Page 24 of The Unraveling

Victor groans and leans against the sink. “Daisy, please let me out now.”

She rushes into the bathroom and snatches a clean rag from the drawer, soaking it with water. As she lifts it to the door frame, Dr. Smith tells her to stop.

“Try walking out,” Dr. Smith says simply. Both Julian and I stare at him in question.

Victor gives him a long glare. “What?”

“See what happens,” John adds.

With a sigh, Victor straightens and steps forward. He leans toward the open doorway like he’s going to rest against an invisible wall as he says, “We both know what’s going to happen⁠—”

My eyes widen as Victor falls straight through the doorway and crashes on the hardwood floor.

“I hate how much that hurt,” he grits out as he rolls onto his back. “Perhaps she didn’t apply the garlic thoroughly enough.”

As if Julian’s entire purpose is to stick it to Victor, he strolls down the hall with a deep garlic-averse cough, staring down at him while reaching toward the doorway.

The garlic threshold forcibly stops his hand from entering the bathroom. “No, it’s just you.”

Daisy helps Victor to his feet before his arm slips back through mine, and we head to the study. I keep my eyes pinned to the floor; Daisy’s white glossy flats step beside mine like she’s attempting to align herself with my energy since the hall is rippling with a mix of thick frustration and disdain.

I want to slip away with her while Victor and the other doctors find the cure for our condition. Curl up on her soft duvet in her room and watch films on the flatscreen while the men bicker about symptoms around test tubes and Victor’s microscope. Relax in her warm presence and soothing, friendly hugs until my love discovers a way to fix me again.

But I fear if I release Victor’s arm and retreat with Daisy—even for a few minutes—I might return to a worse horror, as if future moments of peace will have to be compensated with further suffering to even reality out.

Dr. Smith rakes his hand through his hair as he stands between the desk and the shelves lining the wall. “Let’s discard our assumptions and biases, and approach this ailment as we would with any other patient.”

“Of course,” Victor heaves out as he guides me to the leather chair facing his desk before dropping himself in his own across from me.

After digging out a notebook and pen from his bag, Dr. Smith hands it to Julian, saying, “You begin with the questions. I’ll contribute along the way. When we have compiled all the data we can, I’ll consult our colleagues, though I’m not sure how many will answer during the day.”

Victor’s jaw clenches and twitches, and I know he’s nervous about including outsiders. While Dr. Smith frequently involves himself with other doctors and scientists, Victor prefers to correspond with them less often, and only through Dr. Smith. We have enough of his fledglings and their growing clans to keep us company when we get thirsty or lonely. Though he won’t explicitly admit it, I know he fears judgment from his peers—or older vampires—for his feeding habits, too.

Dr. Watson scrutinizes the pen and notebook. “I have a perfect memory as an immortal now. I don’t need to take notes anymore.”

Giving Victor a pointed look, Dr. Smith asks, “Can you recite all you wrote about Bradley?”

Victor’s lips form a tight line, brows dropping as he draws in a deep breath and slowly releases it. “No . . . Not as of late, at least.”

Point made, Dr. Smith turns to Julian, who sighs and flips the notebook open to set pen to paper.

“Exactly when did the symptoms start?” Dr. Watson asks as he writes.

“Within moments of feeding from Bradley,” Victor states simply.

I nod in agreement, shivering with the memory of that hollowness.

“What was the first symptom after you fed from him?” Dr. Watson continues, lip quirked as he scribbles.

“I can’t quite recall.” Victor stares unblinkingly at the body across the room. “There was the sense that something was dreadfully wrong, and I was struck momentarily by the flavor. His blood tasted unlike any I’ve sampled before. It wasn’t foul in any sense of the word, just . . . unfamiliar. Unusual.”

“What does that mean?” Dr. Julian presses.

“Empty,” I whisper. “It tasted empty. Smelled that way, too.”

Julian spares me a glance but scowls at Victor. “You’re a physician. A scientist—supposedly. That’s the best description you can offer? Poetry? I’m trying to help you.”

“There are no scientific words to describe it,” I protest.