JENNIE

At least there was one person who wouldn't leave me just because I demanded it. Well, a creature, but he's no less valid. Mr. Tinkles, my dearest Siamese rescue cat, served as the second-to-last living creature dwelling within Kim Manor.

The fact that he only had three limbs might have contributed to why he remained behind at all, but that was beside the point.

The moment I opened the door to his suite, he lunged from the shadows, claws drawn in his typical greeting. A bell hanging from his collar—a custom light-blue velvet one with sterling-silver hardware—jiggled manically, tracking his advance. He lunged toward me, his eyes flashing with murderous intent. By sheer luck, the back wheels of his makeshift wheelchair caught on a bump in the carpet, and I jerked out of range unscathed.

Until the room began spinning.

My stomach crawled up my throat as the wallpaper bled into the carpet. White on red, like fresh blood on pale flesh. Gagging, I slumped forward, and I had only enough time to aim opposite the direction of my cat before I ruined a priceless antique carpet with a stream of vomit. Quite the feat, considering I had nothing left in my stomach to bring up. Just more of that unsettling liquid. Red and vibrant, the puddle resisted cleaning no matter how hard I tried to mop up the mess with the end of my skirt.

It wasn't like I needed a maid. I didn't…

Luckily, I didn't need to guard from Tinkles, either. The blatant destruction of his private suite startled the poor darling into ceasing his attack. Eyes wide, he slunk toward his favorite corner. A haughty meow came a heartbeat later, demanding more food instead of my flesh for once. After I'd fulfilled his request, he watched me, swishing his tail through the air. Then he approached.

So much for his brief ceasefire. I tensed, throwing my hands out before me—but he didn't lunge. In fact, his hackles weren't even raised.

The moment he finally reached my side and curled up against my leg—without attacking—I knew then and there that something was horribly, terribly wrong.

Fear so raw that it packed a punch rendered me spineless. I sank to my knees, curling up against the invaluable carpet. And my devious, hateful feline didn't hiss at me once. In fact, I swore I felt the silken brush of his fur settling right against my abdomen.

Hours later, I escaped into the bath and made a game out of ignoring the multitude of changes I hadn't reported to the good doctor Goodfellow.

Because they didn't matter.

Like how pale my skin had become: tissue paper over the bluish veins snaking underneath, carrying my newly "healed" blood. Brittle bones stood out like exposed scaffolding, propping up my gaunt features.

One symptom, however, triggered the most alarm. It was a feeling lurking beneath the water's surface and infecting my skin. Itching. In my muscles. In my bones. Food didn't soothe the irritation. Water, either. It felt deeper.

Perhaps the manifestation of some festering tumor?

Oh joy.

Looking on the bright side, I toweled off and hunched beneath a terrycloth robe. Why all the worry? I had no terminal diagnosis.

In fact, I was supposedly cured, thanks to a vampire who gave me her magic necklace. I eyed the jewelry in question, holding it up for inspection. Some women might have cherished the expertly crafted silver cross. If I squinted, I could have called it beautiful.

Or hideous. It didn't suit me, standing out gaudily as I approached the mirror and tried to salvage my appearance.

If my health continued to decline, at least I already looked the part: dead. My frown was the liveliest thing about me. It remained as I ran a brush through my hair and dressed in an old skirt and a sweater. In the end, I put the sweater on backward and only had enough energy to sweep the worst tangles back from my face before my stomach roiled again.

The Jennie from yesterday would have written the symptom off. At least it wasn't hemorrhaging to death, no bother.

But now… The little detail of my vomit seemed harder to ignore. Remnants of it still speckled the corner of my mouth. Red. Salty. When I swiped at a smear with my thumb, the liquid spread, painting my cheek.

Dr. Goodfellow had noticed it too—a fact that suggested I wasn't making it up out of paranoia. Perhaps another scenario, other than a psychotic break, could explain the past few weeks?

Like the prospect that, despite her sudden disappearance, Lisa Manoban wasn't done with me yet.

Had she stooped to poisoning me again?

Or perhaps a more nefarious ailment to drive me insane for good?

Anything to retrieve the one thing of value I had that might interest her: her contract. She was most likely stalking me from some unseen hiding place, waiting for the chance to pounce. In the meantime, she settled for gloating from afar. Ignoring me.

Well, I would give her something to ignore.

Upon returning to my room, I collapsed onto the chair before my desk. Countless brochures littered the surface, and they fell to the floor as I swiped them aside. Some contained the donor lists of city-owned buildings. Others were political donation rosters. Some pertained to the boards of other area hospitals.

I had scoured them all for even a hint of one name. One mysterious benefactor with a fetish for the dramatic.

Again, my fingers caressed the cross hanging from my throat. The moment she'd given it to me replayed in my mind almost daily.

"Wear it," she'd insisted. "Take it off and you'll die."

Despite the warning, I had considered doing just that. I'd even tried to in the days after she'd left. But something always held me back. Stupidity, most likely. Or maybe pride?

Resisting her was what the pathetic, old Jennie had done, and look where that had gotten her.

Though look what the opposite had gotten me, current-day Jennie.

The same damn thing—loneliness.

Dejected, I watched my hand fall onto my lap. Then I wrenched a drawer open and fished out a page of stationery and a pen from inside it. The moment I pressed the nib to the paper, an odd flash of déjà vu made my hand tremble, which made ink splatter onto the page.

I envisioned a painfully beautiful person with the face of an angel, her voice cruel as she dished out her trademark proposal.

"Live or die, Jennie?"

How naïve I'd been back then. After all, there'd never been a choice. Just a game, but this time, I vowed to make my own rules—even if I had to scribble them hastily in black ink.

I never fell for it, you know. I never believed that you could actually want me. I never did…

When I finished writing, I folded the page and attempted to stick it into an envelope. I would never send it, of course.

I had some damn sense of modesty. It was the mere thought of it that mattered: shoving all of my pathetic fears regarding her into a small space and sealing it with a flick of a finger.

"Damn!" Faint heat prickled the pad of my thumb and I popped the digit into my mouth, though I barely felt the sting. Just…

Hunger.

My teeth bored down on their own accord, extending the bitter flavor coating my tongue. I must have grazed my hand over something without realizing it. Something that didn't make my stomach rebel in disgust. Instead, it triggered a thought that blotted out all others.

I need more.

I scanned the surface of the desk as I sucked, hunting for whatever substance I might be tasting. Solid oak. Paper. Black ink.

Red droplets on white parchment.

Light flickered over the domed surfaces while my brain finally connected the taste with sight.

Oh god! I wrenched my thumb from my mouth and lurched from the chair. Too fast. My hand flew out, grasping for the edge of the desk, but I missed. Both legs gave way, pitching me onto my knees. My stomach lurched at the pain. Demanding, sharp, pinching cramps…

Food. That would fix it. All I needed was a meal.

I considered bread, or a salad, or whatever might be lurking in the pantry down below, and I'd barely made it onto my hands and knees before my stomach roiled again. There was no hiding from what came up this time. Crimson painted my fingertips, caught beneath the spray, tainting my touch. Still gagging, I snatched the finished letter from my desk, hauled myself upright, and staggered toward the door.

Modesty was for healthy people.

Sane people.

And I was well beyond both states of being.

--

My new driver asked way too many damn questions. "Did you cut yourself, miss? You know this place is deserted, right? Are you sure this is the right address?"

To compound my irritation, I didn't even know his name. As he opened the door on my end, I asked him purely out of spite.

"François," he blurted after a moment's pause. His wide-eyed expression probably had something to do with the red liquid drying over the corner of my mouth. And my hands.

Rather than explain myself, I shoved the door open farther and pushed past him to mount the curb. A scorching sun cast the property in an uncharacteristically bright light. Spring was waning and warm weather had rudely invaded. Those who passed by were wearing vibrant sundresses and short-sleeved ensembles in pastel pinks and dreamy hues.

On the other hand, I was wearing a thick skirt. And a sweater. And an overcoat.

The layers were in vain—I was shivering anyway.

Perhaps my inner emotions were projecting outside? Though, in that case, I should have felt nothing. Numb was the word du jour as I pondered the hollowed-out shell of a building before me.

It had been a bustling cathedral only a few short weeks ago. Now, a sign nailed to the grand entrance claimed it closed for renovations. How subtle.

If only its worshippers knew what had taken place within this supposedly holy space, just beyond the beautiful façade of stained-glass windows.

God didn't live here alone—that was for sure. Or at least, that used to be the case. Even now, the back of my neck prickled, but a paranoid glance over my shoulder revealed no one in sight. After a moment's hesitation, I crouched and finally slid my bloodied letter beneath the door.

There. Whether anyone actually read it or not didn't matter. I'd made an attempt to have the last word.

The last laugh.

Nonetheless, I returned to the car knowing that it was a fool's errand—but how else did you reach someone who didn't want to be found?

You shouted into the void, of course.

And only silence answered back.