Page 75 of The Cannibal

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!”