PROLOGUE
Behind my eyes was a red-hot moon.
The vessels pulsed steadily until they slowed, and the blood ran black.
1
THE POISONER
Present Day
Buffalo, New York, America
Condensation dripped as my finger swiped a line along the cool glass, outlining the chapel steeple across the square.
Fresh snow settled like confectioners’ powder over the streets, muting the colors of the town smothered beneath it. Carriages dragged their tracks through the virgin coating, staining them a sodden color before it churned into an inevitable slush.
A new cylinder slipped onto the phonograph, the music player crackling to life on the small table in front of the window. A steady waltz was a pleasant tune for a bitter day. The scratching of the needle lured my mind back inside the room.
Over my shoulder, a wide-eyed man stared back.
He reminded me of a bat pup, sweaty and disoriented, but instead of his mother’s teat, an old rag plugged his agape mouth.
He hung upside down, his ankles bound to a meat hook and hands tied and dangling above a bucket like a stag prepared to be bled.
My fingers wrapped around the hilt of the butcher’s knife, placed neatly on the table, caressing the walnut handle as I inspected both sides. The stain was wearing off where my hand had held it many times. It served me well when preparing hog and lamb, so it would do just fine on a simple man.
It was a temporary stand-in while the rest were being sharpened. The dull blade scraped along the wood of the table as I lifted it tenderly, the weight comfortably balanced in my hand.
My guest squirmed. A whine or two made it past the fabric filling his mouth. His eyes darted at anything but me.
“Shh, shh,” I soothed, crouching in front of him.
The vocal strain of a tired cry, praying someone could hear him. He threw his head over one shoulder, then the other toward the open door.
Leaning forward beside his face, my cheek nearly touched his as I looked in the same direction.
“Crying for ghosts, are we?” I whispered before sloping my head to the side.
His eyes flared wildly. A noise, pleading, muffled words I would never hear through his gag.
I dragged a finger over the side of his face, feeling every weather of the skin down to the slightest prick of unshaven scruff.
His eyes were bloodshot, a web of black blood vessels like I had just flicked a piece of untempered glass.
“This will only take a moment,” I assured.
It may have been cruel to stall, letting his heart palpitate like that. There was no good reason for letting the panic ferment like a fruity mead. My issue was that I simply couldn’t help myself. Teasing was part of the fun, and I was in aphenomenalmood today. My bedside manners had improved quite a bit in the last year, all things considered.
The cleaver blade dragged across his throat, tearing through the trachea. The cut might have been cleaner if I had something sharper to work with, which was my mistake, waiting so long to tend to my saws.
There was no yelp, no cry, no more pleas—only a gurgle before the sight faded into oblivion. The obsidian fluid drained into the bucket in a steady slick.
How interesting that a man could be reduced to one and a half liters of blood.
While my original goals were more in line with extermination, I realized sustainability is more important than anything. These things were pests, of course, but it was disrespectful to waste the remains of any living thing. Vipera were more useful alive than dead.
“Do you have venom?” the timid girl spoke from the door. “I’m leaving for my shift.”
