Page 1 of The Cannibal

PROLOGUE

Alove as steadfast as arsenic, a pair as deadly as so.

Dreadfully, indisputably, made for each other.

1

THE POISONER

The only way to battle the redolence of a dead body is with the merciless spice of isotox in your lungs, burning away any other scent in the form of fresh-cut lilies.

First the breaths were shallow, then deeper, crackling as they filled with air, then deflated in defeat.

Light veiled over the dark, a glow of the outside. The sound of a soft wind came next, I could breathe as it did, mimicking life until my body believed it, then soon my mind came to consciousness.

A mobile horn bellowed so sharp it made my stagnant head dizzy. Too loud.

When my eyes opened, it was a softer light than expected. A blur of cream, some flashes bouncing from the window glass, refractions scattering as quick as they came, like fleeing sprites. Everything was beige or white, the lighting made it hard to tell.

Above me, a canopy, then posts of a bed. Fabric of the frame curtains thick, buttery, and double-faced. The light caught on some of the threads, a silky sheen in the color of buttercream.

The walls were blank, unused. No dresser, no other furnishings, not even a side table. Just a chair placed to my left.

No.

The moment I shot upright was the second I regretted it. Pain in my abdomen, my head too. Some great claw had grasped me and wouldn’t unlatch its talons. A wave of nausea turned me in case I had to expel, not that I felt I had anything to do so.

As my hand propped me on my side, a crisp crunching could be heard beneath it.

A brittle, long-browned rose under my palm. Not just there, everywhere. The bed was almost completely covered in bundles of rosemary, forget-me-nots, roses, helichrysum, and red carnations; a grand portrait of a garden in all stages of its cycle. The freshest addition, white lilies. All of which surrounded a silhouette of where I lay.

If my only company was decay, what did that make me?

There were better questions, but the perpetual fog had yet to lift from my mind. The room was disorienting.

It took a couple swallows to properly salivate, my lungs rattled with every gulp of breath, struggling to expand like a new wineskin.

The bunches of flora rustled to the ground as I moved my legs off the bed, slower this time so as not to invite another fit of my apparent migraine.

The windows were open, the tall panes nearly touching the ceiling, the drapes just as lush and long. The light hazed as the thin fabric beckoned, dancing from the inviting breeze.

My toes touched the floor, but they were just coming out of their numbness. Only a slight coolness on the skin.

I pushed myself up. The sheer nightdress hung off my shoulder, brushing against my legs as I approached the window. I collapsed in front of it, taking hold of the windowsill as my knees knocked against the parquet hardwood.

The breeze hit my face, forcing air into my lungs, which stopped my breathing as I tried to adjust. I brushed the hair from my face. It stuck to my skin in tendrils, the humidity making the air feel a bit cooler.

More windows in my view, another building across the street. The road below was teeming with people, carriages, mobiles. The sooty smell of smoke and gasoline stinging more than the lilies.

Am I back in London?

I looked to my left. No, not London.

At the end of the street, a vast green space. Trees and grass, a pond, people walking among little sheep grazing; you could barely tell them apart from so far away. Then, on the other side, more buildings. My window was nearly on the corner of the street. This is Manhattan.

I sat down on my knees, away from the edge of the window to take a proper look at the room behind me.

The ceilings were tall like a palace, expert molding along the walls and around fixtures. It almost didn’t need decor for it to look luxurious.