Page 32 of The Unraveling

We’re stock-still in wait, and I brace myself against Daisy and the chair as if expecting some chemical reaction to bubble up and foam past Dr. Watson’s lips. I grit my teeth in anticipation of that glass beaker dropping from his stiff fingers and shattering against the hardwood.

Is this how I appeared as Victor raged and clawed Bradley’s heart out? Did I look this empty? I felt as much . . .

“Julian . . .” Dr. Smith breathes, taking a single step forward before stopping.

A single, thin tear dashes down Dr. Watson’s cheek. His empty hand flies up to flick it away as he shudders out a breath.

“Well . . . This isn’t yellow fever,” Dr. Watson finally finishes. He gulps a breath and releases a low whimper before trying to cover it with a twisted laugh. “And unlike Lazear, I . . .” He stares down at the stained floor. “I think I may have proven my hypothesis . . . wrong.”

Victor sighs and shakes his head in dejection.

Dr. Watson’s hand wavers as he sets the beaker down and merely stands in place, staring off as he says, “I . . . I . . .” Tears well in his eyes and he rapidly blinks them away. “I’m sorry, Dr. Todd. I just . . .”

He stares unblinking at Victor for so long that I’m unsure if he can utter a clear explanation.

“Needed to be right,” I whisper for him, feeling the ache in his eyes burrowing in my chest.

Another tear slides down his cheek, and he nods. “What does it mean if vampires can get poisoned or sick? If you can spend a century happy as a doctor and just . . .” He motions toward Victor, lip trembling. “I already got sick once; I already died once. I can’t fathom it being able to happen again⁠—”

He inhales a guttural gasp, hand flying to his chest as if his heart tried to tear out of him.

“Can you explain what you’re feeling?” Victor asks evenly, pure physician in his tone.

Dr. Smith snatches the notebook and flips to a clean page, attention fully on scrutinizing Dr. Watson as he rushes to add observations to the page.

He stares at Victor like he’s seen a ghost. “I-I . . . It feels like all the energy has been siphoned from me.” He swallows. “Dread . . . yes. An exhaustion—wrongness—in my marrow.”

Solemnly, Victor nods. Daisy squeezes me tighter, and I wish she would tug me away and help me hide from this reality.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Watson cries, voice cracking. He dry-heaves, and I stiffen. “Dr. Todd, I’m sorry⁠—”

His shoulders jerk forward, a waterfall of crimson spilling past his lips and down his jaw as his eyes widen, irises flashing red. As the muscles flex in his throat and hands, he whimpers like they’re doing so painfully against his will.

I watch, frozen, as bloody tendrils drip and sizzle quietly upon the floor.

Dr. Smith’s brow furrows, and he furiously scrawls something down while muttering about how the body might be purging venom.

“Why would it do that?” I ask, voice shrill.

“I don’t—” Victor is interrupted by Dr. Watson’s flash of movement across the room.

He stops short within feet of the doorway and cries out as his leg buckles and reduces him to his hands and knees.

“My muscles,” he grits out, arms shaking to keep his chest off the floor. “It’s like my strength is strangling them. Spasming—” His voice pitches as he grips his chest, head snapping back as he groans through his descending fangs. “My fucking heart! What the fuck?”

“What’s it doing?” Victor asks.

“It keeps jolting,” Dr. Smith says. “How were yours immediately after?”

Victor wavers to his feet and wipes the back of his nose the same moment I spot scarlet glistening at the edge of his nostril. “I don’t remember this part . . .”

Julian cries out in panic or pain—perhaps there’s no real difference—and bellows, “Please! Please call someone!”

Dr. Smith’s hands are a blur as he yanks the phone from his pocket.

“Who?” Victor asks John in bewilderment.

“Anyone, I suppose.” Dr. Smith’s chest rises sharply as he dials and adds, “Everyone, until we hear something from someone. Surely, we’re not the first to encounter this⁠—”