Page 3 of The Unraveling

“Isla, we’ve been poisoned,” he chokes out. “What’s the last thing you recall?”

My brow furrows, my thoughts an inky black mess. My heart tries to crawl up my throat, the sensation shrinking my vision to a fine point.

Somehow, I laugh. “We can’t be poisoned, love.”

His hands grip my biceps. “Isla, he poisoned us!”

I shake my head. “How? How are we poisoned? It’s impossible.”

His heavy stare shifts, unfocused, as if the room has changed around him. “In the air, Dr. Smith. The coal. The arsenic. Every breath is poison.”

A frown tugs at my lips. “How long has it been since we fed, love? I-I can’t recall the last time, but you’re making no sense. I’m cold, so it must be a while. Why haven’t we been feeding?”

“The food is poison,” he whispers, brown eyes glazed over. “Can’t you taste it?”

Victor’s eyes roll back, lids fluttering as he stiffens in my grip and slumps against the floor. His arms drop from mine.

I swallow against my heart lodged in my throat. “Love?”

I’ve heard of such hunger before. Hunger that gives one chills. Nausea. Aches. Then worse: delirium and frenzy. Though, it doesn’t explain all the blood, or why neither of us is mindlessly gulping down the neighbors.

Still, I can’t recall what would have made us refrain from feeding for so long to feel this way. Why would we starve ourselves?

“Once we feed, we’ll be all right,” I assure him.

The thought of a sunny kitchen rises from the inky well of my memories. The same kitchen I’ve known throughout elementary, middle, and high school. A white fridge I could hear humming from my bedroom upstairs during the night. Eating toaster waffles or pastries before running to the bus. Coming home after hanging out with my friends as a teenager, the smell of supper heavy in the air as my mother cooked at the stove.

I waver to my feet, smiling with the ghostly scent of roast beef and mashed potatoes in my nose. On laden legs, I move to the hallway, then lean against the wall and drag myself along it to the kitchen.

I frown as I take in the dim room and flick the lights on.

The cupboards are brown instead of white. The fridge is stainless steel, not held closed by a child lock due to the broken seal and warped flooring of my childhood home. The gray floor tiles shine, unlike the brown vinyl. The smell of supper is gone, and I know this spotless stove has never been used to cook roast beef.

I’m unsure why I expected to see anything other than the only kitchen I’ve wandered in over the past three decades.

With a sigh, I go to a cupboard, leaning my weak arm on the marble countertop to lift my other hand.

There’s nothing inside but a collection of crystal glasses.

I shift over to the shiny fridge, shivering against the chill it breathes through the cracked door. Only bags of mortal blood and a single jar of immortal blood from one of Victor’s fledglings are inside.

I can’t help but lick my lips. My stomach knots, and I stretch my hand toward a blood bag before remembering why I came into the kitchen.

We both need to eat.

Shutting the fridge, I drag myself along the counter, peeking into cupboard after empty cupboard.

“We’re out of food,” I call out, though the memory of a handful of snacks in one of them persists unfulfilled.

After no response, I press my finger into my ear as if something’s stuck inside. Why is everything so quiet?

“Victor?”

I stumble back to the study where Victor lies on the bloody floor beside his desk.

“Yes, Isla?” he whispers, eyes firmly closed.

“I’m going to walk to the corner store,” I tell him. “There are no snacks left in the cupboard.”