Page 148 of A Dead Man's B-Side
I turned to him and raised a brow. “What’s so funny?”
Wolf looked back with an innocent look, scrunching his brows. “Nothing…”
I shook my head, wincing at the sudden pain at the crown of my head.
Wolf let out a breath, shaking his head and walking over to his bed to drop onto it, slumping over to the side in dejection. “You didn’t let me finish. Have you ever heard of Mithridatism?”
I parted my lips to answer but couldn’t find the words in my mind that would come out of my mouth. I only replied with a truthful, “No, I can’t say I have.”
Wolf hummed, tilting his head to watch me where I remained. “Thought so, as ill-advised as it is. It’s the practice of protecting oneself from poison by consuming it yourself. In small doses. I self-administer small, non-lethal doses slowly. Upping the dosage when the effect proves useless. Over time, your body builds up a tolerance and… you can become immune to poisons. Well, it only works for some. Others are either too strong or intolerable, no matter how small or large the dosage you start with is. Your body would never have the right… tools to break it down.”
I went to speak but couldn’t find anything to reply with. I couldn’t tell if he was looking for comfort and acceptance or advice.I closed my mouth and nodded, allowing myself the time to process the information he’d just given me.
We were silent for a few moments, and I slid my eyes to the contents on the table, allowing it to shine under a new light.
How clever.
How paranoid.
“No one sets out to build immunity to poison unless it is a method of death they are familiar with,” I said, dread filling me with what might come next.
Wolf tensed.
Oh.
He stood and met my eyes, his next words allowing me to raise a brow that almost stretched up and over my hairline. “I am. I’m fairly certain someone might try and kill me this break. And that is why I am formally inviting you to stay at Kingsley Manor over the holidays.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Alexandr Miroslav
1982
“I’m just afraid that I’ve lost some sort of humanity in me. Like my family might see something I couldn’t catch in my own reflection. Are my eyes emptier? Darker?”
I tilted my head. “This isn’t a movie, August.” I opened my arms out under the candlelight glow of his dorm and shrugged. “I’ve killed loads of people and look at me—as human as you.”
His eyes widened comically before I rolled my eyes and lowered my arms. “I’m joking. Slightly. Besides, it’s not as if death and murder are anything new in The Founder’s Society.”
I meant to lighten the mood, trying to shift his focus away from what might continue to haunt him, but he didn’t seem distracted. Or perhaps it was the wrong words.
I felt a prickle pressing on the hairs at the back of my neck, assuming it was discomfort. But the heavy blanket of someone’s gaze on me was acutely specific.
My muscles began to seize up as I turned my head to where I felt the shift of air.
Nestled in the corner, in between August’s stack of books and his desk, I found the space entirely void of any suspicion.
Narrowing my eyes and tilting my head, I stared at the corner for long seconds, in silence. As if someone watching a spider freeze its crawl and wondering if, at any moment, it would jump out towards them.
I let out a quiet breath, swallowing down my momentary lapse of judgment when my surroundings remained frozen in time, and shook my head.
August, none the wiser to the internal turmoil compressing against itself inside me, nodded slowly. “Right.”
He was a good person. Out of the seven of us, I would say he was the purest. He was sarcastic and aggravating, and oftentimes, I wished I could stick a fork into his hands when he would cut half of my meal and half of his to make us share.
It's what friends do, he always said.
But a big part of him reminded me of myself. Or how I imagined I might’ve turned out if my life had taken on a slightly different path. If I’d been born into a healthier family.
