Page 55 of This Vicious Hunger

Chapter Thirty-Three

I stumble through the maze of darkness, right up to the doors of the house of Death, but she refuses to draw me into the arms of Heaven.

The agony is endless. It isn’t long before I am begging aloud for Hell to take me instead.

Anything is better than this. Please , I beg silently.

Please, please, make it end. If there is a god, may he shepherd me away from this torture and grease the palms of those above—or below.

But if there is a god, he does not hear me, since Hell clearly doesn’t want me either.

The pain is simultaneously hot and freezing cold, each movement I make fracturing my bones and mending them again so that they can break anew. My tongue is dry as dust, my teeth aching, too big for my mouth, blood seeping down my chin from my tattered gums.

In the throes of this pain, I dream of nightmarish landscapes, twisted roots blackened by fire atop writhing craters filled with maggots or the crush of soil overhead, crawling in my mouth and nose, spitting flies.

In the next in-between place I find table after table heaped with food, roast chickens and succulent joints of lamb studded with rosemary.

Thick wheels of yellow cheese and jugs of wine the colour of blood.

I surge towards the feast, knowing there is a place set for me at the table although I am unable to see it.

At the head of the table there is a chair made of carved ivory, polished like a fresh duck egg.

The seat of the chair is adorned with ropy red and black velvet, tassels creeping against its legs.

Olea sits atop the throne, her head pushed back in ecstasy as she finishes chewing and licks the pink meat juices from her delicate fingers.

My heart thunders at the sight of her, but it is the feast that guides my feet. My body sways, a corpse-like stagger. I reach for the table. My nails are black and ripped down the middle and I claw at the meat, dragging a drumstick to my mouth.

I bite down, savouring the soft flesh between the sharpness of my teeth, the meat melting on my tongue.

The taste of blood rushes down my throat, vibrant, still beating, beating like my heart should.

The chicken in my hand goes limp, feathers drifting down my dress.

I hardly notice that where before was a platter of cooked meat, now lies the body of a rabbit, another of a whole pig, barely cold.

Olea. Her face is bloodied, ruby droplets on her bare chest, rivulets running down past her navel and her hands slick with the dark display. She opens her eyes and they are the black of night, lips parted, teeth bared. She tears at something small and white and blood spurts down her chin.

The chair of ivory is a chair of bones, the velvet tassels the remnants of flesh. Olea leans forward in her throne and beckons me. Come , she whispers, and a familiar, aching wetness surges between my legs. Come.

I awaken, breathless, to the aroma of roses. Buttery early sunlight falls in beams around the edges of an ill-fitting shutter. I blink and slowly the room swims into relief.

It is not sunlight, but the flickering flames of candlelight; I am not in a bed, but somebody has laid my body across some kind of burlap sacking, which bunches between me and the hard flagstone floor.

It hits me then. I am alive.

I grope down my body, feeling the hardness of muscle and bones at my hips and the soft plumpness of my breasts.

The dress I’m wearing is white and silken and I luxuriate in the feel of it across my skin, the fabric so light and sweet it is like spider silk.

Every synapse fires within me. The candlelight is golden and glorious, my dress the most exquisite thing I have ever touched, my skin as soft and cold as fresh water. I pause.

My tongue snakes between my teeth, which are sharper than I recall. I cannot feel my heartbeat.

“Perfect.”

The word comes out a purr, the voice without a face. Long seconds pass before I recall its owner. My hands drop to my sides, frozen. I would take the pain over this.

“What do you feel?”

Dr. Petaccia’s face swims into view, only her eyes visible over the band of fabric she wears to cover her mouth, and my vision distorted by the angle of my neck. I try to turn my face away and she clucks disappointedly.

“Ah now,” she scolds. “Must you really continue to be so mulish? Anybody would think you’d be a little more grateful.”

I struggle to prop myself up on my elbows. My limbs are so fluid they feel almost like water. No, more like running a moistened hand over glass. I judder, knocking my chin against my shoulder and biting down on my tongue.

The taste is… not quite right. It is blood and yet it is not. Somehow it is thicker, slower, honeyed. I try to hide my panic behind the action of sitting upright, but it doesn’t work.

“Holy fuck.”

I can’t believe my eyes. I am sure I must be dreaming, another nightmare in the in-between taking over, for right ahead, upright on the table, legs dangling over its side as she peers down at me, is Olea.

“Well, quite,” says the doctor, and I know I’m not hallucinating. She steps away from both of us and lowers her mask to expose the rest of her face, clearly satisfied. Her grin is wolfish.

“ How? ” I exclaim.

Olea doesn’t speak right away. It’s clear she’s just as confused as I am.

She reaches up to her face, examining her nose, her lips, her cheeks, through the gentle touch of her fingertips.

Her skin is barely a whisper darker than her nightgown, smooth and unblemished.

Her lips are a healthy peach. When she opens her mouth, her voice is throaty with disuse.

“The cure,” she breathes.

“Well done,” Petaccia says to me by way of agreeing. “I knew all we needed was a little freshness. Fresh eyes, fresh passion.” Her gaze travels between the two of us and her wolfish smile deepens.

“It worked?” Olea asks.

I touch the satin material of my nightgown again, rubbing it between my fingers as if I could start a fire and blaze this whole place to the ground. A wave of rage crests in me. Did it work? And what is the cost?

“I told you to trust me, my dear. Didn’t I say—”

“Where are my clothes?” I demand. I attempt to climb to my feet but the effect is ruined by my slippery limbs. I sink back against the sacking, winded.

“I’ve taken them away to be examined, and likely burned. They were quite badly damaged—bodily fluids, you know—during your transformation.”

“Transformation?” My anger dissipates in a cloud of smoke. “What do you mean ‘transformation’?”

“Well, you’re hardly the same as you were, are you?” Petaccia chides. “Look at yourself.”

She points to the floor beside me, and there is a hand mirror, as if she’s been waiting for the opportunity to draw my attention to it.

I know I should ignore her goading, force my limbs to obey and stalk out of here, but I can’t help the curiosity that holds me frozen as I reach for the looking glass.

I hold the mirror to my face, letting the horror—and the wonder—unfurl in my expression.

The first thing I notice is my hair. It is thicker and longer than it has been in months, now falling to my shoulders in gentle burnished waves.

Where Olea’s skin is alabaster, mine is like sun-warmed sand.

Gone is the greyish tint it has developed over the last weeks, the dark circles under my eyes, that perpetual look of having not eaten enough.

I am not plump, but the jut of my cheekbones now looks as if it has always been that way, as if I have been carved from gilded stone.

“The antidote…” I say. “It restored…” Restored, rejuvenated, reanimated .

The thought is a stab right in my gut. I look at Olea, and the meeting of our gazes is electric, a flash of lightning under my skin.

She understands. We are perfect, re-created in the Lord’s perfect image—and that does not come for free.

“Yes.” Petaccia claps her hands together in delight.

“It remade you both. I’ll admit I wasn’t sure it had worked.

Especially you, Olea.” She shakes her head and clicks her tongue, this time in pleasure.

“I’m glad I was wrong. I was starting to think that all my plans were for nothing.

And when you took her from the garden…” She shakes her head at me.

“It turns out loneliness is quite the growth inhibitor. Who knew? Well, I did. I began to suspect as much after the last debacle. I’m glad all that worked out too.

And human blood! My god, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.

The Dendrocnide moroides was a nice touch—I have a theory about the powdering process, but I won’t bore you with that now—”

“You,” Olea growls. “You did this. You orchestrated all of it .” She jumps off the table, making to march towards Petaccia with her fists raised, but her knees give way and she crumples to the flagstones at my feet.

I scramble to help her, pulling her towards me, instantly aware of the coolness of her skin, the fire she creates in my touch.

Petaccia says nothing except, “Careful.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, turning back to Olea. Her eyes are dark with anger.

“She planted you,” she says. “In those rooms—right where she knew you would see me. For years she told me I shouldn’t leave the garden, shouldn’t have friends.

For fucking years she isolated me in this place.

And then one day you turn up, and you know about grief and dying and you want so badly to learn.

I didn’t suspect it then, but I’m right, aren’t I?

” She glares at the doctor. “You put her right there, for me. Like some kind of prize to be won.”

“Is it true?” I demand fiercely, though I know she chose my rooms. It feels so… calculated. And, of course, I feel foolish for imagining the doctor would have taken me on if my father had merely asked .

“Eh.” Petaccia shrugs. “That’s hardly the worst of my crimes.”

“How could you?” Olea shrieks.

“Calm down.”