Juniper Harmon

Chapter 1

Three jars of gleaming black liquid sit in the back of Amelie’s fridge, just like she said
they would. Dark. Wine-red. Thick as spit. My warped, tripled reflection frowns back at me
from within them, challenging me to come up with some other explanation beyond what she’s
already told me.

“You’re serious,” I say flatly, more to myself than to Amelie.

I glance back at my friend, propped against the kitchen counter as she watches for my reaction. She wears her usual neutral expression; wary and disinterested all at once. Her finger, pale and slender like a mannequin, taps repetitively against the counter with a telltale discomfort. Whether that’s nerves, impatience, or frustration, I couldn’t say.

I turn my attention back to the fluorescent hum of the fridge. Thin flecks of rust-brown droplets speckle the shelves. I pick up one of the jars, which comes unstuck with a tacky resistance. Heavier than it should be. It’s only half-full, with translucent remnants of the liquid inside clinging to the walls of the glass. I turn it over, watching the contents slosh thickly from one side to the other, forming clusters of bubbles on the surface like the compound eyes of an insect. Too thick for wine, too thin for jam. She could be cooking with it — but what recipes could possibly call for this much?

“Seriously, Amy. What is this?”

“I told you,” she mumbles in her cool, quiet tone, “you know what it is.”

I search her face for some hint of the truth — a cracked smile, wandering eyes — but all I find is quiet sincerity. She holds my gaze, giving away nothing.

Clearly I’m not getting any more from her. She’s told me everything there is to say, and now we’re at an impasse until I decide to believe her, or outright refuse. I call her bluff, and twist the lid off the jar with a loud pop that claps against the kitchen tiles.

Her eye twitches. A barely perceptible flinch across her sharp features, the way a cat’s ears swivel to an unexpected sound. I raise the jar to my nose. It’ll just be water, thickened with something. Some kind of jelly, failed to set. I’ll be met with the sour-sweet whiff of fruit, and I’ll roll my eyes at her and grin — good one, I’ll laugh. I breathe in the scent.

The unmistakable tang of copper swats my nose and I physically recoil, shaking my head like a dog to dislodge the smell. It clings to my throat, strong enough to taste. I blink at Amelie for an explanation, but she just raises her shoulders, having already told me exactly why her fridge is stocked with several pints of blood.

I sneer at the open jar in my hands. I suddenly feel as though I’m leaning over a bubbling cauldron, the noxious fumes enough to crumple me to the ground.

“You… drink this?” I hand the jar to her at arm’s length and step back, like she’s going to thrust it right
back into my hands.

She lids it and sets it aside with an almost bored sigh.

“I have to,” she says evenly.

The low hum of her voice would be soothing if it didn’t mask her true feelings so effectively. It’s a blasé, neutral kind of resonance that makes everything she says sound like a simple passing statement.

“Do you believe me now?”

My jaw hangs open, waiting for me to slot an answer into it. There’s a hundred reasons someone could have a fridge full of blood. Amelie’s flat is plastered with her art — macabre sketches of animal bones and shedding snakes and jewellery overgrown with moss — she could be transitioning into some kind of performance art, or painting with its unique cherry-black stain.

Or maybe it’s fertiliser. Houseplants choke every corner of her apartment, creeping along her shelves and craning for her windows — she must be doing something to sustain their oppressive nature. But no amount of rationalising is going to change what she’s told me.

She seems utterly convinced that she needs it to live.

She watches me, expressionless, save for the twist of her fine lips as she bites at the inside of her cheek, waiting for my response.

“Okay,” I concede, “tell me everything.”