that slowly tightened around my organs until I could not bring myself to eat, to breathe, to think.
The journey home was like a march off a cliff, colored by the dread of having to pretend all was well.
The time meant for winding down would become a performance once again.
The entire household was in the living room.
Most of us huddled by the fire and helped each other get ready for bed.
I mindlessly brushed through Phoebe’s hair as she sat next to me on the couch.
My lip had taken abuse throughout the day from chewing it, itching to find any loose vials of venom once everyone was asleep.
While in the past my creature would not bother me with others around, it seemed he had outgrown that reservation based on last night’s events. Uneasy was the only way I could describe how the evolution of his habits made me.
I thought my words were enough to sever those ties years ago, but I was clearly wrong. He was obsessed. If he truly thought he had any ownership over me, of course he would come looking. I should have been more careful.
My only wish was for the mistakes of my past to avoid the Nest. Knowing what he was capable of, especially when I ignored him, made the discomfort weigh inside me like steam in a kettle.
I did not tell anyone what happened, not even Phoebe. Edith did not come home.
Maybe it was out of shame that I kept it from them, though I planned to tell them at a more suitable time. Though it was never a good time for bad news, I would rather bear it alone. Just until I could get the situation under control.
The images from the other night haunted my subconscious. In some ways, it was like a mere dream. The all too familiar feeling of trepidation when my body was in his grip, the bruises that formed when his fingers dug into my skin, the sensation of—
None of that. Banish it from your mind.
“Alina?”
Phoebe was looking at me, as if she had asked me something already.
“What?” I mumbled. “I must have drifted; what did you say?”
“You are quiet. Are you well? You look paler than usual.”
“Yes, I am well. Thrown off by the poor hunting.”
“You are sure?”
“Positive.”
“Could you grab an extra blanket from upstairs for me?”
“Of course.” I nodded, shifting off the couch.
The middle few stairs made a sharp squeak as I put my weight on them during my trudge up the stairs. The light leached from the atmosphere the farther I ventured into the house, the rooms retaining a blue hue from the cool atmosphere outside.
The room Phoebe and I shared was no more gloomy than the others.
I sat alone on the bed and gathered the folded blanket on my lap.
There were little balls of lint forming from the many uses.
I remembered when Adeline made it for us after she was given a loom.
It was such a small gesture, but something about a handmade gift made me feel such hominess.
The powder outside the window fluttered and stuck to the glass, a rustling sound scratching as the wind picked up.
The room was a special kind of peaceful. A type of bliss reserved only for the somber.
I laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
No cracks, only a small wet stain.
My heart was heavy, like it beat slowly and hard.
It was like when I breathed, I sank deeper into a slow-sinking mud.
The same feeling I gleefully ignored when I took my morning dosage and went through with my day.
There was no time to feel such things when so many depended on me to have my head on straight.
I could only close my eyes and hope to let go.
As my mind danced between my dreams and the room around me, the sound of a summer cicada itched at my consciousness.
I opened my eyes; the room was empty.
Then, again, but with footsteps.
I turned my head to look at my bedroom door. The darkness produced the shape of a railing, the doors across the hall, a small hallway table with withered flowers forgotten in a vase. The glow of the downstairs light creeping, just barely presenting at the top of the stairs.
Footsteps at the end of the hallway, and a stronger chittering like the clicking was just warming up.
My heart leapt as fast as I stood. My fists gripped the sheets of the bed, as if to steady me. Should I run? The stairs were there. But how far were they from that point? They could be right outside the door, just out of sight.
I stood, walking heel to toe to prevent much distress to the creaky wood.
Once at the doorframe, I savored my last breath and stepped out into the dark. In my peripheral vision, I saw the light from downstairs, but also a new shadow in my home.
At the end of the hallway was a window, blocked by a lean frame and the flash of eyes.
All I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears before the sound of a click, a flame producing, and the cherrying of a cigarette. The silhouette leaned against the window, head tilted back to release a steady trail of smoke.
What will you do?
I was still, knowing that any movement might provoke him. He could kill me right here, and I suspect I wouldn’t be found until everyone turned in for bed, if he was kind enough to leave the body for them.
His hand snapped out, and an object flashed.
I caught it in the air with only a distracted glance. He was still there as my hand stayed raised, something sharp poking my palm. No movement from the shadow, just the brightening and dimming of an ember. My hand lowered slowly; it was a handkerchief.
Carefully, without peeling my eyes from him just yet, I opened the silken emerald folds to expose one long, porcelain fang placed in the middle.
I had seen this before; the owner of both fang and fabric. I stepped back, faltering on the first step.
Suddenly, a hand choked me with my own shirt collar. I grasped at his wrist—out of fear or preservation, I did not know which.
Only then did I see Silas’s face.
That alone was enough to light my rage.
A scream from the ground floor and the clamoring of chaos sent me over. I dug my nails into his wrist and flung my weight backward, the two of us tumbling down and smacking against the wall before the last couple of steps.
He landed flat on his back, and I straddled his waist, my knuckle digging into his face twice before he bit down on my wrist.
I flung myself back, shrieking as his teeth dug into the skin, dragging a slash in my wrist as I pulled away. He lunged at me, but before he could grab anything more than my skirt, he slumped forward into my lap after a blow from behind.
Phoebe held the butt of her rifle up; a bit of black blood smeared on it from his head.
We caught our breaths, choking back every exhausted breath.
We used the snow from outside to ice our wounds. No one was seriously hurt. I bore the worst of it. I wrapped my arm, the slash no longer bleeding, but the skin slightly raised.
Some of the girls huddled upstairs. Mary was helping to ice any bruises. Phoebe was downstairs dealing with the situation as best she could.
Clamoring ensued from downstairs, then escalated into shouting.
Rebecca knocked on the doorframe of my room, everyone—including myself—looking to her. She jolted her head in the direction of the stairs, holding out the axe hilt first.
I took a deep breath, rubbing my arm before standing. I took the axe from her and descended.
I couldn’t hear much of the commotion through the sudden rise in heart rhythm drumming in my ears. More shouting, then a crashing of metal.
Within the living room, my long-overdue nightmare.
The girls crowded, shifting anxiously
“Let me through.” I pushed a shoulder, then another, before the wall of the crowd opened up.
My two lives had finally collided, in all the worst ways.
Silas looked like a landmine had gone off beside him in expression alone, never mind the battering from the marks on his face. It was when I stepped into the room that his horrified expression dampened, as if he thought I would not see through his shock.
How embarrassing. For him, that is.
I finally looked beside him.
My heart slowed, and a chill ran through me faster than my blood drained, pooling into my legs to save me from the shock.
Kneeling beside Silas, just as battered, was Luka Novikov.
My eyes tracked Phoebe, who was standing in front of them. She held the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun a meter from Silas’s face.
“Guests?” I approached slowly, cautiously. The girls who were not actively pointing weapons at them stepped back, giving us space to work.
Phoebe never took her eyes off Silas when she asked me, “Are you sure you want to be here?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You don’t have to if you feel—”
“I feel like this is something I should be here for.”
She stepped back after a moment’s beat.
I leered at the two dogs before me. Rebecca had a Winchester to the back of their heads.
“The position suits you.” I crooked my head at Silas.
“Only for you,” he smirked.
I ignored his comment for the moment, stepping to the side to look down at Luka. I used the blunt end of my axe to lift his chin.
I reached out to run my nail over the scar on his face.
“Careful,” Luka warned, those dark eyes unwavering. “I would hate to remind you that I bite.”
“Likewise.” I grinned, lifting his chin higher. “I always wondered what became of you. I assumed by the smell of burning flesh that you would have perished. I never expected it would leave such lovely branding if you survived.”
Luka’s expression only became more playful as I spoke, and he leaned into my touch. “If we’re speaking of trauma—”
A crisp crack sounded when the back of my hand met Luka’s face.
Luka flinched but simply glared at Silas.
“How sweet. When did the two of you become fellows?” I teased, stepping back to get a good look at them both.
“Long story,” Silas said.