THE POISONER
Clouds wandered like sheep through the sky. The wind whistled through the buildings, zipping past my ear and pulling the hair from my face. I looked up through the wiring of the rose canopy, the leaves waving as the blooms bobbed back and forth.
The rooftop garden was nice, beautiful, even.
But my mind kept going back to the carnivorous flowers of the botanical gardens.
Maybe I could ask for some. Was I even allowed to make changes to the rooftop?
Even if Silas owned the building, I wasn’t under the impression I could make myself at home yet.
A grating, hammering sound split through the air again. I sat up from the chaise lounge.
“Shouldn’t be long before they finish,” John mumbled, as he flipped through a book. His huge hands made the book look so small, especially paired with the tiny half spectacles low on the bridge of his nose.
“What are they doing?” Each hammer on stone tickled my ear, not in the melodic way.
“They’re supposed to connect the new apartments to the Nest. They bought the alley between them too. It was supposed to be done last summer but permits were being approved at a snail’s pace.”
I got up and walked to the edge of the roof, peeking over the side.
There were men walking around, removing forms from foundation walls.
No one looked to be moving very fast, maybe only a couple actually working.
The alleyway was rather wide, I suppose it could park carriages on either side and still have room for two more to pass in between.
The dead end made it functionally useless outside of storage.
“Why does Silas need to connect an extension? Is this place not excessive as it is?” I spoke over the wind, hoping it would be understandable once it reached John.
“More housing for members who need it. The representatives will be staying in that wing for their visit, even if it isn’t connected. It’s a perfectly functional building. But connecting it is more convenient.” He didn’t look up from his book. I realized now it was a travel memoir about food.
It sounded wasteful to me, but I suppose it wasn’t my money or station to make any more comments.
I wandered back to the glass gazebo, sitting down on the lounge. Even when there was a breeze, the fragrance was quite strong between the different flowers. My stomach made a noise loud enough for both of us to hear.
“Are you hungry?” John didn’t waste a second closing his book.
“No, it’s fine.” I waved him off.
“I heard you were havin’ some trouble.” He rolled up his sleeve. “I’m no Host, so maybe you need something a little gentler on the stomach.”
“Are you saying you may be the equivalent of chicken broth?” I teased.
“I would hope I’m heartier than that, but if it helps, I’m fine with being chicken broth,” he laughed. He pulled out a rag from his back pocket, cupping it under his wrist. He moved next to me on the seat.
“If you have to let it back out, you can spit it into the rag,” he said, “just in case. Don’t want it getting on your dress.”
I stared down at his arm. It was tanned and lean, the veins weren’t hard to find with a workingman’s circulation.
With my hands under the cloth, I brought it closer. Mentally, it was difficult preparing an appetite strong enough to want to bite. It was awkward, especially when being watched.
The veins pulsed, strong and smooth. The blood within likely wouldn’t be so abrasive to my senses. I thought about the gardener. The way my impulses completely took over, how ready I was to eat and still—every drop was wasted.
The prickling in my eyes began. His tanned arm turned orange, the leaves around us looked like they were dyed from arsenic, even the roses in my peripheral were red as rubies as my own blood filled my eyes to aid my vision.
It was phenomenal, truly. To be able to witness this adaptation in myself was overwhelming, but fascinating all the same.
Suddenly an ache in my gums, my teeth hurt. The fangs folded against the roof of my mouth peeled forward. Every time they did so it became less painful. The roof was not nearly as raw as it had been when they’d sprouted from under the membrane tissue the first time.
Like being eased to sleep, I leaned forward and bit down on his forearm.
He flinched, and I panicked, biting harder. There was a sort of pressure release under my gums, like the clearing of sinuses or a waterlogged ear popping. As I did so, John relaxed, and my mouth filled with blood. I was hesitant to swallow, so it only collected. Count of three, just swallow . . .
The minute it went down, it came back up.
I coughed, some sputtering through my nose.
John held his arm and the cloth close to my face, the fabric turning red.
“I’m sorry,” I choked, my eyes watering from the discomfort. “I’m sorry!”
“Calm down, you’re all right,” he said, his arm shaking as it bled.
I took his arm, wiping my tongue over the punctures to clot it.
I tried to hand him the cloth but he waved me off, pulling out another from his other pocket.
He handed me the clean one, swiping it over my mouth and holding it there until my hands replaced his.
It took a moment for the coughing to stop, as if I tried to inhale it into my lungs instead.
My eyes wrenched shut as I pulled myself together.
John wrapped his arm, tying the cloth around before he reached out to rub my back, as if that would usher the rest of the fit out.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, muffled by the cloth.
“It was worth a try.” He shrugged it off, but no hopefulness in the world would convince me he didn’t look startled.
“I appreciate the thought.” I finished wiping the blood from my mouth and lips, paranoid some of it would be left on my chin.
The breeze chilled the sweat on my brow, reminding me of where I was.
I shifted my slippers over the outdoor carpet, a couple dry rose leaves crunching beneath.
The day dress was a deep burgundy, my shawl was black with tassels brushing against the fabric.
Slowly my mind, and stomach, were settled again.
I should be back in the lab. The longer I procrastinated, the guiltier I felt doing even the most normal of things.
“Johnny!” a joyful voice cut through the air. You could hear the woman’s body hit John’s when she hugged him.
“How was the travel?” John laughed.
Mary pulled her head up with a smile. “Long.”
“Mary?” I mumbled, looking toward the entrance to the roof.
Rebecca, Phoebe, Luka, even Cordelia in tow.
“What happened to your arm?” Mary’s face dropped as she grasped his makeshift bandage.
“It was itchy.” He leaned forward to push himself off the chair, but Mary’s eyes locked with mine. She offered a smile, but it was short-lived before she walked away with John.
The group huddled, and I realized they had only come to the roof for John.
It added insult to injury that they seemed happier greeting Luka. Since waking, it was like a new world, an alternate timeline where I wasn’t as important and the relationships I’d built weren’t as well fortified as I’d thought.
An emptiness spread in my chest, a numbness taking over.
This was mortifying.
Even Phoebe was too caught up in the excitement to see I was even there. They all buzzed around each other like bees and flowers, disappearing as they chattered back down the stairs.
My heel rasped against the ground, the silence overwhelming as the voices retreated.
Alone on the roof with my thoughts.
I could go inside, but I may hurt my own feelings attempting to socialize. There was no joy in socializing anyway, not for me.
Not even meditative breaths could settle me now.
Everyone was settled by the time I made it to the parlor. I skipped dinner, not that I would have been able to eat much.
Thunder rumbled from far off as the ceiling window turned dark and red from the incoming storm. It was the perfect night to light an absurd number of candles, cozy up with a hobby, and let the sounds of rain pattering lull you through the storm.
The room looked even warmer when only lit by candles. The shades of red calmed the eye and warmed whatever it could within only minutes of resting in its presence.
Everyone had already settled down, mostly near one of the fireplaces. They even pulled up extra armchairs and cushions, just like we used to do back in Buffalo during cold nights.
Yet I was in the opposite corner, shaded by the decorative palm.
The only other interaction I received aside from viewing the back of Rebecca’s head was maybe an apologetic nod in passing as they collected the extra seats around me.
I thought I had outgrown the feeling that everything was a personal slight in group settings, but now it was harder than ever to believe it could be anything else.
“A bit lonesome over here.” Phoebe slid next to me on the sofa, placing a cup of bloodwine in my hand.
“I prefer to call it comfortable, snug.”
“Not very social today?” She took a sip, her cheeks already flushed from previous refills.
“Just conversating with myself.” I patted the journal on my lap. “I had to outline some procedures for tomorrow’s test anyway.”
“Your pencil is still sharp, I bet that journal is empty.” She was drunkenly antagonistic, but still playful. “Why not let yourself enjoy some time away from things that stress you?”
“Hard to do when everything is the stressor.”
She clicked her tongue at me before sitting back, watching the room with me. “You can’t keep up the socially inept act forever.”
“Act?”
“You’re technically a Dam now, a real one. People look to you, even if you don’t think so.”
“Was it not real before?”
“Of course, but you know what I meant—”
“Phoebe, why do they hate me all the same, then?”
She tossed her head at me, her ringlets of strawberry hair nearly smacking me in the face when she did so. “Hate you?”
“You’re observant, don’t play coy.” I took a sip of the wine, smacking my lips at the tang.
“No one ever likes the people in charge.” She pointed to my chest. “You will be miserable trying to please everyone.”