Chapter 22
THE POISONER
Iwas not keen on the idea of meeting strangers while they wore masks.
The gathering was supposed to be a masquerade.
The girls had crafted their own masks. Rebecca whittled hers from wood that she would hold up with a stick.
Adeline made some out of fabric that tied in the back with a ribbon, though it would only cover their eyes.
My mask was not as creative. It was a simple strip of lace across my eyes paired with a mourning veil over the top.
The tulle covered my entire head, the excess wrapping over my shoulder.
We often received invites to new Nests, and the first visit was for negotiations.
My evening gown was sleeveless and hung nearly off my shoulder, the neckline meeting at a wide V shape at the top of my corset.
The dress clung strictly to the shape of the corset before it passed my hips, at which point it turned to fine ruffles until it hit the floor.
It was a deep green color with black lace details, including silk gloves.
I wore a choker around my neck with an ovular stone resting at the front.
I had my hair done in a half-twist, with some falling over my shoulders beneath the veil.
The inside of the home was covered in dark wood paneling and intricately carved archways around the doors.
A vibrantly pigmented Persian rug led us through the hallway and into a sitting room.
The ceilings were tall, grand enough to facilitate an overly ornate chandelier and a fireplace mantel decorated with a fresh wreath.
The smell of pine, dried citrus, and apple created a welcoming ambiance that could wrap me up and lull me to sleep faster than mulled cider.
The girls wore their finest tonight, though I was too nervous to inspect everyone’s attire.
Adeline and Mary had dressed everyone, and I trusted their judgment.
Appearances were important, especially when entering new territory.
On top of that, the frivolously dressed were remembered.
When it came to murdering members of a Nest, no one usually suspected the dolls wrapped in silk.
On each of our fingers was a memento mori ring. Typically, these bands would hold chords of braided hair from the dearly departed, opening to reveal the contents. For us, we had a more unorthodox use.
Inside the chamber of the rings was homemade Vipera poison, fashioned with a cat-claw-like piece of brass that stuck out once you flicked open the chamber.
It was a prototype in every sense of the word, my first mechanical invention, thanks to John, as we had never had cause to use it in practice. Hopefully, we never would.
The guests fit the scene, like they were specifically cast to play their parts.
Caricatures of what wealth should look like.
The lineations held some of the rarest fabric colors I had seen in some time, some never at all in person.
Shades of purple, magenta, green, and yellow.
Each lady had a signature perfume, strong notes of florals and oud, but it did little to mask the metallic scent of blood on their breath.
Everyone had a part to play on visits like these.
Rebecca and Adeline paired up as the pleasant social duo, Edith watched my back, and I handled negotiations.
The girls fluttered around like birds, showing their colors, begging for a bite.
Male Vipera couldn’t control themselves, so most were quick with their wallets.
Though this Nest was owned by a Sire and Dam, it seemed the wife was the one in charge of anything of great importance. I could respect and sympathize.
Unlike the Guilds, it was not located in town, and it did not pretend to be a club.
They took a traditional approach, that of an estate where Vipera and Hosts could meet.
Though no matter how traditional they modeled it after, no Host would agree to being exclusive to a Nest when they could get paid to attend many.
It seemed they had finally decided to accept that the Hosts would not be staying on the property.
The Dam had her arm looped in mine, immediately striking a familiar and friendly conversation upon arrival as she took me hostage on her tour and introductions. Her husband eyed us sourly from the corner, surrounded by his wolfish acquaintances and cigar smoke.
“Come, sit with me.” The mistress of the house guided me to a lounging chaise scattered in a corner of furniture.
Even the fabric itself was rich and noticeably old.
It was delicate, inspiring fear that sitting on the chaise would somehow rub away the small threads of gold and deep purple dye from many centuries ago.
The entire room could be stored in a museum, though I suppose it wouldn’t be farfetched to think wealthy Vipera didn’t own those private collections too.
“Your home is very . . . warm,” I said. It was not my intention to hesitate; I was having trouble with the distractions surrounding me.
I had nearly stumbled on two dogs perched beside the furniture.
They were long and regal, windhounds of sorts, or another ancient breed.
I nearly thought they were statues at first with how still they were.
Even when quiet, I preferred the seat furthest from them.
“Do you not like them?” She smiled as she petted one of their thin heads, playful in her question.
“I don’t prefer them.” I managed the most polite answer I could muster.
“Is that so?”
“I tire of attending to wolfish things nowadays.”
“I assume you’ve had your fill of other types of dogs?”
I nodded, laughing off the attempt at a cozy jest.
“I have been looking forward to your attendance.” She smiled, but it was pulled too tight. Forced. The polite facade would only last as long as her temper or her hunger; Vipera were all the same.
“I assume you are familiar with our terms from the others, Mrs.—”
“Georgiana,” she corrected, “and of course. We would love to have you and your girls here regularly.”
“Fifty per feeding,” I said, “and if anyone within your Nest breaks the code of conduct or if you skip payment, a Host will never step foot in your Nest again.”
“Straight to business, I see.” Her smile fell, turning to something dispassionate, though I suspect it had been like that the whole time behind that sickly sweet facade. I was afraid that it was going to rot my teeth if she kept it up any longer.
“I wouldn’t insult you or your establishment by wasting your time.”
“You wouldn’t have been invited if I suspected you were worth anything less.”
“Then why dance around the subject?”
Georgiana patted my leg. “The art of negotiation is only refined with time. You are young, so I will not hold it against you.”
“I don’t understand the need for extra steps.”
“Negotiating isn’t purely for the goal of striking a deal, it can also be a test of when not to,” she said smoothly, tipping her glass to her lips as she eyed something in the crowd as she spoke.
“It is much like dancing with a stranger. You do the rehearsed movements first, test their pace, their skill of step.”
“Perhaps when there are more options, but so far I don’t see any competition.”
“I will do you the kindness of telling you plainly, woman to woman”—her eyes shifted to me, and she turned her shoulders to face me more—“I am still interested, I believe in you. What you’ve built is beautiful, but in its infancy.
It will take more than just my own investment for it to prosper. Sell it.”
“How about a taste?” I suggested.
“While I am excited to sink my teeth into the talk of the town, I need to know you can work a crowd.” She was close enough that I could see the intricate beading on the edge of her mask.
“We are not like any Nest around here—we have esteemed guests who travel here to feel the comforts of home, something civilized. I know you can work an eager crowd, but what about those with taste?”
“Are you insulting my taste, Georgiana?” I tilted my head, leaning close to her ear. “You wouldn’t have asked us here if you hadn’t heard anything less than exceptional, especially with your hesitancy toward more progressive Host relations.”
“I would love to believe you, but it isn’t me who will need impressing.
” She slanted her head to the side. “We have some new guests aside from yourself tonight. They have not shown much interest in many so far. Get them to feed, and I can pay all of you double what you’re asking.
That is, if you are as good as you say you are. ”
“New guests?” I raised a brow.
She pinched my chin and guided my view to the figure lounging on a sofa, surrounded by cigar smoke and malice. A very familiar face. “From the city,” Georgiana hummed, leaning close. “Types like that are worth the trouble.”
I didn’t have to see the face under the mask to recognize Silas. I knew it was him from the rage in my heart alone.
“You said you will pay double?” I turned to look at her.
“If he and others take a liking to you, then you and your girls are welcome here every week if they choose. If it means attracting more like them, I will pay whatever it takes.”
Damping down any outward signs of disappointment or hesitance, I rose from my seat to move across the floor.
I smoothed out my skirt before approaching.
A passing guest’s shoulder shoved mine as he passed.
My head snapped up to confront, but he was already stopped, nose to nose with me.
Luka.
“Happy hunting.” His words were laced with sarcasm. He flicked his split tongue out at my lips. I flinched as I moved away. His laughter melted into the background as I approached Silas.
“Is this seat taken?” I glanced around.
“Would it make a difference if it were?” He tilted his head at me, clearly a few drinks of booze or blood in already.
I spotted Edith off in the crowd, eyeing me before looking away when I nearly caught her staring. Her smile was so bright, so confident, so well-rehearsed, I nearly believed it. It could also be how unfamiliar she looked without her head covering.
“Don’t be unpleasant. People are watching,” I muttered, slipping into the spot beside him. I leaned in, and he nearly flinched away when my lips met his ear. “If you were looking for a chance to make it up to me, now is the time.”
“Is that even possible in the eyes of your impossible standards?” he played.
I ran a finger over the hem of my neckline. “Feed on me, Creature.”
“Is this a trick?”
“It is permission.” The words nearly came out as a sour hiss.
His hand smoothed my veil from my neck before slipping his fingers beneath to grasp the partially loose hair underneath, tugging me close again.
I winced at the pressure at the base of my neck, a chill racing up and down my spine.
A playful smile danced as he studied my reaction, reveling in the upper hand. “Admit it, you missed me.”
“I did not.”
“Tell me you never dreamed about me.” He playfully swept his bottom lip against mine, the veil our only barrier.
“I had nightmares about you.”
“Because you wish me to haunt you?”
“Because you broke my heart,” I whispered, my lips brushing against his as I spoke, the proximity entrapping.
He was silent for once; that is how I knew he heard me.
“Alina—”
“Stop talking.” I leaned in, pulling him close, so close his breathing fanned against my neck, ragged in constraint.
He hesitated, the only proof of a sober thought. His fingers traced over the hems and folds of the dress around my waist until it reached my back. A deep breath before the fangs buried beneath my skin, the first opportunity they could.
My moan was involuntary, but it was hard not to feel the pleasure that overtook me as he fed. His cologne became stronger, my heart jumping; I’m sure he heard it, because his bite became firmer on my neck, as if to trap me.
Pictures overtook my mind suddenly like a silver screen.
The dull, gray room. Powerless in the dark, unable to sleep or else I would be teased by dreams of freedom or be subjected to another nightmare, only to have no relief when I finally awoke in the middle of another night terror.
I could feel my skin heating up; I was seeing stars like a combusting reel of emulsion film.
I clung to his shirt, steadying myself.
His hand was firm on my waist, his hand on my head moved to a firm grip on my hair, as if the bite wasn’t enough.
Curiously, he was not feeding anymore, just biting.
That is when I realized I hadn’t let him go.
“Silas,” I said shakily.
He withdrew his fangs quickly, flattening his tongue over the wound as if he anticipated it, waiting for even a whisper of his name on my lips. Just one word to stop.
He lifted the veil, just enough to expose my lips. That is when he kissed me, like he was desperate to taste the very word, hoping it would come again.
The metallic brass taste of blood and bourbon stung at the back of my throat. My eyes fluttered open, and I separated the kiss, his grip on the back of my neck keeping us in whispering distance.
“How does it feel,” he whispered, blood dripping from his lips to mine, “to be caught in my grasp again?” He pulled his gaze from my mouth to my eyes. “Is it as decadent as my venom coursing through your veins?”
“All I taste is malice.” I pushed him back, but he caught my hand before I whipped it away from him.