Page 33 of The Unraveling

Julian retches, thick red blood oozing past his lips and crackling on the hardwood. He curls into a ball on the floor, twitching with twisted, guttural wails so toe-curling you’d think a clawed creature is tearing up his insides. A wet sheen coats his flesh, and a little gasp leaves me when I realize the sweat is actually blood bubbling up through his pores.

After another bout of crimson vomit, Victor gapes at Dr. Smith, who dashes to Julian’s side and helps the man’s fumbling feet make it to the bathroom.

Daisy’s whimpering fills my ears, my body rigid as I stare unblinkingly across the room while listening to Dr. Watson come undone as John makes call after call. I don’t have to remember the start of our unraveling to know it mirrors the helplessness echoing down the hall.

Dr. Smith asks, “How much pain, Julian? On a scale of one to ten⁠—”

His voice comes shrill and cold, filled with more panic than the agony I’d expect. “It’s sickness. Existential sickness. It feels wrong, John. It just feels wrong. Chills. Weakness. Like my transformation—backward.”

I shiver, a chill deep in my bones that makes the hair stand below my sleeves. Dr. Watson retches again, and my shoulders jerk.

“Daisy,” Victor whispers as he stands and uses the desk to help him walk around to us. “I know you want to be here for Isla, but it will make us feel better if you’d go and rest. At least lie down and attempt to despite what’s going on. You still need to take care of yourself, and you look exhausted.”

Her arms slip away, though her soft kiss warms my numb cheek.

“I’ll try, Dr. Todd,” she murmurs.

I don’t hear her steps pad away, just the ringing that comes in intervals from John’s phone and each catastrophic sound of Julian’s retching that has me flinching.

Chapter 12

“My love,” Victor murmurs as he slides between the front of his desk and my knees. His sweaty, clammy hand shifts my heavy head so I’m looking at him. He tilts his head toward the sofa a handful of feet away, near a shelf teeming with files and leather books. “Come sit with me.”

Our steps are incremental, like one wrong move will have him convulsing on the floor or my consciousness tearing away. I wipe sweat from my brow and tuck my hair behind my ears as we lower ourselves onto the soft red velvet, twisting sideways with shoulders pressed against the back to better face one another.

Victor pulls my sweat-slicked palms against his and entwines our fingers in his lap as my gaze drifts toward the hall.

“We’re going to die, aren’t we, John?” Dr. Watson cries from the bathroom. “Doesn’t anybody know what’s going on?”

I hold my breath until Dr. Smith says, “They’re making calls on my behalf, too. It’s statistically unlikely we’re the first to encounter this.”

“Isla,” Victor murmurs, slowly drawing my attention away from the sounds of Julian’s vomiting in the bathroom.

I blink, and his face comes into view, blood dried in the corner of one of his eyes.

“Victor . . .” There are a thousand questions on my tongue that I know he can’t answer.

“Do you remember our wedding?” His smile is shaky, like he’s afraid I don’t.

I wait for the memory to slip from the shadows of my mind, but it stays shrouded. So I let the fluttering in my throat fan the brewing cough so the hacking can replace the shameful need to tell him how I can’t remember.

He studies me as he nibbles his lip in worry, words leaping from him just as I turn my head with Julian’s sobbing. “That’s my favorite day of all days.”

My attention snaps back to him, and I swallow thin liquid and clear my throat, a soft smile taking my lips. “Even compared to the day you became a vampire?”

He gives me a shaky nod. “Absolutely.”

“How do you remember it?” I whisper, wanting him to recount it since I can’t on my own.

He titters quietly to himself. The sound, paired with the sudden light in his eyes, makes warmth seep through the ache in my chest.

“You made it so special, love. Made it feel like we were in a romantic film . . . With the garden as a stage, and the skirt of your black gown so big and decorated with lace, it was as if you were being crowned instead of married.” He grins, dark stains of crimson between his teeth. A chuckle starts in his chest that turns into a desperate cough, and I glimpse fresh crimson on his tongue as he lowers his jaw for one more.

I swallow a knot, trying to remember that dress. Only the picture in the hall comes to mind.

“I remember,” I lie, because I can’t let him know I’ve forgotten.

How could I forget that day of all days?