Page 11 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

Calliope

Calliope stands by the kitchen window, looking out at the patio and the feeble remains of the garden that line its edge. She recognizes the dried husks of wild quinine, hyssop, and basil, and the withered petals of coneflower, milkweed, and nasturtium.

A witch’s garden can grow feral if left unattended, she remembers her grandma telling her once, as they kneeled beside each other in the cool, soft grass and dug their hands into the soil.There’s mischief that grows in between the roots and worms.Calliope almost turns around to warn Rory of this fact but decides against it. There’s nothing he, as a vampire, can do to tend to such a garden.

She could do it herself—she was trained by her grandma, after all—but she won’t be here long enoughto really make any real progress taming the tangled, frizzled mess.

She does turn around though, to take in the rest of the room. Rory is leaning into a beige refrigerator that looks at least ten years older than her. The motor inside knocks against the metal casing in protest. She spies neat rows of blue and amber bottles with white labels inside. Rory reaches for a blue one and then straightens up. She watches as he opens the nearest cabinet filled with mismatched glassware and pulls down two recycled jam jars. The bottle is promptly uncorked and when he tips it toward one of the jars, she sees a glimpse of thick, red liquid, before turning away.

The cabinets that run along the walls are painted chalk blue and accompanied by weathered wood countertops. There is a lopsided wood table shoved against the far side of the room just under the window that looks out onto the lake. Two mismatched chairs are pushed underneath on either side.

The worktable in the middle is topped with pale marble, veins of spidery grays spreading across the milky-white surface. The floor is more mundane, a squeaky, bouncy linoleum, though the diagonal checkerboard pattern gives it a more austere air than the material ought to, perhaps, have. The stove is dusty, the countertops bare. There are no pots, pans, or typical kitchen accouterments. She supposes this isn’t truly alarming. She’s sure a vampire and a grackle don’t need to cook much, if at all.

Kane perches on the back of the chair and caws at Calliope, motioning with his beak to invite her to have a seat across from him. “It’ll be good for you to drink,” he says, head twisted to the side. “All younglings should establish a steady diet right away. It helps with the cravings.”

“Were you a vampire once?” she asks, sliding into the chair. It creaks as she leans forward, palms clammy against the scarred wood surface of the table.

Kane is suddenly very busy preening himself. For a moment, she wonders if he hadn’t heard her, but there is a glint in his eye and she’s sure he’s avoiding answering the question.

Rory places a jar of blood in front of her. “It’s not as good as…. well, it’s not as good,” he admits. “But it’s from a local farm. Cow’s blood. The family who owns it takes good care of their animals.”

The glass sits in front of her, dark liquid impenetrable and mysterious. She swallows. The soreness at the back of her throat seems to swell, pulsing through her gums and down into her teeth. Warmth suffuses her cheeks, and she reaches out a shaky hand to pick up the glass, which is alarmingly cold from being stored in the fridge.

She wraps her fingers around the glass but doesn’t lift it. She brings a hand up to the side of her neck and massages gently, reminding herself that she is no longer lying on the sticky floor of the Go-Go Gas at three in the morning—reminding herself that she verymuch hadn’t wanted to die then and that this icy glass of crimson liquid holds her salvation.

“What happened to the kid?” she asks, suddenly, an image of the young man with red-rimmed eyes and spotty skin. He looked so surprised when the gun went off. That’s mostly what she remembers, the wide-eyed shock on his face, and she thinks she must have looked the same, her mouth open in surprise, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. She doesn’t have to clarify who she’s asking about.

“He’s gone,” she hears Rory reply, but for some reason, his voice sounds so far away.

She looks up at him, her hair tumbling over her shoulder. She brushes it away, glad to have a reason to let go of the jar. “Where did he go?”

Those star-bright eyes shutter again, a mental defense clamping down.

She tilts her head further, so she can see his full face. “Did you kill him?”

“Yes.”

There’s a swooping feeling in her belly and she’s not sure how she feels about this. He killed the boy, but saved her? Why? Because she asked politely? “And the body?”

“Gone,” he says. He leans over to push the glass closer to her hand, the smooth cold surface brushing against her fingertips. “Drink.”

She wants to ask more but with the increased proximity of the glass, she can now smell the contents.

It wafts its way up to her nose, twirling through her senses with a startling familiarity. Something rises behind her sternum—something acrid and bile-yellow, a vague sense of nausea. The warmth underneath her skin seems to grow, seeping up to the surface. She is on fire. She is thirsty. A roaring in her ears expands and, in the cacophony, she thinks she hears someone calling out, screaming. Is it her? No, she feels her lips, tingling and numb. They are closed, teeth clenched. She needs to drink. She doesn’t want to drink.

She looks out the window. The lake. Cool shadows. Her eyesight blurs and she swallows, feeling a bubble of fire at the back of her throat. Her teeth ache. Have they all fallen out? She places her hands palm-down on the table to stop the room from spinning. “I don’t feel so…” she begins to say.

Rory’s pinched expression swims in front of her and she feels his hand, so cold, against her forehead. She leans into his touch. Glacial. The crunch of frost. “You shouldn’t have a fever.” His voice sounds so far away. The snow in her ears is dampening the sound.

The Ether,she thinks.I need to go to the Ether.

The last thing she sees before she descends into darkness is Rory’s eyes, the same color as storm clouds filled with lightning.

8

Immortality And the Inevitable Ennui

Rory

---