6
THE POISONER
Itold her I was retiring for a midday nap. After what happened at the park, she didn’t argue much. But I’d had enough sleep, several months’ worth. What I needed was to be alone.
Visitors were sparse, but there was company at all times on the upper floors. A stray wanderer taking advantage of casual leisure. A hobby afforded by very few. I suppose that was me, as well, now.
I swiped an apple from a decorative bowl, though the first bite betrayed me.
A chalkiness dried my mouth. It was bland as raw corn straight from the husk.
I pushed it from my mouth with my tongue, plopping it in my hand.
Surely, I thought it may be a decorative apple.
Except this one was, aside from taste, normal by all means.
With spritely air under my feet, I descended the stairs and followed a maid with serving cart to the kitchen. Between the panels of the wall was a hidden door that took you down to the basement.
Commercial-grade refrigeration boxes, wide stoves, and state-of-the-art ovens looked rather cold and sterile compared to the decor of the latter floors. The stone of the floor heated evenly with the firing of the cookware.
The staff moved like soldiers. Stiff, composed, concise.
The sound of smacking metal and porcelain sang in preparation for the lunchtime service.
Two of them buzzed past me, carrying trays and pushing a cart; it nearly ran over my toes.
Pressed against the wall, I moseyed to the back.
Produce stacked on the table, waiting to be diced and slapped into some sort of salad or soup.
My fingers danced over the greens, then the fruits. One by one, adding them to a plate before retreating to a small table in the back. A worn wicker chair tucked against the wall.
I placed them down and studied them. These were real produce, not wax, of course. It is a silly thing to think, but the newly developed tastebuds made me seriously question what I was eating.
“A meal fit for a queen.” A sarcastic trill.
I turned my head. Next to me stood a small woman. Her fiery hair was tucked back into a neat twist under her cap. The uniform was consistent with that of the other maids. She stared down at the produce, shoulder to shoulder with me.
“I am experimenting,” I offered in explanation, but I didn’t think it mattered.
“The newly reborn enjoy lemons.” She plucked the fruit from the tray, rolling it under her palm on the table. The fruit gave slightly to the pressure, the skin remaining taut. She held it up to me, her arm nearly fully extended from the height difference.
I took it cautiously. “How did you know?”
“We don’t get many new additions. You’re all anyone will talk about,” she said. “Rolling it makes it juicier. Try with your fangs, it’s a nice relief of pressure. I’m sure they itch.”
I took the lemon, a slight squish between my fingers.
Taking the bite was more awkward than I thought. I opened my mouth but wasn’t completely used to the teeth. They stayed retracted, though I could feel the saliva building.
“I don’t think I can.”
“Have you ever seen a rabbit run?” she asked.
“Well, yes,” I admitted.
“Remember it, then. It helps you muster the reflex.”
“Why not just think of meat?”
“Because it isn’t the meal itself that triggers the instincts.” She pushed my hand back to my mouth, “It’s the prey drive.”
I spared her a critical look before closing my eyes.
Rabbit. Soft, rather cute. The last time I caught one, it thrashed. We have to pull the spine, make sure there is no suffering. There isn’t much of a fight to think about.
Quickly, something else . . .
The dream I used to have, the deer. The steam rising from the snow, the meat dark and red, the blood thickening in the cool air.
A twitching in my mouth, tickling the sinuses. My eyes began to burn again, the tingling returned. I kept my tears in, my mind focused.
Then the deer turning into a body, the bite of a breast, the tear of soft skin.
Scraping along my tongue, the fangs presented themselves. It was like a toothache, feeling them shift and spring forward. The roof of my mouth stung from the new movement, not quite healed from the new growth.
I opened my mouth quickly, a small stream of drool coming when I pressed my teeth into the skin of the lemon. I bit down so hard, my gums felt hot.
“Whoa there!” The maid tipped the fruit plate to bring it up to my chin.
I let go of the lemon, liquid dribbling down my neck.
“Apologies.” I swallowed, wiping the wetness from my chin.
The flavor was odd. It wasn’t quite as sour as it was supposed to be.
New tastes I’ve never imagined. Could it be I was receptive to more notes?
More chemicals? I swore I could smell something complex, different.
It was no longer just a sour singular note, it was plentiful and complex, like a perfume.
“Your gums must have been on fire,” she laughed, placing the plate down. “Look at all that venom.”
I stared down at the plate, a liquid mixed with a bit of spit and citrus juice. It was pooling on the plate.
I leaned down, studied it. That’s my venom.
“If you come back next week, we should be getting exotic fruit if you are curious about those flavors.” She laughed.
“What is your name?” I looked to her. She quieted down.
“Amelia.” She straightened, suddenly remembering her station. “I will leave you be if I have bothered you.”
“No, no.” I brushed it off. “Thank you for the offer.”
She gave a humble nod, a small smile of pride.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Not long. A few months.”
“Have you seen the owner of the house?”
Her shoulders tensed.
Secretive?
“The Sire? Yes.” She remained polite, possibly put off by my sudden questions.
“Sire?”
“The Sire is the title for the head of a Nest—”
“Yes, but whom?” I interrupted.
“Mr. Forbes.”
“Silas?” I needed to be extra clear.
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“What about Mr. Novikov?”
“He’s around most days.” She sighed.
“Will you bring me to them?”
She paused. Not a great sign. “They aren’t here at the moment.” Her tone settled, as if talking to a guest who was being all too curious. I couldn’t blame her. I imagine I’d do the same for my own Nest.
But I didn’t have the time for silly games.
My fingers snapped to her ear, like a naughty child. Her yelp made my heart flutter, then a small part of me felt a small rush. My nails pinched the tender flesh. I could feel the pulsing of the sensitive nerves, practically vibrating under the pad of my thumb.
I leaned down to her eye level. “Dear girl, I need you to answer my questions thoroughly and truly if you want to remain here. Whatever is happening, whatever is keeping you from divulging, I will handle it. But I need some answers before I eat my way through the walls of this house.” I had to remember to put on a smile. “Do you understand?”
Her eyes watered, gripping my hand on her ear. Her stare was so wide, she couldn’t utter words.
I tugged her closer, I could almost hear the blood rushing. “Tell me everything, and all will be well.”
Amelia’s shocked state didn’t allow for the most concise information, but I was able to confirm a few things.
Firstly, I am not in immediate danger. Not from this Nest. She said they were preparing for some sort of stately visit with others of their kind, which she helpfully explained was the reason for the reserved answers. She didn’t know any more than the rest about the visit.
Second, this is Silas’s Nest. The one from the photograph in his paperwork back in Buffalo. A weight lifted from me, not because of safety, but mostly because he was telling the truth.
Third, no one knows where the boys are, and apparently they haven’t told anyone what they’re up to. This could mean brilliance or disaster—there was no telling with them.
Where are you creatures and what are you up to?
I have a feeling Amelia and I will be seeing each other more often if no one has the decency to keep me informed. I fear I may need to literally chew some people out.
With a bowl of fruit in hand, I wandered my way back up to my room.
Lunch was served in the floors below, which made for an especially quiet promenade around the hallways.
I’d never looked closely at the decor. There was a painting, a blond woman and baby boy, antique.
There was no doubt it was Silas. The artist captured the same catlike grin, even when he was young.
His mother eerily similar, but without all the edge that made her son sharp.
Her hair was pinned back with flowers. Her outfit presented as noble, but not royal.
Silas was in some sort of children’s tunic, embroidered with similar motifs as his mother.
If I were to guess, seventeenth century.
My estimation was correct, he is younger than I’d thought.
I turned the corner to my chambers, humming softly as I rediscovered the new palate of mine.
The window truly made for romantic lighting.
The cream decor made the light come through all the warmer.
Luckily, the weather was mild enough to vent the stuffiness out the open window.
The outer noise was busier at midday, especially foot traffic.
Those who spent the early hours of the morning partying would be waking by now for breakfast, possibly high tea.
Things were different here, I knew it. But human patterns are all the same.
I stood in front of the window, chewing on a cranberry as I watched the people below.
Then, a flash of blond caught my eye.
My heart nearly sang. A wave of relief washed over my nerves when I turned.
It quickly dampened.
Seated in the corner chair by the door was someone else. Blond, yes. But not Silas. Though, he was the spitting image. Well, technically the reverse.
“Is this an appropriate time?” The flash of icy eyes through blond lashes, a genial smile breaking through with his words. “I apologize if I frightened you.”
“Mr. Aston— Astor—?”
He held his palm up, an amused shake of the head.
“Levi is perfectly fine.” He flipped a ring between his fingers like a coin, the gold flashing as the light hit it.
Then stopped abruptly, lingering before he snapped it up in his palm.
“How rude of me, I know there’s some explaining needed on my part. ”
He stood from the chair, fastening his jacket button as he collected himself.
A perfect, spotless facade. His youthful appearance couldn’t hide the gravity of his experience.
The air of something very old, unknowable, dangerous.
Shoulders that carry a mirage of burdens and eyes that have to put on a show to be believed.
He’s nearly identical to Silas, except for his affinity for white suits and Van Dyke–style facial hair.
I suppose the only way to appear more mature to the Vipera was styling and fashion.
He collected a cane that appeared to be crafted well before I was born.
The more I saw him now, the deeper my guilt for not realizing sooner.
He always had that paternal warmth to him, the comfort of familiarity, except now it was tainted. A reputation of something uncanny, like a deer with its eyes faced forward. Human in gesture alone, nothing more.
“Sweet Alina,” he said with open arms.
“Stay there.”
He placed his hands over his heart. “Oh my dear, what brings such cold salutations?”
“You had me kidnapped. You’re lucky to be in this room intact.” I did not take my eyes off him. I will not let him fool me, not when I’ve had a peek under the veil.
“Yet I am here. Since you haven’t screamed, I suppose, deep down, you’re hoping there is a logical explanation,” he suggested playfully.
“Is that why you let me borrow your spare home? Did you tell Phoebe to offer it when I came back after my father’s death?”
He gave a deep sigh, daring to close the distance. He took my hand, clasping it between his own. They were warm, gentle. He leaned against the windowsill next to me. A small inkling in the back of my brain wondered if he was the type to throw me out.
“This is all a very unfortunate misunderstanding. I promise you there was no ill will, no subliminal motive,” he assured me, his brows soft, eyes drifting to the outside. “Your father was a good man. I promised I would look after you.”
“You had Luka assigned to watch me.”
He clicked his tongue against his teeth.
I caught a small glimpse of his fangs. “He is a dog. He was supposed to only watch.” He sighed.
“I should have suspected you and the poisoner were one and the same. It only makes sense. It was clear you weren’t doing it on purpose.
I simply couldn’t get to London in time to call off the chase. ”
I pulled my hand from his grasp.
A small sneer at the movement, his hands frozen as if I didn’t move my hand at all. His eyes lifted to mine. “I think you learned your lesson about playing with poisons, didn’t you?”
My mind was frozen, my anger rising. But that’s just what he wants, isn’t it?
“Luka told you,” I stated.
“I’m the one who kept it out of the records,” he said firmly, straightening his shoulders, as if talking down to a daughter.
“Do you think yourself smarter than the coroners? I’m sure you had your suspicions when gumshoes didn’t come knocking on your door after your father passed?
I’m sure that’s why you were guilty enough to correct his time of death—”
“Enough.” I moved from the open window. I placed the bowl down by the bed, catching him moving in the reflection of the tall mirror.
“I did not come here to antagonize you.” He sounded defeated. “I just wanted you to know that I don’t always hire degenerates. I treat my kin with respect. It was simply the wrong place and the wrong time.”
“I don’t think anything could excuse my captivity.”
“Which is fair,” he conceded, “but I opened my home to you because I felt it was my duty to keep an eye on you. You know how it is, protecting your own . . .” He trailed off. “Protecting those in your Nest from outside harm.”
I glanced at him through the mirror, not dignifying the conversation by facing him. His eyes reflected, the light hit just right. Reminding me this was no man.
“You’re like a daughter to me.” He approached, then went for my hand again.
I turned swiftly, slapping his hand away. My back hit the mirror as he caught my wrist.
A tense smile as he produced the ring Silas gave me from his pocket, placing it steadily on my finger. He looked at it, studying how it fit on my hand. “Now, I suppose, you are a literal daughter to me.” A coy joke.
The minute he let go of my hand, I tucked it by my side, wiping it on my skirt.
“I suppose we will be seeing each other more often.” He stepped away, but just before turning to the door he chimed, “I am looking forward to our time together, little Alya.”
He left, but his words didn’t.
Just like that, I could be reduced to quiet tears with the ghost of my father’s voice, using the name he so fondly used to call me by. A weapon of affection. Of memories.