Chapter Five
THE POISONER
B lood, there is blood everywhere.
I am on my hands and knees, staring down at my reflection in the thick, sticky liquid.
Why is there so much? Is this my own?
I look up. A black expanse surrounds me, and the scarlet pool spans as far as the eye can see. My body is completely covered in blood from head to toe.
Droplets flood my vision, making it red and blurry. It won’t clear up no matter how hard I rub my face. It feels like the more I scratch, the more blood comes dripping down.
“Ah…so sweet.”
A blurry figure in the distance speaks. It sounds more like I am underwater. I blink and frantically try to clear my eyes, trying to see what is in here with me.
There’s a tall figure, his back turned to me, blood dripping over his lean muscles.
He looks like he was carved from stone. He could have told me he was Lucifer himself, and I would believe him.
His semblance transcends the realms of humanity, embodying a mystique that surpasses mere mortal attributes.
His head turns over his shoulder to look at me. That familiar smirk matches those dead pale eyes reflecting back at me.
As the corner of his lips peel up into a smirk, that predatory clicking rises in his throat, like some type of demon from a deep circle of hell. Explicitly tasked to torture me.
I stagger back as my vision blurs again. All I see is the predatory reflection of his eyes in the low light as he approaches.
“I look forward to us, little shadow.”
The sudden drop of my heart ripped me from my mind and back into reality.
“It’s because you’re working all the time instead of having fun with me ,” Phoebe badgered, tapping the rim of her cup.
“It’s not that. I haven’t slept well the past few days. Work relaxes me.”
“Work relaxes you? Please, when has any normal person ever said that and meant it?”
“I mean it!” I laughed, but Phoebe’s expression told me she didn’t believe it.
We decided to meet at Phoebe’s place for our morning gossip session, as the rain had put a damper on our walk.
“Maybe you’re not sleeping because there’s a ripper running the streets apparently. I am sure you saw the story about the new bodies,” Phoebe murmured.
“What new bodies?” I reached my hand out eagerly. “Show me.”
She offered up a newspaper printed from that morning.
There were two bodies found in the harbor. The illustration pictured their pale faces and rigid bodies laid out on the dull cobblestones where they were dragged out.
It was notable that the two girls appeared similar. The paper stated they were not related, not even acquaintances. But they looked so familiar.
Their eyes were clouded, yet a glimpse of light hues remained visible. Dark, wet hair clung to their faces in disarray.
Another item of interest was the skin on the left side of their faces. It was neatly peeled off from above their eyebrow and through their eye. The exposed muscles and neat borders of the wounds on their faces insinuated that it was meticulously done, methodical, even.
There was no question about who did it, but it made me wonder about the need for theatrics.
This was a message for me. Trust me, it was received. Though the motif to my markings was distasteful at best.
My repulsion must have shown on my face, since Phoebe yanked the newspaper from my clenched hands. “That’s enough of the macabre for one morning.”
My mind swam with possibility. Would he come for me today?
Tomorrow? A fortnight? I was relieved he had not shown himself yet, as I was not looking forward to such an interaction.
I could only hope this threat was a stand-alone.
Luckily for him, there was no need to worry about the police.
He would have to worry about what I would do to him, especially if the taunting continued.
Nevertheless, I had to be prepared for whichever scenario he chose. There was no knowing what he would do, but I had a feeling that killing me would be too kind based on this creature’s cruel tastes. Putting so much effort into a message would be a waste if he were going to make it quick.
After I parted with Phoebe, I made some stops at the market and the apothecary.
The bottles and pieces of metal clinked together in my satchel on the journey home.
The dark was not something I was afraid of, but I was not going to put myself in such a precarious situation either way.
I closed the shop early to make sure of it.
The continents of my satchel were dumped over the kitchen counter as soon as I arrived home.
I could not decide what I needed, so I grabbed a little of everything.
Small, oddly shaped vials of varying colors rolled across the wood.
Some were clear glass, exposing different colored liquids.
Others were dark brown tinted glass for the more photosensitive solutions in my collection.
I forgot to label them, so it would be a surprise for both of us if I decided to use them.
Other items clattered onto the table, such as a metal syringe, freshly sharpened seamstress shears, and an extra folded barber’s blade.
I had many knives at home, though you could never have enough.
I had to admit, I caught myself getting almost giddy thinking about what I would be using.
Fantasizing about the confrontation. Would he be surprised to learn that his hunt will end with his death?
I daydreamed about the look that might cross his face when he realized that he would be pursued back.
Should I make it fast or slow? Which reminded me, I needed to retrieve some rope from the greenhouse just in case I got the opportunity to drag it out longer.
The surface of the glass bottles was cool against my fingers, trailing over to the assortment, not sure which one to pick up first. My fingertips had a slight red tint, as I habitually forgot to use my gloves when appreciating my beloved greenery. One of many awful habits.
Phoebe would always scold me and attempt to prescribe her own beauty regimen of beef tallow and other ointments to rid me of the irritation. Luckily, gloves would forever be the norm, and no one had to see my hands for as long as they were fashionable.
I didn’t mind. Getting my hands like this had taken many hours of work.
It was a sign of accomplishment. My father said unmarked hands were a sign of a man who had not worked for his achievements.
He was most likely referring to a future husband, but I decided that it was a standard I wished to hold myself to as well.
My attention was eventually pulled from my trinkets and on to more important tasks for the night. I turned to the doors, windows, and anything that opened to ensure they were locked. I even closed the shutters for good measure.
Maybe it was overkill, but this was no ordinary subject of mine. I knew what he was capable of, but his unfortunate soul could not possibly know the damage I could do in return.
The knives and sharp objects were nestled between cushions and other hiding places.
Satisfied with my efforts, I retreated to the bathroom, feeling confident in my fortification.
It was doubtful that anyone would break in tonight of all nights, but just in case, I made sure I had leverage over the familiar grounds.
An hour or two was spent easing my tired body in the bath, changing into a soft nightgown, and brushing out my hair when I was finished. After I braided the long strands, I twisted them into a low bun, securing it with something extra special.
The stick securing my hair sheathed a needle doused in snake venom from the Bitis arietans , commonly known as the puff adder.
Freshly imported. It was a subtle detail I included in my hair as a precaution whenever I planned on making any late-night endeavors.
Today was the first time I felt the need to wear it alone in my home.
My reflection threw me an assured smile through the mirror’s fog before I pulled on my black silk robe. It was my favorite lounging piece, as it had carefully embroidered thistles woven in purple thread along the shoulders, then down the sleeves and hems.
Sleep wasn’t at the top of my list of things to do, so I would rather spend quality time alone. Some leisurely nighttime activity.
I hummed an anonymous tune as I entered the living room.
This room had always been my favorite. There was a large stone fireplace with stories of old carved into the mantle.
The ominous figures shifted in the fire’s flickering light, making them squirm to life to tell their tale.
There was no need to turn the gas lamps on, as the fireplace gave a warm enough glow.
About thirty minutes remained before the radiance would be reduced to pale embers.
The mood would not have been whole without something for the other senses. I poured myself some more scotch from Mr. Aston’s collection.
I delicately placed the phonograph’s needle at the edge of whatever recording was already resting on the machine, and it started to play. It crackled to life before becoming a waltz. It was a lovely instrumental piece for a dark and rainy evening.
As the music settled through the house, I tipped my head back and sipped from my freshly poured glass, swaying to the string instruments. I made a small dramatic twirl as I crossed the foyer to the dining room.
I laughed to myself.
How childish, these simple pleasures.
I made off for the kitchen and eyed the bowl of fruit in the middle of the countertop.
Oranges. A rather generous pile at that. They were expensive, but worth every coin. There was just something about citrus fruits. It was probably the way they sometimes bit back at you that I loved the most. It was best to save them for later when the alcohol settled my mood.
Many more moments were collected and forgotten that night as I drank myself into a manic state.