Page 2 of The Unraveling

Shifting to the sink, I grip the white porcelain rim to keep myself upright. I tense at the sight of myself in the mirror. I wear a mask of blood like the delirious man in the study. Bloody tears have dried in thin tendrils down my cheeks. Crimson is smeared beneath my nose, caked in the corners of my lips, and matted on the ends of my curls. My throat constricts as I grip the drying lengths of my hair, testing the crunchiness between my quivering fingers.

As my empty stomach clenches, my eyes flick to the toilet. I study the smeared handprints—two different sizes overlapping—around the wall and floor, on the lid and rim.

Yet despite my nausea, it makes no sense that either the man or I would be responsible for the mess when we can’t get sick.

I grab a cloth from the drawer and twist the hot tap to wet it. The scalding water has me dropping the rag and stumbling back against the wall, my heart ferocious—so wrong—against my ribs.

How can water be so hot? Scald me?

I inhale sharply as I grip my hand to suppress the pain, the metal of a ring stealing my attention. I stare down at the antique ring: a teardrop-shaped ruby with three white diamonds set against the curve above my knuckle. The weight is familiar. I know the man—my husband—had been in possession of it since the nineteenth century . . . I swear it was his deceased mother’s . . . or sister’s? A family heirloom is all I recall. Though, when did I first put it on?

With a hard swallow, I scrutinize the bathroom and spot the tap running and the rag in the sink. I don’t know how long it has been on, but since I’m the only one here, I must be responsible. I adjust the water’s temperature, recalling it burning me some seconds or minutes ago.

My breath catches at the tangled length of my hair. I lean over the sink and frantically rinse the blood from it. Stray strands detach from the chaotic mess and twist around my scarlet-dripping fingers. My breaths hasten as I set the loose strands on the stained counter to reassure myself of how few there are. Wobbling, I snatch the shampoo and conditioner from the shelf.

Though it’s been decades since I feared each strand falling out—suffered nightmares of waking with black clumps strewn across my pillow—I tremble as I gingerly comb shampoo through the strands. My breaths settle only when the plastic teeth stroke smoothly through the dry, unsullied upper half and down to the tips.

Damp curls hanging safely, I toss the fallen hairs in the blood-filled trash so I don’t glimpse them again. Then I grab the rag and scrub blood from my face—from my arms and hands that are much too warm.

Why am I so warm? I stare at myself in the mirror for a long moment as I listen to the wind whistling through the cracked bathroom window.

I must have a fever, which makes no sense.

“Isla!” a man calls from the study, voice sharp in the too-silent air.

As I wipe the blood from my lips, my response is automatic. “Yes, love?”

“Isla!”

My hand slows as I wipe the remaining blood from my cheeks and stare at myself in the mirror. There’s a dullness to my green eyes, the color‌ misplaced considering how I’m feeling. I feel unwell enough that surely they should be a demanding shade of crimson.

I don’t know how long I stand there, lost in unmoored thoughts, before a shiver rips through me and my teeth chatter. The drafty air clings tighter, and I clear my scratchy throat.

Once I fill my belly, I’ll feel much better.

“Isla!” a man calls from the study.

My brow furrows, and I shoot a glance down the hall.

“Dr. Todd?” I twist the taps off and fold the rag over the edge of the counter. There’s blood around the sink, but I disregard it. It just comes with the territory of living with a vampire. “Is something wrong?”

“Isla, love! Where are you?”

“I’m in the bathroom, Dr. Todd—” I jolt as I stare down the hall. “Victor.”

Victor.

Hell. When was the last time I referred to him as my doctor? At some point, when I was still his human patient thirty years ago, he started letting me call him Victor . . .

Confusion strangles me until the incoherent thoughts scatter on their own, allowing me to draw in a breath. Rotating, I stare at the claw-foot tub—much cleaner in contrast to the rest of the bathroom—and sift through my thoughts for the reason I came in here. But glancing down at myself, clean despite the blood-matted velvet of my black dress, I’m unsure.

Unsteadily, I move to the bedroom. My next breath comes easier at the sight of the familiar burgundy walls and antique furniture. Swaying rose bushes line the side of the house and frame the bottom half of the wide window. I stagger to the wardrobe that matches our four-poster bed and replace my bloodied clothes with a black maxi skirt and matching blouse with lace on the collar and across the chest. I tuck the blouse into the skirt’s high waist before adjusting the cuffs of the flowing sleeves around my wrists.

Heavy thumping against the floor—someone stumbling—has me instinctively scrambling from the room. I move slowly down the hall like I’m running in a dream, when I usually cross the space much faster.

I gasp at the sight of Victor sprawled on his back in the study, blood coating his skin like a sheen of sweat. It streams from his ears and nose. His mouth and eyes.

“What happened?” Panic cinches my throat. The room seems to tilt, dumping me on my knees at his side. As I brush blood-soaked strands from his eyes, our wide gazes lock. “Victor, what happened to you?”