Page 9 of The Unraveling

Dr. Smith . . . The name writhes around in my mind, trying to find meaning. I assess the dead man—too young to be a doctor of Dr. Smith’s status . . . though I can’t quite remember what that status is.

I’m forgetting something . . . Forgetting something about . . . something.

“The food . . .” I rise to my feet, the room spinning. How could I forget about buying food? “My love, you need to eat.”

The house is a smear around me as I feel my way back to the foyer. My boot connects with the bag, and I collapse against the hardwood. When the room straightens, I spy the wet trail from my boots; I sigh and kick them off before slipping my hand in the bag and securing a couple of sandwiches. I shift to my hands and knees and gingerly crawl back into the study, careful not to squish the food.

“Isla!” Victor bellows. The terror in his voice is a knife in my chest. “Isla, the bleeding won’t stop! Why won’t it heal?”

“You won’t heal if you don’t feed,” I choke out.

Victor twists sideways in his chair and collapses forward onto the floor. His gasping breaths jerk out of him as he struggles to roll over, until his limbs lock and he seizes on his side. My shrill shriek comes paired with racing adrenaline, and I scramble across the room.

“My love,” I cry as I collapse across him as if the weight of my body can subdue his convulsions. I sob against his shoulder until he stills beneath me, a groan squeezing from his lungs.

Pulling away, I wipe my eyes and set one sandwich aside as he blearily gazes up at me. Blood trails from the corner of his mouth. I swiftly wipe it away with the back of my hand like ridding it will erase whatever harm this hunger has done to him.

After unwrapping the sandwich, I hold it against his lips with one hand while cupping his cheek with the other. “Victor, you must eat. You need the strength to heal.”

Lips parting, he turns his face from the food and to my wrist. I slide my sleeve up and wait for him to bite into my flesh as he regularly does to feed, but his sharp fangs don’t appear and pierce my vein. Instead, his eyes focus on the food in my hand, and he flops onto his back, crying out, “It’s poisoned! It’s white from alum! I can’t eat it!”

“What?” I cry. “What are you talking about? My love, you must eat!”

“You can poison yourself willingly like the rest of the men responsible for such toxicity, Dr. Smith, but I refuse.”

I stare at the sandwich in my hand. Despite knowing I need it—knowing it’s not poison—I can’t imagine bringing it to my lips, either.

“Then what do we do?” I plead.

Blood leaks from the corner of his mouth as he chokes out each word through gritted teeth. “The antidote walks the streets late at night, Dr. Smith. I see it out the window. Men who fear not being coughed upon. Who brawl bloody during the darkest hours and walk away laughing—refusing to let me see their wounds. Who walk with no fear of each breath. They are immune. They must be.”

The specificity of his words cleaves through my confusion.

“Victor,” I sob, leaning my forehead against his. “You’re not in England. You’re not human anymore. You’ve already found vampires—already turned into one. Over a century ago.”

“What?” he breathes. “Then why is my heart beating? Why do I feel like I’ve been—” He scrambles beneath me, and I jerk away as he sits up. “Isla!” he wails, hot hands gripping my face. “Isla, we’ve been poisoned!”

As Victor pulls away and rises to his feet, I collapse into a sob on the floor. He yanks drawers open, scooping items onto the floor until he finds a thread and needle. Curious, I scrub tears from my eyes. He wavers and drops to his knees, eyes rocking in their sockets like they’re trying to focus. When they finally steady, he takes a few long moments to thread the needle. I drag myself closer and pinch his wound shut for him, not completely sure what more must be done. Blood gushes as his fingers slip along the curved needle with each push through his flesh. Though the stitches are uneven, they keep the flesh knit.

“Help me to my feet, please,” he whispers.

We take turns steadying one another until we’re both standing. He breaks away to continue rooting through drawers, sweat shining on his brow.

“Think of the possibilities, Dr. Smith,” he murmurs as he snatches gauze and medical tape. “Now that we’re immortal, we can finally make a difference. We have the antidote, the cure for mortality in our venom and blood. We can administer it to pure, deserving humans.”

A grateful smile shapes my lips at hearing how deserving I am again. Warmth blooms in my chest, and I want to tell Dr. Todd I’m falling in love with him so quickly, but I fear I’ll scare him away before I’ve secured my immortality. If he doesn’t return my feelings, I can’t imagine he’d want to risk being around a clingy patient for the rest of eternity.

“Dr. Todd?”

He gasps and turns to me. “Isla? When did you arrive? I didn’t hear you knocking.”

I stumble to the closest shelf and lean my heavy body against it, jars of specimens rattling. We stare at one another for a long moment before his words echo through my thoughts.

“Arrive? My love, I’ve lived here for thirty years. Since I completed my treatment. Well, I suppose I moved out of that hotel and into your bed during the second week.” I grin, my body hot with the memory.

Images flood me, the room fading with my thoughts. How I collapsed beside the front door one night when I arrived for treatment. How it opened the moment I began to fall like he knew I needed him—like he dropped whatever he was doing and rushed to me. Every emotion leaped from him, his lips on mine as soon as he brought me to my feet. Not a doctor desperate to help his patient, but a man fearing for the woman he loves.

Afterwards, he tortured himself with apologies, and my flirting only made his fumbling worse.