She looked up as we entered. “My poor little sparrow,” she said, and I could hear the regret in her voice. “I am so sorry that you had such an unfortunate experience, darling. It’s my fault—your body needs more help right now, and I stopped you the other day before you were done.”
There were things that I wished I could ask her, but just sitting in the wheelchair had honestly exhausted me enough that all I really wanted was to lie back down and sleep for at least a week. Prudence rolled my chair right next to the bed, and my mother didn’t hesitate before slicing her wrist and presenting it to me. With the events of the day clearly seared into my brain, I wasn’t going to object—I wrapped my hands around her limb and clamped my mouth around the cut, drinking as quickly as I could.
The moment her blood touched my tongue, part of me relaxed. This was the consistency, the taste, and overall, the power that I’d missed before; this was what had made even my raw instincts pause in confusion during my attack on James. I shivered in relief, knowing that this would not hurt me as the other had, and that it would also protect others from me. It was the memory of James’s terror as I jumped at him, and the painful memory of my own animalistic glee at the sight, that had me gripping my mother’s arm hard as I drank as much as I could.
Every mouthful of my mother’s blood soothed the ache in my throat, and as it slid down, I could feel the still-painful clench of my gut relax. The headache making my eyeballs throb eased a bit more with each swallow, and the feeling that my whole body was one shin that had slammed into a dresser dulled into a distant throb.
It was my mother’s own body that stopped me this time. After several minutes, each mouthful became smaller, until I felt what I had never felt before—the flow of blood ceasing, and the flesh of my mother’s wrist knitting itself together while I still fed.
I paused, then pulled away. Madeline’s face was gray, and she was visibly shaking from the effort.
“Mother?” I asked, unable to hide my fear.
She didn’t try to normalize the situation or comfort me, simply lying backward into her throne of pillows and closing her eyes.
“Go to bed, my little sparrow,” she said thinly. “I’ve asked Prudence to give you a small demonstration tomorrow. It’s clearly time.”
Prudence was wheeling my chair out of the room before I had a chance to protest. I craned my neck back at her and stared into my sister’s best poker face.
“Is she going to be okay?”
She sighed, then looked down at me, those blue eyes serious. “For now, Fort.”
We left it at that. Back in my room, I found that even with my mother’s blood coursing through me, I needed my sister’s help to get back into bed. Once I was settled, Prudence tucked the wheelchair back in its corner and leaned over to turn off the bedside light. The warm yellow glow was replaced by the icy moonlight from my window, and the darkness finally gave me the strength to ask my sister what I’d been wondering since I woke up.
“Prudence, why are you being so nice to me?”
“You are my brother,” she said simply. “Whether I hate or love you, that fact will never change, and what ties us together can be broken only by death.” Her voice softened, not in emotion, but just in volume. “Now go to sleep.”
And I did.
* * *
Sunlight was streaming in through my window when a rap on my door woke me. The door cracked widely enough that I could see Loren Noka’s face. It took a long second to remember that I was in my old room at the mansion, rather than my apartment.
“Loren?” I blinked, trying to get my muzzy thoughts in order. Then everything came back, and I sat bolt upright in the bed and scooted back until my spine smacked against my headboard, letting me know that there was no way to put even more space between the two of us. The image of James’s fearful expression as I’d tackled him to the ground filled my mind, and I stuttered, “Listen, I’m not sure you should be—”
“It’s all right, Mr. Scott,” she said, and pushed the door the rest of the way open. “I brought your breakfast.” In her hands was a wooden bed tray, with a silver cover, like hotel room service.
That was definitely not what I’d expected, and I was derailed for a second. “Breakfast?” I parroted, feeling like an idiot. That was definitely not in Loren Noka’s job description. Also, given that I normally felt distinctly overwhelmed and outclassed when I was around Loren Noka, the situation was definitely not helped by having her standing in my childhood bedroom in a business pants suit (navy blue today), holding my breakfast, while I sat in bed in pajamas that weren’t mine.
For a second I wondered whether this was actually just the start to a stress nightmare.
While I was pondering that, Loren Noka had busied herself by settling the tray down over my lap. “Now, I was informed by the kitchen staff that this is your favorite thing to eat when you’re sick.” She drew back the silver lid with a bit of a flourish, and laid out in front of me was the go-to comfort breakfast from my teen years—oatmeal, a small container of honey, toast, and a cup of tea.
“Oh, that was really nice of them. It really does look good. . . .” If there was any one thing that was tempting about moving back into my mother’s mansion, it wasn’t the money or the comfort; it was the cooked and prepared meals. There was a residual soreness throughout my body, and my stomach still had a hint of uneasiness, but the smell of the fresh oatmeal wafting up to me, and the honey already slightly warmed and ready to be poured over it, made me feel cautiously optimistic. This didn’t solve the problem of Loren Noka standing over me, and I said, “But you have so many important things to do, and I’m sure carrying my breakfast up isn’t one of them. I mean, really, Ms. Noka—”
“Loren,” she interrupted.
“Um, what?” I peered up at her, which was a very long, intimidating view, up a very formidable bosom.
“You called me Loren, Mr. Scott,” she repeated patiently. “We work together. It’s okay if you call me by my first name.”
“I don’t know. It feels like being asked to call the queen of England ‘Lizzie.’” A small crinkle of amusement played across her face, and I relented. “Okay, I can try to get used to it. If you can start calling me Fortitude.”
She frowned. “Really, I’m not sure that’s appropriate at all.”
“Then I guess I can start using Ms. Noka again?” The frost in her expression probably made my oatmeal drop a few degrees. “Really, every time you say ‘Mr. Scott,’ I feel like Chivalry is standing behind me.”
Loren still didn’t look particularly happy, but she seemed to acknowledge the point. “Fine, I suppose.” Then she reached up and removed a bag from her shoulder, which I hadn’t even noticed thanks to my fixation on breakfast. It was one of those expensive store bags, made of stiff paper and with fabric cords for straps. “Speaking of, your brother sent along some clothing for you to wear today.”
“What happened to what I was wearing?” She gave me a significant look. “Ah, right. Puke.” I looked at the bag now resting on my legs. Even the font of the store logo looked expensive. Chivalry’s attempt to reform my clothing habits was ongoing, but I had to at least try to weasel out of it, and I appealed to Loren. “He does know that I can just run those through the wash, right? Even the sneakers? I mean, knowing the staff around here, I bet that probably already happened.”
Loren just arched one terrible eyebrow. Clearly there was no help from that quarter. Though given her commitment to business dress, she might actually be in my brother’s corner on this one. I sighed and tugged the bag closer. “He picked these out himself?” It was a rhetorical question—of course my brother would never trust someone else to pick out my clothing. One of the weird things about Chivalry’s age was that he came from a time when gentlemen apparently spent a serious amount of time primping. The modern-day metrosexual would be completely unprepared for one of my brother’s discussions about picking the right colors for your skin tone. That was why I was surprised by the
contents of the bag—a long-sleeved gray shirt, jeans, and shoes. It was a high-cost recreation of what I normally would’ve worn. That was a clear message. “These are clothes that I’d actually wear, rather than what he’d like me to wear. He’s feeling guilty, isn’t he?”
“I certainly wouldn’t presume to say.” Loren pursed her lips.
I gave an even heavier sigh. The tags had already been clipped out of the clothes, so I didn’t even have the option of trying to return them at a later date. At least I wouldn’t have to face the visual proof that my brother had probably paid an average family’s weekly grocery bill for a long-sleeved T-shirt. I remembered the sound of my brother’s voice last night, when he’d been apologizing for being unable to stop me from attacking James, and a shiver ran through me. If it made Chivalry feel better to replace my clothing, then it really didn’t make much sense to keep fussing about it. “Fine.” Though having Loren standing there was still feeling awkward, and I looked back up at her. “Of course, now I feel even worse. Shouldn’t you be orchestrating the entire Scott empire, rather than delivering me clothing?”
“If it makes you feel better, I can multitask,” she said dryly. “Gil Kivela has left a rather impressive number of highly irritated messages. He apparently feels strongly that he should be given an update on how the investigation is going.”
“Interesting,” I said, meaning it. If I ignored the part where I was in my pajamas with my breakfast balanced on my lap, this could almost be a normal work conversation with Loren. “Anything from his sister, Dahlia?”
“Nothing.”
“Very interesting. Well, please tell Gil that I’ll see him tomorrow at the funeral, and I’ll give him an update on things then.”
“Excellent.” She gave a small nod. “I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”
“Thank you, Loren,” I said. Ugh, it still felt like an offense against nature to call her by her first name.
She smiled. “You’re very welcome, Fortitude.”
As she turned to leave, a thought occurred to me. “Oh, one last thing.”
“Yes?”
“You wouldn’t happen to know how to take fingerprints off a knife, would you?”
Her mouth quirked slightly. “I can see if there are instructions online. But you do realize that even if I somehow was able to manage it, we don’t have any of the equipment necessary to use those to narrow down an identity?”
I sighed. “Maybe we can ask my mother about turning the billiards room into a CSI lab.”
“I’ll draft a memo,” she said dryly.
Loren left, and I poured the honey over my oatmeal, drizzling it the way I had in high school—into the emblem of the Star Trek Federation. I took a bite, and felt it slide down my throat and into my belly, practically emanating nostalgic goodness. I waited one more minute, then said, “You can come in, Prudence. I know you’re standing out there.” I’d felt the pulse of her presence as soon as my brain had managed to organize itself.
My sister walked calmly into the room, as if she hadn’t been hanging out in the hallway waiting to see if I was about to attack someone again. “You’re looking much better this morning, little brother.”
I ignored the comment. The truth was, even that small leftover achiness was fading somewhat, and I felt almost back to normal. Aside, of course, from the horrifying memory of attacking James and having to be pulled off him like in one of those videos of circus animals gone amuck. “You were waiting to see if I was going to attack Loren?” My temper started to fray, and I dropped my spoon back into my oatmeal, ruining the honey drizzle.
“It was very unlikely, Fortitude, but it seemed best to make certain that you were in command of yourself again.”
“Did you let her know that she was your canary in the mineshaft?” Prudence just smiled. I shook my head—of course Loren must’ve known. Not because my sister told her, of course, but how could she not have known? I wondered what kind of discussion in the staff room had resulted in Loren volunteering (knowing her, it would’ve been volunteering, not being deputized) to bring in my breakfast and find out whether last night had been the start of a pattern. “So what exactly is this demonstration that you’re supposed to give to me today?”
Her smile widened, and she nodded down to my breakfast. “Best eat while it’s still hot, Fort.” Her blue eyes flicked over to the clothing bag, and a small look of approval passed across her face. Her preference was to complain about my clothes rather than overtly try to re-dress me, but Prudence also had high sartorial standards that I consistently managed to underperform against. “And don’t dawdle. We have an appointment.”
She left. As I hurried through my breakfast, eating as fast as my stomach indicated it was comfortable with, I reflected that it was typical of Prudence to tell me that we had an appointment, but not when that appointment was.
We drove to Prudence’s tidy town house in South Portsmouth, the next town over from Newport. I was feeling well enough to drive, so I followed my sister’s Lexus, and took a small amount of pleasure in tucking the Fiesta next to that gleaming red automotive masterpiece on my sister’s pristine asphalt driveway. The Fiesta had been leaking oil lately (okay, for a while), and I had a feeling that my sister would be remembering my visit for some time after the Fiesta marked its territory.
I followed my sister into her house. It was a three-story house, the first floor devoted to her garage and storage, so I followed her up the stairs to her main living area. We passed through her living room, decorated in modern lines in creams and whites, which was probably meant to look clean but went too far and just looked sterile and forbidding. Or maybe that was the look she was actually going for. We ended up in her kitchen, which was more white, broken up this time by the occasional stainless steel appliance. Unfortunately this just increased my impression of being in an alien examination chamber. Prudence didn’t even stop to offer me a drink, instead crossing straight over to a tall white-doored pantry.
“Mother has babied you far too long, Fort,” she said, picking through extra bowls, an electric mixer, and similar accoutrements of food preparation. “I first saw this done when I was barely six.”
“What are we doing?” I had the feeling that she was not about to show me how to bake a cake.
“I’m going to show you how I feed.” She emerged from her pantry with a beautiful wooden box. It was rosewood, carefully oiled, with no metal hinges, just wooden joints. She set it on the kitchen island between us and opened it, revealing an interior that had been lined with black velvet, with specially made sections to hold each of the items inside. I stared at those items, which in a kitchen setting really should’ve looked innocuous, but instead looked, thanks to the presentation and my knowledge of my sister, extremely creepy. There was a large silver bowl, marked on the inside with concentric circles, each numbered, about the size of the Pyrex bowl that I used to hold chips during a party. Beside it, each in its own nestled spot, were a number of wickedly sharp knives—the blades short but slightly curved, their handles silver to match the bowl and decorated with carved flowers. Tossed inside the bowl, casually and in a small plastic Baggie, were a bunch of rubber ties, the kind that doctors used during blood drives.
It was a lot to take in.
“I know we’re vampires and all, Prudence, but . . . isn’t this going just a little too far?” I pointed at the bowl, wondering if focusing on the aesthetics of the situation would help give me a few minutes to figure out exactly how I was feeling at the moment. On the one hand, my family had been extremely closed-mouthed about giving me any information about my transition, and that ignorance had nearly gotten someone killed last night. So a big part of me felt extremely relieved that some answers were apparently going to be forthcoming at last. However, there was a part of me, the part that had spent so many years pretending to be human, that acutely wished that I were anywhere but here in this moment.
Prudence gave an irritated sigh, looking offended on behalf of her box of horror.
“Fort, this is a set of bleeding instruments. I know it’s hard to understand now, but for hundreds of years bleeding was as common as telling someone to take an aspirin. This set is very similar to the one that George Washington owned.” Her mouth gave a small, ironic twist, and she looked amused at some internal thought. “We’ll just try not to follow his example with its use.”
I stared at her blankly, not following the reference.
Now Prudence rolled her eyes broadly and looked extremely put upon by my inability to follow her cutting-edge references to one of the founding fathers. “He was drained of eighty ounces of blood in a thirteen-hour period. Not surprisingly, he died. Typical doctors—you were practically safer not calling them in those days.” Her voice turned sharply irritated. “Didn’t you learn any history at all?”
This was an older, familiar argument. Both Prudence and Chivalry were often decrying my lack of knowledge of tiny minutiae that had been dropped off school curriculums a century ago in favor of fitting in more relevant information. “In fairness, Prudence, they had a pair of world wars to cover, to say nothing of Korea and Vietnam.” These were events that my siblings, of course, had lived through. Playing Trivial Pursuit with my family was extremely frustrating.
“I suppose,” Prudence grumbled, then returned to instructor mode. She pointed to the big silver bowl. “Now, this is the bleeding bowl. These little darlings are called lancets.” Her finger hovered over one of those wickedly sharp implements, and she glanced at me. “I have the rest of the set somewhere, but I really don’t think it’s necessary to break out the scarificators, the fleams, or the cupping syringe.”
“I agree with that assessment.” Just the names sounded horrifying enough.
Prudence reached under the kitchen island, where there was a small built-in wine rack, completely filled. She removed a bottle and popped the cork expertly.
“What’s that for?” I asked suspiciously. Had wine been another required item in bleeding kits? I wondered for a moment if my sister knew about modern-day methods of sterilization, like neatly packaged alcohol swabs.
Tainted Blood: A Generation V Novel Page 21
