“On the table.” I watched the bucket fill sluggishly, creeping up to the half line.
“Could we keep them alive a little longer next time? Gather more fluids from them in one go?”
“That means someone has to be here and watch them. I’m too busy.”
“I don’t mind staying and helping one of these nights.”
“You have night shifts at the hospital.”
“I can take a night off!”
“Edith.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “That is all I have for now. Make do.”
Edith’s throat lurched, as if my words were stones. Her nursing uniform was already starched and cleaned, her personal addition of a white head scarf hiding most of her head and neck. A few curls of blond peeked out from under her covering, framing her freckled face.
Phoebe and I had met Edith in the apothecary, the new one, all those years ago.
She was looking for common medicines for her charitable home visits for the elderly. Only after bonding did we find that she was a young Vipera, about fifty years old. Of course, in Vipera fashion, she did not look over twenty-five. With her unassuming demeanor, she could pass for younger. Little did we know, she would be the first of many.
“I’m sorry.” I approached, cupping her face with both my hands as if to convince her not to cry. “I will get more. We can ask the girls to help. I will bring glassware home so you can bring the samples to work tomorrow. Deal?”
“Deal.” She allowed herself a skittish smile, my promise thawing some tension.
I patted her cheek and let her go.
When I turned back, the man was nearly the color of chalk. I placed my index and middle finger on his neck. His arteries were still. My chore for the day was officially finished.
I transferred the blood into an amber glass jug and into the ice box in the corner. The best way to store it was away from light and in cooler temperatures, safe and sound, until it was ready to be used.
One thing I have learned about Vipera is that their blood is dead, that is why it is black. The chemicals, however, are very much alive and fermenting. It was similar to how stepping on a dead bee would still envenomate you through its sting. Safety when handling such toxins was crucial.
The sky dulled almost as fast as a corpse on ice, the day’s postmortem leeching what little warmth was left as it settled intonight. Most were safe and sound at home by now, kissing their wives and children and eating a hearty meal fresh from the stove to fight off the dreary night ahead.
I climbed on my mount, my extra weight not generating so much as a flick of an ear. With a mammoth like him, I wasn’t sure there was anything that could bother him. If a landmine went off beside him, he would let out a yawn. My blue roan steed was the most reliable man I knew. His name wasHorse.
I know what some may think—how lazy must I be for naming a horse after itself? The truth is, I had trouble picking a name. I could not decide on the absolute perfect one. It became a joke for me to just refer to him asHorse; then it stuck, and he began to respond to it. A simple thing like him never minded.
Adjusting the reins, I clicked my tongue and encouraged him forward. His form heeled forward and started on the path home.
The dirt road was long, and soon the sight of the charming city turned into trees with an occasional home along the trail.
Our own humble abode was elevated on a slight hill before it turned a corner into the dark wooded road.
The farmhouse was a concept Phoebe and I wanted to try. Inexpensive and in dire need of repairs, it was nonetheless a convenient thirty-minute ride outside Buffalo. It was a comfortable property nestled into the temperate landscape. A field spanned behind the house, surrounded by maples, firs, and oaks.
It was the perfect grounds for burying bodies for natural decomposition, a respectable end to disrespectful men.
The field bloomed with wildflowers in spring, and the grass stayed long until the frost weighed it down before winter. When autumn came around, the trees turned the brightest oranges and reds, like the world set afire when the air began to bite; a reminder to keep warm thoughts.
The front porch steps creaked, most notably the third, since I had neglected to replace the warped wood. The house was white—or rather, it wassupposedto be white. Chipped paint faded and peppered the facade. Charcoal trim turned to an ashy slate around the shutters and porch railing.
But even with its run-down exterior, the stirring silhouettes in the windows made me forget I was nitpicking the aesthetics of a place I called home.
Phoebe and I had bought two properties when we arrived in Buffalo: the farmhouse and the apothecary. Our only trouble was with the law. Only married women could buy property in New York.
Phoebe had to forge marriage papers. She took my last name. Admittedly, we were unsure if they would verify the records. Turned out to be a nonissue, as Phoebe brought a large amount of cash from London. We made up an imaginary brother. I suggested the nameAlin Lisfor her imaginary husband, who worked overseas. As far as strangers knew, I was her sister-in-law.
I gripped the brass doorknob, pushing twice to get it unstuck. When I entered, the scent of cooked rabbit, potatoes, and fresh bread embraced me like a lover after a long trip at sea.
