Page 9 of The Cannibal

“Do you need a count? Perhaps a formal announcement?” a voice, a notable Irish brogue, asked over my shoulder.

I turned, a face I didn’t recognize.

It was a tall man, similar to me in height. I wasn’t sure if he was some sort of illusion.

His hair was black and touched his shoulders, half of it drawn back. His shirt was open, just at the top. A scene of sailor tattoos across the skin. He was wearing working clothes, worn suspenders, and shoes just as well-loved. His complexion competed with mine for the palest one in the room.

“Sidney Henderson.” He held his hand out.

I hesitated to take it, but landed on a firm and assertive shake. “Alina Lis.”

“You look unwell.”

“I died recently.”

“Ah,” he nodded slowly, “that’ll do it.”

“You don’t look like you belong here.”

“Why? Because I’m not wearing a dress?”

I raised my brow, the ridiculousness of his responses were pausing any further questions.

His shoulders relaxed, he tilted his head at me. “You seem peeved.”

“I am.”

“Is it me?”

“It’s everything,” I hissed, rubbing my face into my gloves, the silk cool against my skin.

“Still adjusting I see.” He leaned against the wall beside me.

“What is that smell?” I sniffled. “Is that you? A cologne?”

All I heard was a chuckle.

My head snapped in his direction.

He held up his hands as if at gunpoint.

“I’m going back,” I huffed, shoving past him.

Except he caught my arm, looping me right back and standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders.

“She spent months planning this, you know,” he said from behind me. “Just take a deep breath, eat a meal, then retreat. It’s only polite.”

I glanced at him over my shoulder. “Are you speaking of Phoebe?”

“Yes, she’s got a list to get through. All the things you’re supposed to do when you wake. If you woke.”

“If?”

“Just because you were a Host didn’t mean you would survive the turn.”

“I thought Hosts were built for turning.”

“They are built for turning just as much as a womb is built for birth. Death is still a frequent visitor.”