Read Online Saint Peter’s Wolf by Michael Cadnum - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Cadnum
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other prizes in my collection.
I even found my hand about to lock the drawer that hid them, before I stopped myself. This was ridiculous. These were amazing curiosities, and nothing more. So I fought the desireâthe drive, the hungerâto keep them secret, and opened the drawer again, and placed the box on my desk.
I could not bring myself to touch it now that it was there. The interplay of feelings within me confused me for a moment. I wanted to open the box, I wanted to hide it. I wanted to touch the fangs, I wanted to lock them in the deepest shelf of the safe.
I stepped to the door of the study and could hear the distant twitter and blast of a computer game upstairs. Yes, Carliss, I nearly called. I have something for you. Something amazing. Something really frightening. Not a picture on a wall.
Something real. Why were my fingers trembling? I shut the door to the study and locked it. I turned to the dark box, that cube I could heft easily in one hand, and yet I put my hands behind my back to keep from touching it.
I wanted to hide them, and yet at the same time I wanted to hold them in my hand. I felt myself smile. I had never felt this before, this uneasy joy, like falling down a great depth believing that it would all be safe, that the parachute would open, or the net stretch out to catch my weight, and yet quaking, unable to calm my heart.
I pulled the curtains and switched on the desk lamp. I was being foolish. This was merely the joy at adding such an unusual curiosity to my collection. There would be no harm in opening the box, just once more, before putting it away.
There is a mirror on my study wall, near the door, an Edwardian piece, lightly flecked with blemishes as old looking glasses become. I combed my hair in it from time to time, always admiring the rosewood frame. I stepped to this mirror now, and ran my fingers through my hair. Composing myself, I thought. Straightening my tie.
But I turned as though purposefully and felt something in me break, a dike overrun by flood, an embankment collapsed by tide. I let my hand fall on the box and open it.
Like an acolyte before an altar I put both hands to my breast and could only gaze upon what I saw. The fangs were more beautiful than I had remembered. My memory would never be able to retain the image of this luster. But why I did what I was about to do never troubled me. I never doubted that I was doing something that was right, necessary, even logical.
Once, in an antique store, I had opened a cigarette case and plucked out an ancient Chesterfield and, although I do not even smoke, accepted the joking light of a friend before I snatched the cigarette from my mouth, repulsed not so much by the taste of the smoke as by the idea of smoking such desiccated, years-dead leaf.
This memory did not occur to me now. I thought only: if I had bought a fedora from an antique clothes store, would I not try it on? If, on a whim, I had purchased a monocle, would I not tuck it into place, just to see how it looked? Would I not try on any purchase or any find, however strange or ancient, if it seemed meant to be worn?
My hand did the work. It lifted the fangs carefully from their red velvet and the gleam of the silver caught the light of the desk lamp. Like an act I had rehearsed every day of my life, like an actor so accustomed to a role he applies his costume unthinkingly, I carried the fangs to my mouth, and they slipped into my mouth and over my teeth as though designed before my birth for my sole use.
They had a wonderful flavor, like cloves, and like cloves the flavor was faintly numbing, and glowing, a living flavor. As I stepped to the mirror I savored a spice both ancient and seductive. I stood before the mirror, squaring myself well before it before I opened my mouth, my eyes glittering. And then I smiled.
I thrust the fangs back into the box, and in one quick, continuous movement, snapped the box shut, shoved them into a drawer, and plunged the key
I even found my hand about to lock the drawer that hid them, before I stopped myself. This was ridiculous. These were amazing curiosities, and nothing more. So I fought the desireâthe drive, the hungerâto keep them secret, and opened the drawer again, and placed the box on my desk.
I could not bring myself to touch it now that it was there. The interplay of feelings within me confused me for a moment. I wanted to open the box, I wanted to hide it. I wanted to touch the fangs, I wanted to lock them in the deepest shelf of the safe.
I stepped to the door of the study and could hear the distant twitter and blast of a computer game upstairs. Yes, Carliss, I nearly called. I have something for you. Something amazing. Something really frightening. Not a picture on a wall.
Something real. Why were my fingers trembling? I shut the door to the study and locked it. I turned to the dark box, that cube I could heft easily in one hand, and yet I put my hands behind my back to keep from touching it.
I wanted to hide them, and yet at the same time I wanted to hold them in my hand. I felt myself smile. I had never felt this before, this uneasy joy, like falling down a great depth believing that it would all be safe, that the parachute would open, or the net stretch out to catch my weight, and yet quaking, unable to calm my heart.
I pulled the curtains and switched on the desk lamp. I was being foolish. This was merely the joy at adding such an unusual curiosity to my collection. There would be no harm in opening the box, just once more, before putting it away.
There is a mirror on my study wall, near the door, an Edwardian piece, lightly flecked with blemishes as old looking glasses become. I combed my hair in it from time to time, always admiring the rosewood frame. I stepped to this mirror now, and ran my fingers through my hair. Composing myself, I thought. Straightening my tie.
But I turned as though purposefully and felt something in me break, a dike overrun by flood, an embankment collapsed by tide. I let my hand fall on the box and open it.
Like an acolyte before an altar I put both hands to my breast and could only gaze upon what I saw. The fangs were more beautiful than I had remembered. My memory would never be able to retain the image of this luster. But why I did what I was about to do never troubled me. I never doubted that I was doing something that was right, necessary, even logical.
Once, in an antique store, I had opened a cigarette case and plucked out an ancient Chesterfield and, although I do not even smoke, accepted the joking light of a friend before I snatched the cigarette from my mouth, repulsed not so much by the taste of the smoke as by the idea of smoking such desiccated, years-dead leaf.
This memory did not occur to me now. I thought only: if I had bought a fedora from an antique clothes store, would I not try it on? If, on a whim, I had purchased a monocle, would I not tuck it into place, just to see how it looked? Would I not try on any purchase or any find, however strange or ancient, if it seemed meant to be worn?
My hand did the work. It lifted the fangs carefully from their red velvet and the gleam of the silver caught the light of the desk lamp. Like an act I had rehearsed every day of my life, like an actor so accustomed to a role he applies his costume unthinkingly, I carried the fangs to my mouth, and they slipped into my mouth and over my teeth as though designed before my birth for my sole use.
They had a wonderful flavor, like cloves, and like cloves the flavor was faintly numbing, and glowing, a living flavor. As I stepped to the mirror I savored a spice both ancient and seductive. I stood before the mirror, squaring myself well before it before I opened my mouth, my eyes glittering. And then I smiled.
I thrust the fangs back into the box, and in one quick, continuous movement, snapped the box shut, shoved them into a drawer, and plunged the key
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