Page 74 of The Cannibal

He reached inside the back of his pants, pulling out a flask. As he flicked the wheel cap loose, he waved it in front of my face, just under my nose.

The metallic scent burned my sinuses, and I closed my eyes.

“No, I don’t feed live anymore.” Even his answer seemed out of disdain.

“Anymore?” I scoffed. I didn’t want to be mad, I barely understood the feelings myself. Of course he needs to eat. I just never would have expected that I would no longer be the source.

“Three years,” he said.

My eyes snapped to him.

He closed his flask, the scent evaporating as he tucked it back into his pocket. “It’s been three years since I last had a live body apart from yours.” A new tone—shame.

“Why?” My question was more curious than anything else. “Preference?”

“Luka calls it . . . some sort of soul disturbance.”

“Neurasthenia?” I craned my neck forward to meet his gaze, now that he was making less and less eye contact. “You also suffer from disordered eating?”

He looked a bit put off by what sounded like excitement in my voice, then his eyes narrowed when he realized what I had said. “Also?”

My throat was so dry at this point, I thought the gulp would be audible before the words tumbled from my mouth. “I just . . .”

“You what?” His eyes were wide, grim.

The forcefulness of his words and posture made my head hit the door behind me. “I’m having trouble eating⁠—”

“Alina,” he scolded, “are you saying that you haven’t kept anything down since waking?”

“No! No, I had bloodwine. Yes, the bloodwine and . . . Oh! And the candy⁠—”

“Candy?” I didn’t think his eyes could get any wider. He grasped his forehead, looking up past me in panic. Then laughed, “Right! Candy, of course— What do you mean!” His eyes turned back down to me.

I could only lift my shoulders. “I ate cooked blood at dinner the other night.”

He blinked, stunned. “My God, you’re serious right now?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be so funny if I were making a joke.”

He placed both hands behind his neck, holding back what he wanted to say before taking the deepest breath.

“I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what else I could say. “But I’m running some tests.”

“Alina, you are a chemist, not a doctor.” His words strained before he closed his eyes and calmed himself down. “Fine. It’s fine. I will talk to Luka, and he may know someone who can help. As long as we do it in”—he paused to count in his head—“a week or so, give or take.”

Even when he tried to say it optimistically, it didn’t sound as such.

“Who else knows?” he demanded.

“Luka, Phoebe⁠—”

It was like the anger was evaporating off him, he didn’t even have to yell or speak. It was evident.

He turned on his heel and walked with such a swift pace, I didn’t feel like catching up. I just could stand there. Something ate at me, like I should have told him sooner despite never being given the chance. But also guilt for accusing him of trivial things, like how he chooses to feed.

None of this felt natural to me, and I was grateful for the grace I was being given, but for once I felt completely and utterly bewildered, left in the dark.

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