Page 39 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

The truth is that she doesn’t much care about his past, but she does, however, feel a twinge of grief for the man who shot her. But even then, grief doesn’t encompass the entirety of her feelings on the matter. It’s a complex feeling. An apple with too many sides, her grandma would call it. The phrase never did make sense to Calliope, but she supposes that’s the whole point of it.

The man had shot her, after all, and anger still courses through her at the thought. It was entirely unprovoked. She just turned around and there he was, holding a gun in his wobbly grip. Maybe he had mistaken her for someone else? Regardless, she could have died on the cold dirty floor with the too-bright fluorescent lights, if Rory hadn’t been there. So, perhaps that resentful, angry side of her feels Rory’s actions were justified.

And anyway, Rory seems to be feeling enough guilt for the both of them. As much as he seems capable of switching his emotions faster than he can change his socks, he sure does seem to hold onto them. She imagines his emotions as a great big pile of socks, growing bigger with each new emotion he discards. She wonders how long it’ll take for him to suffocate under the weight. How many more centuries does he have before his guilt breaks him? When it comes down to it, though, she can’t dismiss the fact that vampires are natural-born killers, with instincts that support thisbiological imperative. After all, she has felt it even within herself.

She pours the bee balm powder into a small dish and moves onto the dried gum arabic. She’s not sure where it came from or how old it is, but she’s not surprised to find it in a house previously owned by witches. It was a staple in her grandma’s kitchen too, used in medicinal syrups and tinctures.

She continues grinding, the slip of pestle against mortar oddly soothing. Her grandma used to tell her that she wasn’t discerning enough—that she too easily forgives others for their indiscretions. It was one of the reasons she was so willing to marry Maddox. Unlike her grandma, Calliope is willing to look past the rigid binary of morality.Life is fluid and so are people, she would tell her grandma. She brushed away her grandma’s concerns, overlooking the signs that her husband-to-be was power-hungry and manipulative. Even after the wedding, when the honeymoon faded away and he got down on his knees, eyes glistening with unshed tears and begged her for help.Just a little bit. To keep the business going. We won’t be able to pay the bills without it.

She grinds the gum arabic harder, teeth set on edge by the friction of her foolishness.

Kane flies in through the open window and she hears a soft flutter before he lands on her shoulder, talons pinching the strap of her dress. “Is it something tasty?” he asks.

She smirks. “Only if you like eating paint.”

“I do not,” he replies haughtily. He pushes away from her shoulder and lands on the table, nipping at the newspaper until Rory lowers it with an annoyed, “What?”

“Can you get me some chips when you go to work tonight?”

Calliope smiles to herself at Rory’s long-suffering sigh. “Sure,” she hears him say. There is an indignant caw, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rory ruffling the soft feathers on Kane’s head. “Regular or Onion flavored?”

“Both,” is the reply. There is another rustle of feathers as Kane leaves.

“Not even a thanks,” mumbles Rory, but when Calliope turns around, she sees the corner of his mouth twitch up, ever-so-slightly.

She smiles too, turning back to her task at hand. Perhaps she should be following her grandma’s philosophy now, but even with the mistake that was Maddox Grey behind her, she still trusts her feelings.Two weeks, Rory told her. In a few short days, she will be free to leave Graeme House. Yet, she doesn’t want to leave. That soft tender moonflower of affection that’s growing at the base of a tree: she could nurture it, encourage it, let it spread across the forest floor.

“You okay?”

She jumps, surprised to see Rory standing behind her, and then laughs breathily. “We should put a bellon you.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up slightly. “I said your name but you seemed miles away.”

She sits the mortar and pestle down, wiping at a stray curl tickling her cheek. “I’m just a little tired, I think.”

“It’s probably the sun. We spent a lot of time outside today.” He places a cool hand on her forehead, and she lets herself lean into the touch, to feel the coldness spread against her skin.

“That feels nice,” she whispers, eyes closed. She feels his hand slide down to the side of her face, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek, ghosting along her jawline.

“You’re burning up.”

She opens her eyes slowly, looking up at him beneath thick eyelashes. “I’m always burning up.”

His face is so close, she could drown in his irises. His hand falls away and his frown deepens. “I can pick up some ice packs from the Go-Go, if you want. Might help.”

“Oh.” She blinks. “Right. Okay. Thank you.”

* * *

Calliope stands on the porch, eyes darting between her notebook and the lake as she compares the two. She makes a small adjustment to the trees, adding just a little bit of shading until she has the perfect shape ofthe tree line in front of her.

Her paints will have to cure overnight, but her canvas is stretched and ready to be adorned. With the sketches she’s working on now, she’ll be ready to paint first thing in the morning.

The sun is just beginning to set, and Calliope is working fast to sketch the lake view before she loses the light to sundown and the gathering storm on the horizon. The air smells of ozone and dirt. The clouds have turned angry, tinged with purple, and she tries to capture the contrast in graphite.

The manacles clink as she works, making her movements awkward and jittery. When the edge of a cuff drags across her notebook, she swears under her breath at the rip in the paper and begins to turn to the next blank page. The pencil slips from her hand, tumbling over the edge of the step. Calliope is reaching for it, when a shrill cry suddenly breaks through the rain-heavy air. The notebook slides out of her hand and she covers her ears, teeth gritted against the pain echoing inside of her head. But it’s not just inside of her head, banging against her temples. It’s bouncing against the trees, it’s rippling through the lake. It’s ripping through her throat and out of her mouth.

She needs it to end.

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