Page 59 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

She lets the kitchen door swing shut before he looks up, and as she makes her way up the stairs, she marvels at how the light becomes thinner, pulled taut by the distance she puts between herself and Rory. It’s delicate though. She has a feeling it could snap at any moment.

28

Something Sharp and Hungry

Rory

Rory listens to the sounds of Calliope making her way up the stairs. There’s an uneasiness in his chest, a sense of forbidding. He keeps rubbing his sternum to dispel the feeling, which started as she told him about her husband and her suspicion that he isn’t dead.

If Calliope’s vampiric instincts manifest as a snarling many-eyed, horned beast, then his are black fire coursing through his body. Even now, as he stirs the potion, his hands clench with the urge to snap the unknown man’s neck.

He keeps his grip on the glass stirring rod firm but steady. He thinks again of that forest she pulled him into and the vaguely wolf-like creature that stood beside her. It’s no wonder she barely has anycravings for blood if she’s managed to tame her hunger into a creature like that, one who answers her command, however reluctantly. And what did she call it? Hun? The thing that all vampires have raging in their blood, the instinct that has caused countless deaths, torn bodies apart, drank another’s life like water and she calls it Hun.

He smiles to himself and continues stirring. A flutter of wings and Kane lands on his shoulder, claws pinching his skin.

“What’s so funny?” asks the bird, nipping at his ear.

“Nothing.” He schools his expression into something more neutral. “How was it here while we were gone?”

“It was fine. Quiet. That horse though…” Kane looks outside the window. “It’s weird. Something changed while you were gone.”

Rory removes the stirring rod and places it on a clean cloth beside the stove. “Well, it’ll be gone in three days.” He turns, shaking his shoulder to dislodge Kane, and brings over the bowls of ingredients that Calliope prepared.

He begins to add them in, slowly, stirring between each one and checking for any unintended reactions—not that he would know an unintended reaction if he saw one. He’s relying on his rusty alchemy skills to judge the quality of the final product, but there is truly no knowing if what he is doing will accidentally ruinthe whole batch. He finishes with a strand of Effie’s hair and watches as the liquid bubbles up around it. It disappears under the thin teal film that quickly coalesces over the top of the potion.

Kane watches, perched on the counter, and when Rory finishes, he returns to his shoulder. “And now we wait,” he caws softly.

* * *

The days pass slowly, agonizingly so. Rory continues to feel the heavy sense of something in his chest, though he’s not quite sure what it means—if it means anything at all.

It is early-August, and all the windows stay open, the house sympathetic to the plight of its inhabitants and their intolerance of the heat. Calliope twists her hair up to keep it off her neck, though the curly mass always escapes its confines in the end. Rory relents and foregoes the long sleeves, being extra cautious in sticking close to the shadows as they shift around the house.

The cauldron sits on the stove, a dish towel draped over the top.

The days pass and Rory catches Calliope looking at him oddly, with a sparkle in her emerald eyes that he can’t quite define. He’s not sure if it’s a good look or something sad. She’s going to leave, he thinks and the heavy thing in his chest squirms.

She reads through Griselda’s grimoires, looking for a protection spell or something to help keep them hidden, to prevent intruders from happening upon the house.

When Kane isn’t in the library with her, he stays close to the porch, watching the rippling shadow of the kelpie as it circles the perimeter of the lake.

* * *

On the second day, Calliope stands on the porch, eyes darting from her canvas to the lake. She makes a stroke, just one, and Rory is amazed at how such a small addition can change the entire thing, how one swipe of a paintbrush can mean the difference between an indistinct blob and something recognizable.

But suddenly, she drops the paintbrush and sits down next to him, arms folded sullenly across her chest. He raises an eyebrow as he brings his glass to his mouth.

“It’s not doing what I want it to do,” she explains. She unfolds her arms and leans forward, elbows propped on the table. “I hate waiting.”

He drains his glass in one smooth motion. “Come on.” He ushers her into the kitchen, then through the door and into the living room. He sits at the piano, patting the spot next to him. “I’ll teach you.”

The smile that blooms across her face is radiant. The thing in his chest feels warm, full.Happy.

Her shoulder brushes against his arm. He can feel her thigh pressed against his even through the thick cotton of his jeans.

She watches his fingers eagerly as he plays a simple scale, announcing the notes as he presses down the keys one by one. She emulates him, plucking out each note and nodding. Her hair, half loose from her braid, tickles his shoulder.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

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