Page 8 of The Cannibal

Phoebe squeezed my hand tighter, nails digging into my skin. “The corrupted got her. A terrible illness swept the hospital. She was on shift,” her answer all too rehearsed. “That’s how you passed as well. You went to get her, remember?”

“Is that so?” I wasn’t sure my expression wouldn’t give me away. I was far too peeved to hide any inflection.

“We were lucky you came out in one piece. There was nothing left of her.” She patted the back of my hand.

There was only a nod, my voice would betray me. I am trusting her now, whatever reasons she had for hiding what truly happened. I hoped it was for their sake, that she was taking an interest in what was best for the girls. There wasn’t much of another explanation.

Against the sour pit in my stomach, I yielded, and we had our tea. Edith was not brought up again.

4

THE POISONER

Thankfully, the way Americans dress was more conservative than back at home. Phoebe had collected some of the latest for me, which meant I wouldn’t be too exposed.

It feels like a silly thing to worry about. But I felt the pull to protect my body, more so now than I did in the past. I’ve always been modest in my choice of fashion, but now I felt I must hide any and all vulnerability.

The only evening dress she left me was a bright green silk, the bustle not as dramatic, but it made up for it on the sleeves. While the sleeves were short, the black opera gloves covered the skin of my arms. The neckline cut straight across my clavicles, black lace trim tickling the pale skin.

I put my hair half up, the curls collecting down my back. My arms became weary just inserting half the pins. Poor circulation was only one of many new problems. Everything felt delicate, or perhaps it just all felt so new. Like stepping onshore for the first time in years.

I put emeralds in my ears, small enough to be bearable without being underdressed.

It’s almost like I was attending a reception. I could get away with less formal attire if Phoebe didn’t insist on doing this for me.

She said it was dinner and a gathering, to get me acquainted with the Nest. But I think this was a way of making sure they knew my face, that I wasn’t a threat. Though based on some of the stares, I think they knew very well who I was.

I stared through the mirror as if to summon some sort of confidence. It was impossible to ignore the weight I’d lost, all the muscle I’d worked so hard for back on the farm. My height didn’t make it any less jarring. I was pale, like a corpse, not a fashion plate illustration. I rubbed my abdomen, a tenderness still remaining. A bit of red around my eyes, from weariness or hunger, most likely both.

My stomach wailed, a natural dinner bell.

I was well versed in Vipera biology. Painfully so. But now it was no longer just them. Not their nature, but ours. In order to survive I must use this new body, new teeth, new instinct to harm for the sake of a meal. Could I even blame my disgust on my humanity when I was no longer so?

The hallways were lit, the entire building illuminated by gas lamps, thank goodness. Electrification was too bright, too revealing. Now that my state of panic had subsided, I could appreciate the home.

The floors reflected like mirrors with the amount of polish on the stone. The windows were tall, letting only the smallest amount of light into the hallway, even at nighttime.

While the hallway was barren, the streets were alive. I stepped to the half turret midway to the staircase. Lights ebbed and flowed through the street like sluggish arteries, just as many people outside now as there were earlier.

I left for the stairs, going to the middle floor before I began to hear the faintest chatter. It was warm, welcoming like the heat of a furnace. It reminded me of home, of the farm. Or when my father would host small gatherings. I would linger by the top of the stairs to listen, even if I didn’t understand a thing they were saying.

This hall was just as empty as the last, except light crept into it from the parlor, shining against the minerals in the marble flooring.

The closer I got, every step, every breath was heavier. It was inevitable, that itch to retreat. I stood by the wall, next to the open door, but too afraid to look in.

I had made great strides in oiling my social wheels, but this time felt different. I was exposed, I was uncomfortable—in all ways. I was a stranger in a body I no longer recognized, in a home I did not build, surrounded by people who knew me, but I could not say likewise.

One second of curiosity is all it took to peek, just a wink.

I was nearly blinded by the glamour, the shine. From the chandelier to the beading on some of the women’s dresses. I felt rather silly dressing as plainly as I did.

The shimmer wasn’t the only overstimulant. There was a sharp, pungent smell. It was like the way perfume oil could cause a quick pain to the nose or throat once it insisted on its presence.

A steady, sharp ringing in my ears. It was nauseating, overwhelming to the point I wanted to lunge. It could only be described as a whistling, worse than a tinnitus in my ear, but a sharp pulsing.

I rubbed my tongue over the sore flesh on the roof of my mouth. Long, bony pieces pressed flush. They twitched the longer I lingered in the strong scent. I nearly nicked myself. My fangs. My fangs. The ribbons of flesh on the roof of my mouth were slowly healing like a bad scorch from whence they sprouted.

Heat rose in my neck, my breathing audible in my own ears. I thought I may expel something if I had anything to do so with. I can’t do this. I have to go back.