Page 81 of This Vicious Hunger
“Thora, there’s something really, really wrong here. Why won’t you let me in? Is it the plants?”
“The plants love me. Not as much as they loveher, of course.”
“Olea?”
“Olie, Olie,” I say. God, the closer I am to the gate, the stronger I can smell him. He is aftershave and fresh, clean sweat. His floppy hair is like a hat. I’d like to take his glasses off and step on them. I wonder what he’d smell like if I grabbed hold of him, his neck, his hair—
“Right, I’m not leaving you, but I have to go and find somebody who can let me in. You obviously can’t stay in there. I’ll be back with Dr. Petaccia or Almerto, anybody who can help. Okay?”
He makes to leave and a wail escapes me. I didn’t even intend the sound, like a dying pig, and the shock of it turns me to laughter once more.
“Clara’s over there,” I say. “You should come in and see her.”
“… What?” Leo stops, frozen in place. I’ve never seen a look like this on his face. It is hurt and confusion and anger and betrayal; it is disbelief. Worse: it is the belief beneath it.
“Over there,” I repeat, waving at the boggart’s posy. “At least I think she is. Don’t see why Olea would bury the ring there and not the lady.” I snort. “She’s all sorts of tricky. Did you know you were married to a thief? Olea kissed her, you know. Shekissedher. Oh, but I don’t think Clara kissed her back. Of course, she didn’t have to. Damage, it was all damage. How does that make you feel? It makes me feel a certain kind of way.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Leo’s voice has gone cold. I hadn’t noticed the warm concern until it was gone, but it feels better this way. I don’t deserve his kindness. Olea is right: maybe Iwasjust using him. He might have married me, too, sincehe’s so afraid of himself. He’ll be better off without me. “It’s clear you’re not well. Look at you.”
“Look at me,” I repeat. I curtsy, lifting my nightgown higher than I’m sure is appropriate. I’m not a society lady, thank god. I never really was one. And anyway, Leo won’t look at what’s between my legs. “I’m fine. Better than fine. Stronger than fine. Well, less stronger than finer and less finer than I was.”
The scent of him is driving me mad. I can’t think. My stomach clenches so tightly I think I might have to curl into a ball, and yet I don’t think that would make Leo very happy.
“Come here,” I soothe. “Look at me. I’m fine.”
“No. I’m going to get help. Stay right there, please don’t move. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Don’t!” I cry. “Please, Leo, I’m sorry.” I reach through the bars. They are cold, the rust digging into my flesh. I feel the prickle of pain and for just a moment I am myself. I lean hard against the bars of the gate, pressing my face up close. Leo is hesitant, but he hasn’t fled yet. I beckon him with my arm. “Please,” I whisper, dropping my voice low enough that I know he won’t hear me unless he steps in. “Don’t tell.”
“I’ve got to do something. I’m… Thora, I’m dreadfully worried about you. Have you been drinking? You can tell me if you have. Or if you’ve taken something else, a pill or smoked some of the leaves. I wasn’t born yesterday. I’d understand.”
“Open the gate,” I whisper. “Can you do it? I can’t. Not tonight. I’m not strong enough. Nobody can know, though.”
“You’re not making any sense—”
“Can you do it?” I demand, a little louder. The fear is back and I know he can see it in my face. “Can you let me out? I don’t want to be here. I can’t…”
He lifts a hand to examine the lock on the gate. I know he’s exasperated—I cansmellit on him. It is like impending rain, a blustery kind of scent. I like it. I want to taste it. He rattles the padlock, which is attached to a thick link chain.
“I don’t remember anything like this being here before,” he says, then shakes his head. “I told you, I need to get he-elp.”
The wobble in his voice surprises Leonardo more than it does me. He swallows hard and glances down at his fingers. They aren’t touching mine, aren’t even touching where my hands have been, but we are close: perhaps only centimetres apart. I can smell the dinner wine on his breath. I let out a huff. Petaccia doesn’t wear a mask around us, but I suppose she’s been microdosing herself a little, just a little, for years and years. But she does wear gloves. Leo isn’t so lucky.
“Are you sure you don’t have any food?” I ask sweetly. “I’m just so incredibly fucking hungry.”
“Tho-ora,” he says. His voice changes. “What did you do?”
His panic cuts through the fog, but it is only a second, a brief second where I understand: he is wilting. Like the hare. Only he doesn’t know it yet. And then the scent of him slams into me like a brick; the weak flutter of his heart is the smoky fry of bacon, the rushing pallor of his skin is rich, salty whipped cheese on crusty bread. My mouth waters. I snatch my arm farther through the gate, grasping for his jacket to pull him closer.
It happens in less than a second. My fingertips graze the back of his hand and something in me is unleashed, something I didn’t even know was there. It is a monster. I fling my arm wildly through the gate, scratching and clawing, grasping for more of him. Leonardo is in the dirt by the wall, panting and crying and trying to scramble away, but I’ve caught his trousers and I won’t let go. A dark scream tears through me.
“Thora!” The shout barely breaks my concentration. “Thora, let him go!”
It is Olea. I know it’s her. I don’t want her here. She’s right behind me, coming up fast. Her hands grasp my shoulders and try to pull. I send one elbow back and it connects sharply with her jaw, but she doesn’t stop.
“Thora, you’re killing him.”
“Olie, I’mhungry,” I grind out. “He smells—he smells so good.”
