Page 22 of The Unraveling

Chapter 8

I grip Victor’s arm to keep upright as we follow Daisy to the door. Two men stand on the other side when she pulls it open, and I freeze at the unfamiliar man who fills my vision first. He must be only a few years older than me at twenty-one, though he dresses like Victor with his black dress pants and button-up vest. He’s clean-shaven, his blond hair neat like he had a fresh cut before he died.

I know with deep certainty I’ve never met him before, though the other—taller than Victor, with brushed-back graying hair and gray through his blond stubble—looks at us and smiles warmly like we’re old friends.

“Dr. Smith!” I greet with a grin, his name leaping off my tongue before my brain can offer it.

“I’d say good morning, but . . .”

I offer a solemn nod as Victor chokes out, “I’ve had better mornings.”

“So I hear,” Dr. Smith says as he turns to Daisy, patting her arm when she steps aside for them to enter. “Thanks for calling.”

Daisy closes the door and lingers in front of it.

“This is my protégé, Dr. Julian Watson,” Dr. Smith says. “I figured an extra mind to assist could be beneficial.”

Dr. Watson merely folds his hands before him and greets Victor with a nod as he says, “Dr. Todd.”

“Wish we were meeting under more favorable circumstances, Dr. Watson.” Victor heaves out a breath and shrugs. “But yes, an extra mind is welcome.”

The silence is tense as we walk to the study, and Dr. Smith’s gaze flies straight to Bradley’s body. He slowly rotates to face Victor with an unreadable expression. “Daisy recounted some of your symptoms. What happened?”

I press against Victor’s side as he sets his jaw, heavy eyes leveling with Dr. Smith as he says, “We drank from Bradley, and somehow, he poisoned us.”

Dr. Smith’s eyes slide shut as he inhales a noisy breath through his nostrils. “I’ve told you⁠—”

“Not another lecture,” Victor spits. I cling to Victor’s arm as he charges around Dr. Smith and stumbles toward his desk. “I don’t want to hear it, John. Simply help me figure out what happened—find some antidote for this poison.”

Dr. Smith’s eyes follow us as Victor collapses in his chair and draws me onto his lap before my legs can fold beneath me. I rest my heavy head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around me like a shield capable of defending me against all accusations.

Head swaying, Dr. Smith says, “Victor . . . I’ve told you—since we were newborns—that you should not be sustaining yourself on vampire blood. That it’s unnatural, and how we don’t know the consequences⁠—”

Dr. Watson steps between Dr. Smith and Victor to wander nearer, narrow eyes glued on Victor. His scoff falls out of him with an airy breath as he leans forward into our space. “I’m sorry, is he saying you’re a cannibal?”

“He did not,” Victor says simply, like Julian is merely an annoying child interrupting.

“Well, that’s what the rest of us immortals would call it. Cannibalism. It’s one thing to blood share with another vampire for connection and intimacy from time to time, but feed on them? Like you would a human?” Dr. Watson shakes his head, lip curling. “That’s wrong. Like a human eating the flesh of another.”

Through gritted teeth, Victor snarls, “Get out of my face and return to John’s shadow. We have work to do.”

Dr. Watson straightens, gazing down at us with sharp judgment. “Sounds like you’ve made yourselves sick⁠—”

“You should not offer your opinion when it has yet to be asked for!” Victor growls, which has me scowling at Dr. Watson in support.

Crossing his arms, Dr. Watson says, “I graduated from Harvard at the top of my class last year and specialized in virology . . . at twenty-five.”

“Congratulations,” Victor sneers. “Then you’ll make an excellent doctor for humans. Considering I’m over a century your senior and immortal, your expertise is unneeded if it comes with some moral opinion.”

Julian lifts his nose and glances at Dr. Smith as he appears at his side. “It seems I’ve hit a nerve. You think I’m too young to be a doctor? To hear my opinion?”

Victor pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head in disbelief, muttering about that not being the point. I tuck a few loose hairs—blood sticking the strands together—behind his ear to keep it out of his face.

“Enough,” Dr. Smith orders. His eyes lock with Dr. Watson, whose lips part while his gaze tightens and meets Victor’s. “I apologize on his behalf. He’s been immortal for barely two months. You know how newborns can be, especially young, ambitious patients who didn’t have enough time to come to terms with their prognosis⁠—”

“I’m a grown man, John!” Dr. Watson barks, which makes Victor sigh.

Dr. Smith twists to stare at him—like a father communicating an unspoken threat to their unruly child—and says, “Then remember your professionalism. Your bedside manners. This is my oldest colleague. Victor is my maker. The reason any of us have been cured of mortality. Practice respect. He’s not out to bite you.”