THE POISONER
My knuckles rasped at the door, but no answer.
I pressed my ear to it, a small bowl tucked close in my arms. Even though there was no noise, I pushed the door open anyway. When I peeked in, Luka was leaning back in the office chair, eyes closed.
I stepped into the office. The desk was full of knickknacks and newspapers, one of which read in bold:
RIPPER ON THE LOOSE.
Groundskeeper found dead at the botanical gardens.
I grimaced at the paper, then moved on to the rest of the items. A phonograph in the corner but no cylinder. The dust collected around the horn and needle, diffusing the glow as the sun hit it.
On the desk was a familiar portrait. Several, actually.
One was easy to place. It was the one Luka drew of me back in London, before I knew who he truly was. Phoebe must have given it to Silas when she moved all our things. The second one was new, a sleeping face surrounded by funeral flowers.
Even if the office was paid for and decorated by Silas, there was no proof he spent any time in here.
I sat on the corner of the desk, reaching for the collection of telegrams organized in small piles by date.
Luka grabbed my wrist without moving from his alleged sleeping position.
“I knew you weren’t the type to sleep on the job,” I muttered.
He opened one eye, his good one, then closed it again before releasing my wrist. “You’re lucky I could smell the cyanide before you even left the hallway.”
“I brought you something.” I smiled, crossing one leg over the other as I slid the bowl over to him. “I heard you were having some headaches.”
He simply grunted.
“I thought you’d appreciate some temporary relief,” I said.
“If you are suggesting temporary brain damage . . .” His brows furrowed, eyes opening blankly. “Actually, that sounds nice.” He sat up, staring at the treat. A bowl of cherries, injected with cyanide. There wasn’t much of a flavor to hide, but they served as decent vessels.
“Keep it in moderation,” I warned. “There’s only a little in each. But your metabolism should handle it just fine. We don’t need you chronically exposed. Do you think that would affect your regenerative abilities?”
“Tell me what you really want before it kicks in.” He plucked one, chewing around the pit before tucking it in his cheek. “You’ll have to wait at least a few hours if not.”
“I want to talk about Silas.”
“Talk to him yourself.” He ate another.
“He’s not right.”
“Did you figure that out on your own, Dorogaya?” He laughed. “To be fair, I don’t think he ever was well, even before you.”
“Do you know something I don’t?” I clasped my hands over my knee impatiently.
“Many-a-things,” he replied sarcastically, then checked his watch. “Better get specific soon.”
“He’s neurotic.”
“Look,” he paused his snacking to prop his elbow on the desk, chin in his hand, “if you want to go study your husband, then go do it. You have an entire lab to do so.”
I took a deep breath, my mind racing with questions. But there was one I knew Silas wouldn’t answer honestly.
“What happened after?” I asked. “After everything went black, after Edith hit the ground with me?”
Luka straightened his posture, leaning back against the chair. If the headache didn’t daze him, my question surely did.
“Her death was instant.” He tipped his head to the side, his eyes glossing over.
“Silas didn’t know what he was looking at, at first. For all his faults—impulsive, vulgar, spoiled—there’s something beating in there.
A heart, yes. But I suspect there is a reason for his desperation.
We couldn’t move him for hours. We thought you were gone, but he knew you weren’t. ”
I swallowed thickly as Luka spoke. It seemed even recounting troubled him just as much as it did me.
“It took him hours to tell us. We couldn’t make him move.
When we tried to take you away, I swore he was ready to bite our hands whenever we neared.
” Luka closed his eyes again, nodding slowly.
“We couldn’t tell if he was in denial or not.
But he insisted you were turning. Neither of us was aware that he envenomated you in the hours leading up to the incident until he began to spiral about his oversight.
” He opened his eyes to look at me, so much pity for such gentle brown eyes.
“Make no mistake. He would have killed himself if you did not wake up. But since then, the only thing keeping him alive was the idea that someday you would wake.”
“Did you think I would wake?”
“With your luck? I had a feeling it may not be your time, but you certainly took your time,” he said, making a light attempt at a joke. “Something is different about you, Dorogaya.”
“The best things are heavy on the heart.” I smiled.
“No, we aren’t doing that. Go.” He pushed me off the desk, as if to flee any such softness before I noticed. “Find something else to do.”
“Enjoy the cherries.” I waved dismissively before heading toward the door. But something made me pause. I looked back at the Fixer, his eyes lowered on the plate. The small upturn of his lip as he ate another. The same far-off look I saw on him during Christmas.
Oh, how it warms the heart to see evil men melt.
“Just a bit more,” I said, watching the apparatus fill to the etched line.
Phoebe nodded, a faint whimper as she stared straight up to the ceiling.
“For someone who has to draw blood to eat, you sure are squeamish.” I put pressure on the needle with a cloth as I drew it out of the crook of her arm.
“It’s different.” Her hand replaced mine on her arm and she finally looked down.
I had some ideas for tests. The best initial observation study would be to compare to other Vipera. Today, I would collect blood from myself and whoever else would volunteer.
“What happened there?” I pointed my chin at her hand as I replaced the needle and tube for the next subject’s blood draw. Four pink dots over pale skin, a bit red around the edges.
Phoebe covered her hand and rubbed it. “Kitchen accident.”
She was never a good liar.
“If you say so.” I shrugged, discarding the used needle in a separate wastebin. The lab was well designed, making use of the space but also thinking about waste. When I saw the different marked waste containers, I knew Luka had to have helped Silas with the finer details.
Speaking of . . .
“Where’s Luka?” I gathered the next set of tools and prepared to empty the apparatus into vials. “I thought he was coming with you.”
“Busy, I suppose,” she sighed. “I can see if anyone in the parlor is willing.”
“No, I only need a few,” I said. “I’ll start with more preparation.”
“I’ll get them anyway,” she said. “I’ll bring more cloths on the way back.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled, stacking my tubes in the holders and preparing the microscope.
I tied a smock around my waist and at the neck to protect my clothes.
The faster I found a solution to my disorder, the sooner everyone could stop treating me like I was fragile.
They weren’t wrong to do so. In fact, I acknowledge that I should be resting.
Any overexertion will throw me into a hungry state with no way to battle the craving.
At the same time, if anyone is going to figure it out, it was me.
Phoebe left the laboratory door open.
Wide enough to lure prying eyes.
Vipera senses were hard to get used to. One moment you are smelling coffee down the hall, the next you can smell that there is some overcurious critter waiting just outside.
I could hear not just blood and heartbeats, but even lungs expanding and contracting.
I couldn’t decipher who it was, but I truly did not need to guess.
“Silas,” I said out loud without taking my eyes off the tubes. I heated the wax pencil over a lit candle, allowing my writing to glide over the glass.
He turned the corner, his shoulder leaning against the door.
There was no beating the feeling he was still angry with me. There was a scent to it, I realized. It smelled the same as intense activity. Happiness smelled sickly sweet. Arousal had a dirty spice that mixed both the former and latter.
I took an empty tube, meeting his eyes as he stared. They were lowered, just a sliver of those silver-blue irises following me.
We kept contact as I hovered the wax pencil above the flame again, turning it slowly before putting it back to work on the glass.
Creature #1, I wrote, then held it up. I twisted the vial so he could see. All I had to do was cock my head. An invitation.
Languidly, he pushed himself off the door with his shoulder and circled to the back of the room. He took mental inventory of the instruments I’d pulled out, even the glassware.
I stood at the very end of the table at the back of the room, watching him take his time.
Soon he stood behind me, but I paid him no mind as I prepped.
My first thought was he was continuing to look at the cabinetry. But this was a familiar game. To pretend not to care, to act like I was the least interesting thing in the room despite the stolen glances and the breath on the back of my neck.
His palms pressed into the back of my thighs, dragging upward and lifting my skirt with them.
I ignored him.
He paused when I didn’t react, then pitched his shoe between my ankles, kicking my feet apart.
My breath hitched when I stumbled, my hips pressed firmly against the edge of the counter.
I rose onto the tips of my toes, back arched against his chest.
The air tickled my bare skin. He pulled the layers up enough to expose the combinations. His hand was cold brushing up against the skin, but the heat of his body pressing against mine made up for it.
His breath fanned across the back of my neck, lips brushing against my nape.
I pushed back a little, reaching behind me to bring one of his arms forward, extending it and tucking it under my arm as I tied a tourniquet around the forearm.
He didn’t argue, as long as he kept his other hand firmly balled in my skirts.