Page 18 of The Unraveling

I sigh. “Have you ever come across something like this in your research?”

Victor’s smile is tense, yet reassuring. “No, which could be a good sign, right? Surely something like this would be known if it were gravely serious.”

I cough, a pang of pain sharp in my lungs that swiftly passes. “Perhaps Daisy is right, and we should call Dr. Smith. At least to ask? He’s more active in the vampire community than us⁠—”

“Isla,” Victor says evenly, voice soft despite the disapproval. “We’ll be all right, love. Let’s get fresh air.”

I swallow the taste of blood and nod, and he helps me to my feet. Though I swear I glimpse the cold shine of fear in his gaze before he looks down the hall, it just as well could have been a reflection of my own.

Chapter 6

Moonlight glows across the backyard garden as we step out of the kitchen and onto the porch, Victor closing the door behind us. Shadows split and stretch tall toward the brown fencing. The dew glistens on petals and patches of greenery.

“Strange,” Victor says as we cross the damp wood of the covered wraparound porch. “The air is chilled. Do you feel that?”

“It’s just us, I think.” I press closer to him as we carefully take the few steps down onto the dew-slicked cobblestone path with moss embedded in the cracks.

The smooth sole of my shoe squeaks against a patch of grass as I step off the path, balance wavering. I twist in his grip, all sense leaving me as a moment of sheer panic sets in.

Dr. Todd holds me tighter, pausing as I fight to control my labored breaths. I always wonder whether my slowness bothers him. With his immortal speed, it could be grating to have a weak patient practically tiptoeing at his side, especially when he could dart to the end of the path before they’ve convinced their lungs to draw in a proper breath. Though, whenever I search for signs of his annoyance, all I find is the patience of a saint.

I use the pause to take in the garden, a weak smile twitching on my lips at the fairy-tale sight of the large backyard. Though it’s not extraordinary in size, it’s still double what my family has. It’s probably for the best, as my mom has always been an ambitious gardener, and she doesn’t have the funds or time to take care of something as demanding as the wide flowerbeds running alongside the cobblestone path Dr. Todd can pay to have tended. The thick bushes of red roses beginning to bloom, patches of flowers like daisies, lilacs, and tulips richen the scenery.

Back in California, a house in our cul-de-sac had a little pond in the backyard, but it was nothing like the one I turn my gaze to now. Though Dr. Todd’s is still too modest to be worthy of magazine placement, the stone pond in the center back of the yard with its own waterfall—and fish, once spring settles, he says—is far more magical with the forest of flowers surrounding us.

When I first saw Dr. Todd’s garden last week—having refused to peek through the window while the landscapers were hard at work—I understood why he prefers to work from home instead of some gray, sterile office.

The garden is the perfect, most beautiful place to die. Through illness or immortality, I’m grateful it will happen on this property. Something about the charm‌ makes the idea of being a vampire far less terrifying, too.

A place like this needs vampires—so much so that becoming one feels like destiny.

With my breath steady in my lungs again, Dr. Todd gently tugs me along toward the freestanding, wrought-iron garden swing to our left on a small, half-moon section of cobblestone.

When he helps me sit on the burgundy cushion, reality inverts itself with the memory of lying in Victor’s bed on my death day. The distortion is like snapping awake from a dream I don’t recall falling asleep for.

That final human night was a vision. Moonlight glowed through the window as I gazed at the plump roses overflowing from the flowerbeds alongside the house, how they brushed the glass while swaying with the breeze. All while I lay like a dark princess with his fangs burrowed in my throat. I requested a red silk dress and curled my black hair. I would not get a true funeral, so I wanted to die at my most beautiful in the grip of the most fantastical scene that his historic Victorian home and garden allowed.

The fever—the branding, sweaty heat and frosty, stiffening cold—and malaise of the transformation was far more romantic with the crimson roses bordering the window and the moonlight kissing my pale flesh as I died in his arms before waking with my first immortal breath. I imagined how picturesque the scene appeared from the outside.

I stare at Victor as he adjusts his posture on the vaguely damp cushion below us and entwines his shaky fingers with mine in his lap. The true meaning of my aches and nausea returns. For the first time, I wish it were leukemia ravaging me instead of . . . this. At least the cancer had a name and a planned expiration.

I force a breath past my lips as I gaze across the yard. Shrubbery obscures the base of the tall wooden fence separating us from the neighboring property.

“Hm . . .” Victor pauses and glances around the garden, eyes flitting toward the only neighbor bordering us to say, “It’s too quiet. How eerie. Can you hear the neighbors?”

“No,” I whisper. I close my eyes and search for the farthest sound before pinpointing those in between. A dog’s bark echoes faintly in the distance; the crickets are a blanket of noise I cannot place. There is no clear farthest noise I can distinguish. I lean forward, listening for little squirrel hearts in the nearby trees, the hum of electricity in the walls, or Daisy’s thin breaths and arrhythmic heart. Her occasional stumbling. My ears are tuned to her suffering, never wanting to miss a moment of need, but still . . . “I can’t even hear Daisy inside.”

“If it weren’t for her unchanged condition, I might think that this poisoning isn’t an isolated experience,” Victor says. “But it seems unlikely something has impacted the whole neighborhood when it’s more likely dulling our senses alone.”

I frown as I inhale in an attempt to draw in the scent of any nearby humans. Dampness fills my nostrils with the scent of wet dirt and greenery. A mere hint of roses. Even with Daisy’s window open above, I can’t smell the lavender body products Daisy loves that usually permeate her room, or the blood thick in her veins.

I make a strangled noise. “There’s really something wrong with my nose. I can’t even smell the flowers.”

“At all?” Victor asks.

I shrug, an ache radiating through my muscles and up my neck. “Well, I can, but it’s not as strong as I’m used to. It’s as if I’m smelling them from miles away.”

He hums in thought, then grunts as he grips the swing’s armrest and pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll find the perfect rose for you.”