I cleaned off my face and dabbed at the shirt stain with a napkin, calming down slowly. That had been weird and freaky, but it was over now. I took a long sip of my chocolate Awful Awful and felt another bit of stress drain away. There was nothing about this situation that a great milk shake couldn’t fix, I coaxed myself.
I put the Fiesta in gear and drove slowly down the street to my mother’s mansion. My car had been built back when cup holders in cars were considered a luxury item for the rich, and I was holding my chocolate Awful Awful in one hand while holding the strawberry Awful Awful I’d snagged for Chivalry between my legs. I was finally calm enough to start noticing my surroundings again, and I reflected that driving in November in a car with no heating while having a thirty-two-ounce milk shake concoction resting snuggly against my testicles was not precisely ideal.
Inside the mansion, I paused in the entry hall and reached inside me for my internal sense of my family. As always, my mother was the strongest beacon, and I could tell that she was upstairs in her room. Prudence was somewhere on the ground floor, but I tugged on the mental string that tied me to my brother and followed it up the grand main staircase and down the hall to the suite of rooms that he’d shared with Bhumika.
He’d felt me coming, of course, and my knock on his door was perfunctory as I walked into the main room of his suite. There were several bare spots on the walls where artwork that had been Bhumika’s taste rather than his had been removed, and one sofa as well as a few decorative tables had also disappeared, probably to molder in my mother’s extensive attics. The biggest change was botanical—Bhumika’s passion had been breeding and showing roses, and it had not only resulted in the replanning of my mother’s gardens, and in the construction of a conservatory greenhouse on one side of the mansion, but had also spilled over in a very big way into the rooms that Chivalry and Bhumika had shared. At the time of her death, their sitting room had been a near jungle of potted miniature roses, the smaller ones resting on tables while the larger ones sat on the floor and snagged your clothing if you passed too closely to them. Today, however, the room was nearly stripped of the pots, except for a cluster of them gathered in the center of the room, which Chivalry was currently studying.
My brother looked up at me. “Fortitude. This is a bit of a surprise.” His cheekbones were in even sharper relief today, and he was overall starting to make the term heroin-chic spring unfortunately to mind, and I suddenly felt uncomfortable about coming to see him.
“Yeah,” I said awkwardly, and held the strawberry Awful Awful out to him. Chivalry stared at it, and then a ghost of a smile crossed his face, and for a second he looked like my affectionate, amused, and indulgent older brother again. I relaxed as he took the milk shake from me and sipped it. “Well, I had a few questions about the bears . . . and some other stuff.” I wasn’t quite sure how to phrase a fear of my appetite without instigating another discussion of my dietary habits, and I decided to get his thoughts about Dahlia and Ilona first.
“Ah, yes, the metsän kunigas murder,” he said, but his mind looked occupied by something very different from the bears as he set the Awful Awful down on the table. He stared at the collection of roses, each carefully housed in an elaborately decorated glass mosaic pot, commissioned especially to give Bhumika’s collection of roses a bit of decorative continuity. “I’m sorry that I have not been of more assistance.” He was pacing around the roses now, a weird, stalking motion that made my earlier discomfort creep back up my spine.
“Chivalry, are you okay?” It seemed like a stupid question to ask someone whose wife hadn’t even been dead for a month, but I also really didn’t like the way he was eyeing Bhumika’s roses. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I’m trying to figure out which of Bhumika’s miniature roses to keep.” Now he finally sounded engaged with the conversational topic, but it was too far to the extreme, and he was almost manic. As he circled the plants, he reminded me weirdly of a monologue scene from Richard III that I’d seen in college. “She left a list of other rose fanciers who she wanted plants to go to, but a lot of them chose to take a full-size bush from the garden instead, and now I have two dozen.”
From the hiss in his voice, apparently this was somehow an unpardonable sin. “It’s a big house, Chiv,” I said soothingly. “I’m sure we could find spots for them.”
I don’t think he even heard me. Instead Chivalry just paced faster, and his fists were clenching and unclenching in a way that would’ve made me very worried for the object of his fixation had these not been roses, which are notoriously difficult to throttle. “It was Bhumika’s hobby. The outdoor gardeners already have their hands full with the new rose garden, and now they’ll have to be permanently taking over the plants in the conservatory as well. Mother won’t say anything, of course, but I don’t feel it’s fair that she suddenly finds herself with a pair of rosebushes in each room disrupting her decor. And they require constant maintenance, which is not something that I want to ask the indoor staff to have to take on just because I don’t want to throw a plant away.”
He kept talking, but as he became more worked up and angry, I realized that it was spilling down that thread that had connected us for my whole life, rolling over me as if I were at the beach and had suddenly been caught by a wave that I hadn’t seen coming. It was much stronger than I was, pulling me down and holding me in a place that was somewhere cold and powerful. I could still see Chivalry’s mouth moving, and see him walking, but everything was moving very slowly. Meanwhile I was suddenly aware of everything around me—the heartbeats of all of the staff as they moved through the house, the smell of every place in this room where a human had been in the last hour, and the minute sweat from their skin on everything they had touched.
I wasn’t okay, not by any stretch of the imagination. I tried to tell my brother, but as I struggled to push the words past my suddenly bone-dry throat, everything inside of me fixated on the door, and the knowledge that one of those vulnerable, taunting heartbeats had come closer and was now just behind that flimsy piece of wood.
My body turned without my brain’s permission, and the seconds stretched as the handle of the door turned and the mechanism released.
“Mr. Scott, I was just speaking with Patricia, and she says that her aunt actually—” James’s voice filled the room.
But my mind was gone, all rational thought crushed by the throbbing of instinct. The man in the doorway was shorter than me, the thinning gray hair and the stoop in his body indicating age and weakness, but the flush in his cheeks advertised how hot and sweet his blood would be.
I jumped him, knocking him over with pathetic ease, using my weight and body to pin him to the floor. I wrapped one hand in what was left of his hair and yanked his head to one side, exposing all of that pale, pale skin and those veins that jumped and pulsed with blood. The man’s breath was shallow and fast, whistling high and nasal, but he stayed completely limp.
Someone said something, a word, and a dim voice in the back of my brain told me that this was my name. I kept my prey immobilized. It wasn’t fighting, and I had it—it couldn’t get away, and I looked toward who had spoken.
That was my brother, I realized through the fog. That was my brother, crouched down, with both hands wrapped around the edge of that table as if it were a life raft and he were adrift in an ocean. His eyes were black, and his fangs were fully extended.
“Fortitude,” he repeated, his voice hoarse. Sweat was dripping down his forehead. I stared at him—he was trying to tell me not to do something, I remembered, but I didn’t know what. The fog in my mind started thinning.
Then Chivalry made a noise, a high, hungry noise, and for a moment leaned forward like a dog scenting dinner. He caught himself almost immediately, pulling himself back, but that moment was enough, and the fog came rolling back in and I was gone again. Everything was gone, except the thought that he was bigger and stronger than me, and he might take my prey away—but it was mine, mine, mi
ne, and I would take as much as I could before he stole it.
There was resistance under my teeth, but I gnawed through it, and then there was a coppery taste in my mouth. It was familiar and yet strange, thinner than what I was used to, and as I got my first good swallow, it tasted wrong, and sour. I paused, unsure. There was a high, frightened panting in my ear—my prey. But it wasn’t moving or fighting back, and I hesitated, running my tongue cautiously over the wet puddles, not understanding why it was so sour when I knew that it should’ve tasted different, better. I wasn’t sure whether to take another bite—maybe I’d done something wrong, or maybe this prey was the problem and I needed to find another—
Then there was a hand wrapped around my throat, and I was pulled back and off my prey. I grabbed for it, but the hand squeezed my neck in an iron grip, and I had to let go. I thrashed my hands angrily at my assailant, but I already knew—that binding thread in my mind told me—that it was my sister.
“James, run downstairs immediately and get yourself bandaged up,” Prudence snapped. My prey moved, escaping, and I automatically lunged to stop it, but I couldn’t break away from Prudence. Her left arm was wrapped tightly around my waist, and her right hand moved from my throat to my forehead, pinning me against her. “No, little brother,” she crooned, and the sound of her voice began cutting through the fog, driving it out of my mind.
Reason rushed back, twinned with horror. I turned my head, terrified, and I saw my brother still pressed against the table, but his upper body was turned away from the door, and he’d slapped a hand across his eyes. I understood suddenly why he’d done that—so that he wouldn’t be able to see James escape, and wouldn’t have had to fight the urge to snatch at running prey.
“I attacked James, Prudence. Oh my God, I attacked,” I started babbling, but then stopped as fire streaked through my body, cramping my stomach so painfully that my legs buckled under me. “Something’s wrong,” I managed to whisper.
My sister was already moving, hauling me bodily as I hung in her arms, unable to move or help her, unable to do anything except try to pull my body tighter together in some animal urge to huddle around the screaming agony in my belly. Prudence half pulled, half carried me into the bedroom of Chivalry’s suite, and she slammed the closed door to the bathroom with her shoulder hard enough that the lock splintered and the door flung open, but it was too late, and I was already vomiting. I vomited on the floor, and on myself, and on the tile as Prudence continued to yank me, and then finally in the toilet as she pulled the lid up for me. I was vomiting and I wasn’t stopping. It was continuous, a deep, awful retching as if a hand were trying to shove my guts up and out of my mouth. My eyes were closed from the force of it, and my nose was running. Every part of me was soaked in sweat, and still I threw up, and threw up.
Prudence’s one hand was on my forehead, holding me in place, and I could feel her other hand stroking my back as each retch ripped through me. “I know, Fort; I know,” she whispered in my ear, and there was real sympathy in her voice. “It hurts; I know it hurts. Don’t fight it.”
Then I could hear Chivalry’s anguished voice from the doorway. “I’m sorry, Fort; I couldn’t stop you.”
“Sniveling won’t help,” Prudence snapped. “If you want to do something useful, go get Mother.”
I puked again—there was no more food now, just bright yellow bile that felt like it was ripped out of me, and I managed to gasp, “What, what,” and then I was vomiting again.
Prudence’s hand tightened on my forehead. “You’re too young for human blood, Fortitude. Your body can’t handle it yet.”
And then I puked again, and everything went black.
* * *
I was in my old bedroom when I woke up. I felt empty and wrung out inside, and as if I’d just gotten over a two-week bout of the flu. Even opening my eyelids felt like lifting weights. My bedside light was on, but a glance out my window showed that it was fully dark—I’d slept for hours. I tried to lift my head, but dropped it back onto the pillow when the movement made my skull feel ready to split open like an old melon.
I closed my eyes again, trying to gather my strength. As minutes passed, I became aware of the susurrus sound of pages being turned. Gritting my teeth, I turned my head to the left and forced my lids open again. Prudence was reading the Wall Street Journal while ensconced in her favorite Louis XVI armchair—the one that normally resided in the family sitting room. I blinked for a moment—the idea of my sister sitting by my bedside was discomforting. The fact that she’d required her favorite chair to be carried up a flight of stairs and down a hallway was oddly reassuring—at least I knew that this was still Prudence.
My throat was dry and very painful, but I managed to rasp out, “Is James okay?”
Prudence closed and folded the newspaper with precise movements before meeting my eyes and giving a measured nod. “James has worked on the estate since he was a young man,” she said. “Fortunately he kept his head when you attacked him, and stayed passive.”
“That was a good strategy?” I croaked.
“Very much so. He needed stitches, but he’ll be fine.” I couldn’t suppress a shudder at the visceral memory of his flesh under my teeth, and Prudence’s bright blue eyes sharpened. “I know what you’re thinking, Fortitude. Don’t beat yourself up over this one. Your body is changing, and these things happen.”
“These things happen?” I echoed, disgust and venom filling me. I tried to push myself into a sitting position, ignoring the jagged claws of pain that shot through my skull, though it made my vision go spotty. I felt Prudence beside me, tucking a few extra pillows behind me for support. When the pain passed, I looked down at myself curiously. I was in a T-shirt and sweatpants, but they were too loose on my frame to be anything that I owned. I realized that I was wearing Chivalry’s clothing.
Prudence settled back in her chair, and waited. I could feel her intense stare, and though I tried to resist, eventually the charged silence in the room got to me and I turned to meet her eyes. Once I did, she gave a small nod. “I attacked two women during my transition. One was a friend of mine. I was fifteen, and we were looking at dress patterns when it happened. She was dead before Mother could reach me.” I had to look away from the stark honesty on Prudence’s face, but she continued relentlessly. “Chivalry attacked five—four of them when he was nineteen, and two of those died. I’m amazed this hasn’t happened before with you, given the way that Mother has put off your transition.”
“What’s happening to me, Prudence? No one will tell me what is happening.”
“You are becoming what you were meant to be, little brother,” she said. “There is no more mystery than that.”
This was worse than the way everyone had held out on the truth of sex for so long, until when I finally got the whole story in eighth grade, I’d been certain that the entire adult world was still holding out on me. “If it’s so self-evident, then why can’t you just tell me?”
“That lies with Mother.” She paused, and a thread of irony entered her voice. “And I have no plans to defy Mother again on this issue.”
I glanced down automatically at her leg. Tonight she was wearing a pair of light camel-colored trousers, and I noticed that the heavy brace was gone, replaced with just a few Velcro straps. “It’s looking better,” I said cautiously.
She nodded. “I am forgiven.” She touched her leg lightly, on the spot that had been broken so many times over the last month, then looked up at me. There was something in her expression that was too complicated for me to understand. She leaned closer to me and touched my left arm very carefully with one finger. “It can be hard to control your instincts during the change, Fortitude. That is surely apparent after today.”
I tried to explain. “I was so hungry . . . but it wasn’t really bad until I drove over the Pell and was in Newport. And even then I was holding on . . . until I saw Chivalry.”
She understood. “Close contact with me and Chivalry helped you befor
e, but not now. Chivalry has no control to give right now, not when he has pushed himself so close to starvation.” Her voice became extremely serious. “I spoke with him earlier. He has agreed to avoid you until he finds a new woman.”
“Why won’t he feed until he finds a new wife?”
She lifted her finger from my arm and pressed it lightly against my mouth. Her face was close to mine, and the look in her blue eyes was a snake’s, and I froze like a tiny bird. “Because he is foolish, unreasonable, and a romantic. But he seems to be finally focusing in on someone, so hopefully this overblown sentimentality will be over soon.” She relaxed, that dangerous expression sliding away, and she pressed the back of her hand against my forehead in that universal gesture that all women seemed to possess that was capable of making any person instantly feel like a toddler. “How are you feeling?”
“Like the Hulk used me as a lawn chair.”
She shook her head over my reference. “‘Not well,’ would’ve sufficed. Let’s bring you to Mother.”
There was a collapsed wheelchair in the corner that I recognized as Bhumika’s. Prudence brought it to my bedside and set it up. I was discomforted to discover that not only was it necessary, but that Prudence had to practically lift me into the chair, with me offering little more than token assistance. I was panting and every nerve ending was on fire by the time I was settled, and then Prudence pushed me out of my room, down the empty hallway, and into Madeline’s suite.
Prudence rolled me through Madeline’s empty sitting room and into her bedroom, where my mother sat propped up in that massive bed, the covers tugged up to her waist, a beautifully embroidered bed coat on, and a Kindle in her hands. But there was no disguising the way the skin on her face seemed to hang from her bones, and the exhaustion and delicacy that emanated from her.
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