THE POISONER
Thankfully, the way Americans dress was more conservative than back at home. Phoebe had collected some of the latest for me, which meant I wouldn’t be too exposed.
It feels like a silly thing to worry about. But I felt the pull to protect my body, more so now than I did in the past. I’ve always been modest in my choice of fashion, but now I felt I must hide any and all vulnerability.
The only evening dress she left me was a bright green silk, the bustle not as dramatic, but it made up for it on the sleeves. While the sleeves were short, the black opera gloves covered the skin of my arms. The neckline cut straight across my clavicles, black lace trim tickling the pale skin.
I put my hair half up, the curls collecting down my back. My arms became weary just inserting half the pins. Poor circulation was only one of many new problems. Everything felt delicate, or perhaps it just all felt so new. Like stepping onshore for the first time in years.
I put emeralds in my ears, small enough to be bearable without being underdressed.
It’s almost like I was attending a reception. I could get away with less formal attire if Phoebe didn’t insist on doing this for me.
She said it was dinner and a gathering, to get me acquainted with the Nest. But I think this was a way of making sure they knew my face, that I wasn’t a threat. Though based on some of the stares, I think they knew very well who I was.
I stared through the mirror as if to summon some sort of confidence.
It was impossible to ignore the weight I’d lost, all the muscle I’d worked so hard for back on the farm.
My height didn’t make it any less jarring.
I was pale, like a corpse, not a fashion plate illustration.
I rubbed my abdomen, a tenderness still remaining.
A bit of red around my eyes, from weariness or hunger, most likely both.
My stomach wailed, a natural dinner bell.
I was well versed in Vipera biology. Painfully so. But now it was no longer just them. Not their nature, but ours. In order to survive I must use this new body, new teeth, new instinct to harm for the sake of a meal. Could I even blame my disgust on my humanity when I was no longer so?
The hallways were lit, the entire building illuminated by gas lamps, thank goodness. Electrification was too bright, too revealing. Now that my state of panic had subsided, I could appreciate the home.
The floors reflected like mirrors with the amount of polish on the stone. The windows were tall, letting only the smallest amount of light into the hallway, even at nighttime.
While the hallway was barren, the streets were alive. I stepped to the half turret midway to the staircase. Lights ebbed and flowed through the street like sluggish arteries, just as many people outside now as there were earlier.
I left for the stairs, going to the middle floor before I began to hear the faintest chatter.
It was warm, welcoming like the heat of a furnace.
It reminded me of home, of the farm. Or when my father would host small gatherings.
I would linger by the top of the stairs to listen, even if I didn’t understand a thing they were saying.
This hall was just as empty as the last, except light crept into it from the parlor, shining against the minerals in the marble flooring.
The closer I got, every step, every breath was heavier. It was inevitable, that itch to retreat. I stood by the wall, next to the open door, but too afraid to look in.
I had made great strides in oiling my social wheels, but this time felt different. I was exposed, I was uncomfortable—in all ways. I was a stranger in a body I no longer recognized, in a home I did not build, surrounded by people who knew me, but I could not say likewise.
One second of curiosity is all it took to peek, just a wink.
I was nearly blinded by the glamour, the shine. From the chandelier to the beading on some of the women’s dresses. I felt rather silly dressing as plainly as I did.
The shimmer wasn’t the only overstimulant. There was a sharp, pungent smell. It was like the way perfume oil could cause a quick pain to the nose or throat once it insisted on its presence.
A steady, sharp ringing in my ears. It was nauseating, overwhelming to the point I wanted to lunge. It could only be described as a whistling, worse than a tinnitus in my ear, but a sharp pulsing.
I rubbed my tongue over the sore flesh on the roof of my mouth.
Long, bony pieces pressed flush. They twitched the longer I lingered in the strong scent.
I nearly nicked myself. My fangs. My fangs.
The ribbons of flesh on the roof of my mouth were slowly healing like a bad scorch from whence they sprouted.
Heat rose in my neck, my breathing audible in my own ears. I thought I may expel something if I had anything to do so with. I can’t do this. I have to go back.
“Do you need a count? Perhaps a formal announcement?” a voice, a notable Irish brogue, asked over my shoulder.
I turned, a face I didn’t recognize.
It was a tall man, similar to me in height. I wasn’t sure if he was some sort of illusion.
His hair was black and touched his shoulders, half of it drawn back. His shirt was open, just at the top. A scene of sailor tattoos across the skin. He was wearing working clothes, worn suspenders, and shoes just as well-loved. His complexion competed with mine for the palest one in the room.
“Sidney Henderson.” He held his hand out.
I hesitated to take it, but landed on a firm and assertive shake. “Alina Lis.”
“You look unwell.”
“I died recently.”
“Ah,” he nodded slowly, “that’ll do it.”
“You don’t look like you belong here.”
“Why? Because I’m not wearing a dress?”
I raised my brow, the ridiculousness of his responses were pausing any further questions.
His shoulders relaxed, he tilted his head at me. “You seem peeved.”
“I am.”
“Is it me?”
“It’s everything,” I hissed, rubbing my face into my gloves, the silk cool against my skin.
“Still adjusting I see.” He leaned against the wall beside me.
“What is that smell?” I sniffled. “Is that you? A cologne?”
All I heard was a chuckle.
My head snapped in his direction.
He held up his hands as if at gunpoint.
“I’m going back,” I huffed, shoving past him.
Except he caught my arm, looping me right back and standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders.
“She spent months planning this, you know,” he said from behind me. “Just take a deep breath, eat a meal, then retreat. It’s only polite.”
I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Are you speaking of Phoebe?”
“Yes, she’s got a list to get through. All the things you’re supposed to do when you wake. If you woke.”
“If?”
“Just because you were a Host didn’t mean you would survive the turn.”
“I thought Hosts were built for turning.”
“They are built for turning just as much as a womb is built for birth. Death is still a frequent visitor.”
“Is that why I woke up to funeral flowers?”
“Well, technically, it was our tradition first.” He laughed. “The smell helps wake you up. It’s supposed to guide you to consciousness. But the plain folk saw it and liked it.”
The talk of scents was making my nose burn.
“What’s the smell? It’s making my ears ring.” I shifted, his hands pushing down on my shoulders. It felt nice, a small release.
“Why do you think we call them Mellifluous Hosts?” He hummed. “The blood practically sings.”
I stopped to listen, focusing on the ringing.
It faded and intensified depending on the waves it came on.
The more I listened, the more I understood.
It was like the complex tastes of caviar or a cigar, blood with notes and bases, but a sickly sweetness on top.
It didn’t make it any less overwhelming, but it helped to conceptualize it.
He removed his hands from my shoulders and stood by my side, holding his arm out. “Would you like an escort in?”
I stared at his arm, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, tattoos of sparrows and flowers winking at me from the bare skin. So unorthodox, I had to admire his expression.
“You know, I think I would.” I hooked my arm in his and allowed him to escort me into the light of the dazzling room.
The parlor had been rearranged to accommodate a large dining table, silver-covered trays waiting to reveal the night’s meal. I smelled meat, just like I remembered it. The scent of char and smoked items. I wasn’t sure of anything else. The only other scent was the blood.
I looked around. I didn’t see anyone exposed or bleeding. Then my sight was drawn to the cups.
Immediately, I felt a jolt, like a horse refusing a jump. I needed to leave.
“Alina!” The chime of my spritely friend grabbing my other arm.
She was in her signature shade, matching her cheeks and almost making her hair pink in hue under the lighting. “I see you’ve met Sid.”
“Against my will.” I smirked.
He released my arm and nodded to Phoebe before slinking over to the table.
Something cold pressed into my hand. I glanced down to see one of those crystal flutes filled with red.
“What is this?” My eyes lifted to hers, then looked around us. “All of this?”
“A celebration. You do remember how to celebrate, don’t you?” She took a flirty sip from her cup, the blood thick on her lips.
“I remember dying.”
She froze, reluctant to let go of the faint smile. Those green eyes slid back over to me, so cold I thought for a moment that she looked like her brother.
“And now you are reborn anew.” She leaned close to my ear, her breathy words tinged with a metallic tang. “Dying is the easy part. Find your footing before the others see you fumble.”
A shock raced through my spine. I kept my sights ahead.
Despite the callous demeanor, I knew her words to be true.
Sideways glances were common. Expected, even, knowing my past. But now was about more than just survival, it was about adaptation.
I stared down at the cup, the deep crimson painting a bloody reflection of my dear friend, her fangs itching as much as her sneer by my ear as she pulled away, and I was left with the new creature ridiculing me back.
My fingers were freezing, an unshakable shiver in my abdomen. The chill even veiled my face in numbness. There was something deeply wrong, Vipera aside. Whether it was an adjustment to my new reality or the feeling of a long-vacant stomach, I did not know.
Most of these faces were new to me. It was like reading in another language; I could see them, but was unable to translate whether I was in the company of friends or foes.
That was until I spotted Rebecca. She was dressed nicely, even with jewelry.
I almost didn’t recognize her without her hunting attire.
She caught my eye, and all softness faded into the hard expression I was familiar with.
Her facade quickly returned when speaking to someone else.
The company didn’t look like those in the London Nest. It seemed to be working-class folk in clean, formal attire, a variation of people that could never be curated by the type of people I knew the Vipera elite to be.
For the first time, the presence of Phoebe and other friends didn’t entirely absolve my reservation that we had targets painted neatly on our backs.
Phoebe reappeared with a chiming glass, a smile as bright as the pearls she wore.
The room gathered at the table, preparing to take seats with their respective name cards.
One by one, I glanced at the names on the length of the table, my gut sinking the closer I got to the opposite end. Then there it was.
I stood at the head of the table, Phoebe being my opposite.
People began to sit, but I didn’t.
I thumbed over the design of the cup, waiting.
“We are all gathered here, not just for a generous meal but to celebrate a life.” She beamed, her eyes snapped to me, raising her glass. “I am honored to present my oldest, dearest love to the Nest. May the lifeblood embrace you, Alina.”
All raised their glasses, then drank.
I raised the cup to my lips but did not let it touch me. The scent lingered, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Phoebe stared as she drank, eyes sharp from over the rim of the cup. Such intensity could be seen even at our distance.
I simply tipped the cup, then abandoned it at the table while service began.