THE POISONER #3
“So you’re fine if they decide to partner with, say, antagonistic Nests to gain more favor in trade or resources?” She raised a brow.
I wasn’t sure where this was coming from, but she was adamant.
“I’m sure we would establish treaties to support them before they would turn to others.” I thought carefully. “But they did not give the impression that they liked the aristocratic European Nests to begin with, given their American spirit.”
“And you’d bet lives on it?” She crossed her arms. “Do you trust them enough to think of us if the opportunity arose?”
“For them to trust us, we have to trust them.”
“How do you know they’re not already tainted?” Rebecca laughed. “For someone who was so paranoid about safety, you sure don’t think about anyone’s but your own.”
“Rebecca,” Phoebe hissed.
“What do you expect me to do?” I gestured for Phoebe to back down.
“I don’t know if this is events of the past resurfacing, but realistically, what would you have me do?
Shall I offer the blood from my veins or the flesh of my body again to appease every coveting eye of our Nest?
” Now I laughed. “I cannot guarantee people live or die by my rules, but we can all adjust and take things as steadily as possible. The last thing we need in this very delicate balance is to anger what few allies we have by accusing them of things they may or may not do in the future.”
Rebecca was silent, but the look of disdain on her face as she looked at me . . .
This wasn’t about politics, it was about Adeline. It was about Edith. It was about me.
“Will you run away when things get tough? Just like Buffalo?” Rebecca wasn’t going to let it go.
“If coming here was abandonment on my part, what does that say about you? You’re here, with me, enjoying luxuries that only exist because of the work I had done,” I argued. “At least Mary felt some sort of duty to stay.”
“I cannot return because of the atrocities that happened on your watch.” Rebecca poked a finger into my chest.
“So whose watch was it when Edith had a knife to Phoebe’s—”
There was a heavy knock at the door followed by a chorus of chimes from the doorbell. It was merely background noise to begin with, then it was louder.
I looked to Phoebe, and she was taking a head count to see if we were missing someone. All seemed accounted for, which led me to look to Silas and Luka.
Silas was whispering harshly to him, holding his head low as if to hide his words from curious eyes. Luka’s brows knit together, his unblinking stare at the door as he imagined who could possibly be behind it at this day and hour.
The longer someone waited to answer the door, the quieter the room got. Soon it was not just an ignorable knock, but then the bell chimed too.
There was no staff tonight.
Not even a maid after dinner was set.
Silas looked over at us, but his eyes were on Phoebe.
Even the redheaded sprite was becoming irate with the lack of a response. She took two hesitant steps, then they became more assured with every click of the heel as she approached the door. Everyone watched her, I could barely hear even a breath.
She stood on her toes, looking through the viewfinder of the door.
As she did so, you could sense the heaviness of her breathing. The involuntary bite of the lip before she looked back at Silas.
The minute she looked at him, he knew.
Phoebe grasped the doorknob, twisting slowly before the sounds of the street mingled with the music scratching on the phonograph.
Then the tap of a new pair of shoes to enter the household.
The devil in white.
“Apologies, I assumed dinner was much later,” Levi Astor laughed, pressing his palm to his forehead forgetfully, “or my children changed the time on me.”
Luka was as pale as a sheet, Silas was colder than I’d ever seen him. It was like all muscles and emotions had been turned off with the opening of that door. A wall was built, fortified, and ready for this interaction.
Levi stepped into the room, the tap of his shoes echoing along with the gentle chime of the playing phonograph.
He stopped in front of Silas. From the side, they looked nearly the same. Levi’s cheeks were hollowed more, the smile lines more prominent with age. The facial hair was the defining difference, along with the white and tan suit.
He placed his hand on Silas’s shoulder, a proud smile on his face as he squeezed. The many rings on his fingers glistened, a collection bought from blood.
“It’s good to see you, my boy.” He leaned in. “It’s been overdue.”
Silas’s jaw was so tight I could see the muscles twist. He patted his old man on the shoulder and moved his own away from his grip. “You’re early.”
“Phoebe invited me.” Mr. Astor pointed directly to the pink sprite so nobody could make any misinterpretation.
“I did not—” she said quickly, but not before Silas’s eyes darkened.
Mr. Astor turned to Luka, a toothy grin showing off gold caps on his fangs. “In all the years I’ve known you, I’m honored to see you grow into the man you are,” he said cheerily, but Luka’s mind had since left the building. A small bit of blood trickled from his injured eye.
“Oh! Clean yourself up.” Mr. Astor tossed him his handkerchief before fully making it through the archway for the food. He clasped his hands together in such delight. “Look at you all,” he sighed, then spoke over his shoulder to Silas, “You really have something so quaint here.”
Levi moved along before he spotted me.
I looked to Silas; he shook his head ever so slightly at me.
Levi scooped up my hand. If I wasn’t wearing gloves, the kiss on my knuckle would have made me physically recoil.
“My dear, you look even better than the last time I saw you,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. I could only hope Silas assumed he was referring to long ago, when my father was still alive. But I knew he meant upon waking.
“I appreciate the compliment.” I watched him tensely.
Every movement from him felt like waiting for a strike.
No matter the genial appearance, there was always something lurking.
The fact he hadn’t attempted to kill any of us was suspect, but the way he seemed all too happy to be here was making my ears ring.
“Don’t let my interruption disrupt anything!” he said, speaking even louder. “You’ve built such a beautiful home.”
Some seemed to continue their conversations tentatively before the initial tenseness melted into the night.
“I’m excited to get to know you all this next week. How do you feel?” He spoke only to me, the candlelight reflecting off the back of his eyes. His pupils were wide, a mania behind the jovial disposition.
“I am well,” I said slowly, clearing my throat before reluctantly practicing my manners. “And yourself?”
“Oh, it’s all the same. Seasick on the way over,” he sighed, looking up at the room. “I’m glad he put my money to good use.”
“The architecture is quite beautiful.”
“Are you comfortable here?”
“I would say so.” I looked where he did. He was eyeing a painting, a blond woman holding a child, an odd composition. There was a bit of space behind the female figure. Then my stomach dropped. It was supposed to be a family portrait. Traditionally, the paternal figure was in the empty space.
Without moving my head, I eyed him.
The smiling facade nearly cracked, his eyes a bit intense. I believed he forgot where he was steering the conversation.
“We are going to have much fun together, little Alya.” His eyes slowly turned to me, then his head followed.
The sound of such a childish diminutive was squeezing my chest. It was like he wanted to pervert what was once my father’s warmest words.
There were very few moments between my father and I that weren’t cold.
Every interaction was either trying to prepare me for a man’s world, yet they still failed the task.
The only thing I had was the way he said my name.
“More than you know,” I smiled politely, but I did not shy away from letting the polite semblance disappear before his eyes. There was no point in pretending. He knew it, I knew it. “Drink carefully in this house.” I finished the absinthe and placed the empty glass in his hand.
My heart was racing, ready to claw its way up my throat and onto the floor if it could not escape the positions I put myself in.
And the night continued without further interruption, a room’s length kept between myself and our guest.