Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

22. Toxic

In an attempt to win a bit of free time, Volya told Young that Sangha needed him. Then Volya told Sangha that he needed to work on something Young wanted finished yesterday.

Done with lying through his teeth, Volya crept into the only place in the gigantic house where he felt safe—the kitchen. Probably, one day he would stop running to various kitchens whenever he needed comfort... but this day hadn't come yet.

It was after lunch and well before dinner. The stainless steel surfaces gleamed emptily at Volya, but he squinted to imagine Baba Masha's aproned front rubbing the counter. Her thumb would travel down the fat-stained sheets of paper to keep them from curling up. He could almost hear her grumbling, "What pea-brain decided this gonna be enough for my bunch of ragamuffins? What do they pay his salary for? This travesty? Or this?" as she stubbed the offending lines on the requisitions.

Volya smiled a little guiltily when he grabbed the insanely generous tray of cold cuts. Whatever else his strange adventure was, they fed him well. The cook always left generous snacks for him in the same right corner of the top shelf. It seems that no matter where he went, Volya liked the cooks, and they liked him back.

The doors of the fridge slid back together like the doors of a train, extinguishing the light. Loaded with the tray, Volya hooked a stool with his foot and perched by the counter, right where he'd visualized Baba Masha. He grabbed a piece of meat and stuffed it into his mouth while tracing spirals on the counter with his other hand.

Yes, he was being fed... yes, he was getting used to this house, his popularity with the mad scientists and the daily plunges into the Mnemosyne. But so far, he woke from each immersion as blank as this gray slate. No visions. At night he was out like a light. No dreams.

He chewed a couple more slices, making the invisible patterns on the slate. No visions. No dreams. What the heck was he doing wrong? No answer came from his brain. Darn, he tried to think so hard, he couldn't even taste the good meat.

Actually, the taste was there, coating his tongue—and an unfamiliar aftertaste.

A troubling aftertaste, like nothing he had ever put in his mouth before.

Volya plucked another roll of meat and brought it to his nose, instead of his mouth. He sniffed it, giving it his full attention. Wrongness filled his nostrils. The scent was sickly sweet, so the unfamiliar flavor must have been sweet as well... sickly sweet. Saliva build up in his mouth as his throat clenched, refusing to swallow.

He dropped the laced meat and darted for the sink, praying he made it before pain inevitably cut into his guts. Nausea hit, as his stomach contracted wildly, pushing the undigested mass back up his esophagus. He spat out first, before the burning, revolting flood poured out of his mouth and, God help him, even nostrils.

It was too little too late. The poison saturated his innards with something sticky and sickening. It was like he was being plastered on the inside with the stripes Baba Masha hung out in the summer to trap the flies.

After splattering the spotless sink with disgusting body fluids, Volya clutched its edge. The second wave of pain weakened his knees, almost sending him diving down the drain.

This wasn't sugar or nitrites or cellulose...

After another bout of vomiting, Volya managed to dial Sangha.

"Doctor, help..." he croaked. "Kitchen... p-poisoned."

He would explain later what he was doing alone in the kitchen instead of helping Young.

Convulsions hit. cold sweat broke through his skin and ran into his eyes.

Much, much later. He was past caring now, he just wanted to stop hurting.