Page 84 of The Cannibal

“Hm?” He looked back at me mid-sip.

“Are we going to be all right?”

“There’s no saying for certain.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence.” I sat up slowly, my entire body sore from the venture. “You would tell me if we weren’t, wouldn’t you?”

“We have a strong case, the rest is out of our hands.” He shrugged. “It’s my hope that we are. That they will see that the absolving⁠—”

“Murder,” I corrected.

His eyes narrowed at me before he continued, “That ending my father’s Nest was not only just, but natural.”

“So what are your worries?”

“There has been no pushback from my father.”

I swallowed hard. I nearly forgot about the impromptu visit from Mr. Astor. Which only reminded me that this was not just a trial of survival, but one of deep family ties that must be painful to break. Even if Silas didn’t want to admit it, Phoebe certainly would.

“Do you think it’s because you’re his only son?”

“Because I know my father, I can only assume that fact would make him push harder for our execution.”

“You think he is indifferent to you?”

“One thing you must understand about my father is that he has no attachments to this world that are not wealth or his person,” he said bitterly. “He is so self-obsessed that he does not see me as his child; he never has. He sees me as himself, a thing that extends like an extra limb to do his bidding.”

“Will you finally tell me why you left your father’s Nest in the first place?” I touched his shoulder, my fingers dancing over to his chin to tip it back to me, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

“I want to.” His hand rested on my thigh, his thumb pacing back and forth over the skin in a self-soothing motion. “But I don’t think I’m ready to.”

“Then you can tell me when you are.” I rested my head on his shoulder, my hand on his chest as I held the coffee in my lap.

“My mother would have loved you,” he said quietly. “But it would have killed her anyway, seeing what he’s done.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to him. That’s all that could really be said. But even in the absence of words, the way he leaned into my touch, the slowed breathing when my fingers brushed through his hair, the way he leaned into every place my lips touched. . . . He was starved of intimacy, had ostracized himself on the assumption no one would cast a favorable eye on him, knowing what he is and who he comes from. The curse of the father passed down to the son with an iron hand.

It was my duty to not only pull the wool from the lie, but so long as he was my Creature, to ensure no one could pierce his heart like that again.

25

Blood didn’t serve as much of a lead as I thought it would. All aspects must be looked into, no matter how insignificant. It just ruled out one factor and confirmed another known fact—I was sick or starving, most likely both.

Very few things upset my stomach, all of which appeared to have no nutritional value to my new body. Cooked, fermented, or Vipera blood; the latter being dead poisoned blood in essence anyway, as is their nature.

Venom was next on my list, and highly anticipated.

I had two test tube racks, ten samples between Silas and Phoebe. Luka was nowhere to be found, so all I could do was try my own.

Silas and Phoebe both had rather concentrated venom, above-average potency indicated by the rich golden color and from personal experience.

My hypothesis wasn’t very elaborate; Silas and Phoebe have potent venom thanks to their pedigree. I would predict that mine was more potent than Luka’s, but landed in the average percentile. I wasn’t special. I was dysfunctional, and possibly not eating enough to even heal at an average rate, never mind produce my best venom.

I took a clean tube with the cheesecloth pulled tight over the opening. Just as I had practiced many times on my less-than-cooperative subjects. This time it was more exciting being that I was the subject. Exploration of the human body was already a lifetime of wonders, my mind electrified with possibilities of relearning a new one.

The voluntary function of the fangs was instinctual but with some range of control, similar to a bladder, I suppose.

My hunger had reached beyond the threshold of knowing what stomach pain was, and I was numb to the churns and grumbles by now. That being said, I couldn’t bring my fangs forward, not without stimulus.