Page 23 of The Unraveling

Dr. Watson crosses his arms and mashes his lips into a tight line.

I swallow hard as I study Julian. Perhaps it’s his thirst gnawing at him, since Daisy is so close despite standing aside hugging herself, but there’s an ache in his cold blue eyes.

Was he this venomous and arrogant as a human too? Did being young and brilliant get to his head? Or did whatever terminal illness he had before Dr. Smith cured him rot something inside him? Does it now fester like ghosts moaning about their unfinished business?

My early days as a vampire fight to uncloak themselves within my memory, but I know I didn’t struggle from the magnified emotions many newborns do. Though I had a good human life and suffered the unfairness of it being shortened, there was no specific dream I felt robbed of. I wasn’t academically gifted, studying to become a doctor so young, only to die immediately after. I was happy to become a vampire.

Dr. Watson must sense my staring—my contemplation—as his eyes now narrow on me. His lip twitches with disdain before he straightens and looks over his shoulder at Bradley.

With a sigh, Dr. Smith asks, “Victor, where are your notes on Bradley?”

Victor points a shaky finger toward the counter, the nearest piece of furniture to Bradley. “He presented as healthy as any other patient after I cured him.”

“Any abilities?” Dr. Smith lifts the notebook to swiftly scan the pages.

“None, but I’d only just turned him. There was still time for one to present itself if he hadn’t . . .” Victor sighs and leans his head against mine. “Done whatever he’s done.”

“Since when can vampires fall ill? Contract diseases or get poisoned?” Dr. Watson’s question comes out tight, as if we might be liars despite suffering before his very eyes. “Dr. Smith, you told me so when you offered to cure my brain cancer. You said immortality meant immunity.”

“This is unprecedented,” Dr. Smith assures him softly.

“Well, have you encountered many cannibals in your time?” Dr. Watson presses as he sets his jaw.

Victor scoffs.

After a tense beat, Dr. Smith says, “I’ve not met other vampires who survive on the blood of other immortals, no. But⁠—”

Dr. Watson crosses his arms tightly and shrugs. “So we cannot rule this out as a natural consequence.”

My words are sharp, an ache embedded in my throat. “This isn’t something we did to ourselves. It’s something Bradley did to us.”

With a single nod of acknowledgement at my words, Dr. Smith hands the notebook to Dr. Watson then shifts his attention to Victor and asks, “Have you made any enemies?”

Victor groans. “What? No.”

“You haven’t decided to attempt broadening your social circle beyond your fledglings and me?” Dr. Smith pries.

“No,” Victor grits out.

John shifts between his feet in thought, the hardwood floor creaking beneath him. It’s as if he wants the room itself to disclose what happened since we can’t fully recall. “It could be someone nearby tormenting you with their ability. Do you have previous patients with any gifts unaccounted for?”

Victor sighs. “Of course—those not born with one. But even then, they always tell me if one shows up.”

“So only that you know of,” he says before mulling us over. “Let’s start with the process of elimination. We’ll seal you off with garlic in the bathroom and see if your symptoms improve or persist.”

Victor heaves out a breath as he stands. I grip the edge of the desk with trembling fingers as I unsteadily drag myself to my feet. Dr. Smith brings his leather medical bag to Victor’s desk and pops it open, pulling out a small glass spray bottle with GARLIC written across the label from beside a small collection of narcotic vials. He hands it to Daisy.

I walk with Victor to the hallway before he continues to the bathroom without me. Dr. Smith offers me his arm, which I use to stabilize myself. We pause midway to the bathroom, where Victor stands inside, scowling.

“We’ve been poisoned,” Victor protests as Daisy apologizes and sprays garlic water around the doorway, then walks past him to the little window inside to do the same.

Dr. Smith and Dr. Julian shift in discomfort from the stench of garlic permeating the hall, clearing their throats and rubbing their eyes. The smell makes me curl my lips, but Victor and I lock eyes with one another—no other immortal reaction plaguing us.

“How do you feel?” Dr. Smith asks, voice strained like each inhale is scalding his throat—which it likely is.

“Like I’ve been fucking poisoned!” Victor roars with a cracking voice, fists shaking at his sides.

Dr. Smith’s lips pinch, and he nods. “Then we can rule out nefarious interference.”