Текст книги "Stars of Fortune"
Автор книги: Nora Roberts
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“The gift of magicks has come through the blood, and so has the quest for the stars. I came here because, as with you, Riley, I came upon some information. While once again scouring books until my eyes bled, I came on a passage that spoke of a fallen star, one of fire, waiting in a land of green. You might think Greenland, and I did, or Ireland, but there was more that convinced me it was here. It was written the maidens of Korkyra had hidden it, away from the mother of lies.”
“Not much different from what I found,” Riley said. “And the timing? You, me, Sasha? It cements it.”
“I’d barely arrived, and like you, booked the hotel on impulse as I thought to rent a villa. For the quiet, the privacy, as I’d need to work, and hotel rooms aren’t always . . . convenient for certain work.”
“When you make magick,” Annika said, and made him smile.
“When I do. And so I walked out on the hotel terrace, annoyed with myself for changing my plans and direction. Imagine my surprise when I found myself lured over to two beautiful women, with fascinating stories to tell.”
“So you teamed up,” Doyle said.
“I’d be the last to ignore power or turn away from the fates. And beyond the stories there were the sketches, Sasha’s brilliant sketches, which made it clear this was meant. Still, I felt it best to keep what I’m telling you now to myself.”
He frowned at his beer, then shrugged. “Others have been deceived by lovely faces, by fascinating stories, by the whiff of power and the promise of trust. So I bided some time—and it can’t be said I bided long, can it?”
Temper flared around the edges of his tone as he looked over at Sasha. “A bit of time to be more certain what I felt, what I knew was truth, and that meeting, that joining of forces was for the right of it.”
He paused, considered having another beer. “So we piled ourselves into Riley’s borrowed jeep and headed north and west, where I had always planned to go. And Riley, being enterprising and well-connected, arranged this place for us. On the way back, after we’d gone to get our things from the hotel, there was Sawyer, walking toward this place, on the side of the road.”
He opted for the beer. “And there,” he said to Sawyer, “you come into it.”
“It’s a family thing for me, too. The story of the stars came down through my family. I’m not much of a scholar, not like Riley here, so most of what I know is through those stories. And . . .” He scratched the back of his neck, frowned into the distance.
“Didn’t tell us the whole of it either, did you?” Bran asked.
“Not exactly. It’s the sort of thing people don’t buy into, and like you said, it hasn’t been long since we teamed up. A psychic’s one thing—I mean a lot of people buy into that. Hell, it’s an industry. No offense.”
“None taken,” Sasha assured him.
“But after today. Mutant bats from hell, evil gods, and, well, Bran, it might not seem so weird. Family deal again. An ancestor, back in maybe—nobody’s exactly sure—the fourteenth century. He was a sailor, and his ship went down in a storm. So he’s drowning and, the story goes, he was rescued, pulled to shore by a mermaid.”
Doyle let out a short laugh, and Annika a gasp.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but that’s the story. He woke up, the only one of the crew to survive, on the rocky shore of some island in the North Sea. And the, uh, mermaid, she’d gotten hurt saving him, cut up on the rocks, and too weak to swim. Dying.”
“No,” Annika breathed.
“He was pretty banged up himself, but he got some dry wood, some dry leaves, started a fire. He didn’t know if he should try to get her all the way into the water, or if she’d just drown, so he scouted up some plants, made a poultice for her cuts. Some of the supplies and pieces of the ship washed up, so he used what he could, built a kind of shelter, fed her what he could, took care of her.”
“Did she get better?”
“Yeah, happy ending.”
“Happy endings are good.”
“One night he woke up, and saw her swimming away. And he was alone.”
“But this isn’t happy,” Annika objected.
“Wait for it. Days later, she came back, and he went out into the shallows to meet her. For the first time, she spoke. She’d taken him from the sea because it was his fate, and those who came after him, to look for the three stars. He would tell the story to his sons, and they to their sons until they were found and taken home. She gave him a gift, a compass, and said it would guide him. This, too, he would pass to his son, and his son to his, and down the line.”
“You’ve got the compass?” Riley demanded.
“Yeah.” He dug in his pocket, held it out on his palm, lifted off the protective cover.
“Nice piece. Mind?” Riley took it, examined it. “Bronze case, nice-looking rose—you’ve kept it in good shape. It’s old, but I’d gauge it more seventeenth century.”
“Yeah, but that’s how the story came down.”
“That doesn’t explain why you came to Corfu,” Doyle pointed out.
“Well, it will.”
He hitched up, took a plastic sleeve from his pocket, and carefully drew out the map folded inside. After pushing dishes aside, he unfolded the map on the table. Held out his hand, wiggled his fingers at Riley for the compass.
“One way or the other, it’s always accurate.”
He set the compass on the map. Within seconds the old brass casing glowed, and the rose began to shine. Then the compass slid over the map.
“Like a Ouija board,” Riley said.
“No.” Watching the movement, Bran shook his head. “This doesn’t open a door. It shows the way to one.”
“Pretty much, and see?” Sawyer tapped his finger on the map. “It stops right here, on Corfu. So, I followed the map.”
“It’s done that before?” Sasha asked.
“Oh, yeah, plenty. Nobody’s found any of the stars, but for me? It’s always taken me somewhere I pick up something fresh on them, or confirm something, or just get an experience. This time? See how it’s shining?”
“It’s beautiful,” Annika murmured.
“Yeah, but that shining? That’s new. It would glow some, but not like this. I had to figure coming here was pretty damn important. Turns out it was. I was hitching my way here, and y’all came along. That made four of the six. That night, I went for a walk on the beach, and found Annika.”
He shifted to her. “Your turn.”
“I was sent to help. To be one of you.” She bowed her head. “I can’t explain. I don’t have a magick compass, or the powers like Sasha and Bran. I don’t have such a smart mind like Riley, but I can help. I don’t like fighting, but I will fight with you. Don’t send me away.”
“Hey.” Sawyer put an arm around her shoulders. “Nobody’s sending you anywhere.”
“I came to you.” She turned into him. “You found me.”
“That’s right. We can leave it at that for now.” He looked over at Bran as if daring him to disagree.
“You’re one of us, Annika, and that’s more than enough. Not all stories need telling at once.”
“How about you, McCleary?” Riley sat back, studied him. “What’s your story?”
“A family thing, and the duty that comes with it. And here? An urge I couldn’t shake led me to Corfu, then to the cave. It’s the closest I’ve come. It’s the closest I’ve ever come.”
“Where are you from? What do you do?”
“Nowhere in particular, and whatever needs doing. You haven’t had much time together, but more than a couple hours, so that’s all I’m going to tell you until I decide to tell you more.”
“You don’t trust us. Why should he?” Sasha glanced at Riley. “It’s true we haven’t had much time, but it’s been intense, even intimate. And today, in the cave, it was life and death. Both you and Sawyer brought guns, but you didn’t tell the rest of us.”
Sawyer shifted. “Shit. Combat knife, too.”
Riley pulled a wicked blade out of her boot. “Throwing knife.”
“Which only proves we’ve yet to reach the point where we’re fully honest. We know about Bran only because he . . . used what he has to get us all out of the cave alive. And we know about the compass because Sawyer felt guilty not telling us after we found out about Bran. Annika’s not ready, and Doyle? You’re still annoyed we got in your way.”
“You’re right on that.”
“You’re not, because we didn’t get in your way, and you know that, under the annoyance. We were all where we were supposed to be today. We all made the choice to go into the cave.”
“What? Wait.” Riley’s gilded eyes narrowed. “Do you think it was a kind of test?”
“I don’t know. I’m really new at this. But I think gods are pretty demanding. We all went into the cave. We fought. Well, all of you did.”
“Sasha.” Bran reached for her hand, but she drew it away.
“I didn’t fight. I froze. But it won’t happen again. Still, we got out, and we—six now—are sitting right here. I haven’t heard anyone say they want out. We faced down a god, and not one of us is walking away from doing it again. So I think we passed the test.”
“Smart brain there, too,” Riley said to Annika. “You’ve got a point. Throughout lore and legend, gods are notoriously demanding. And fickle, and often bloodthirsty. No quest is ever completed without tests and sacrifice and battle.”
“Sasha’s blood woke the dark.” The moment she spoke, Annika looked distressed. “I’m apology—”
“No, don’t be sorry. You’re right. I felt it myself, and maybe it’s part of the reason I froze. I don’t know. I know she wanted to drain me.”
“Because she’s not running on full power,” Riley pointed out.
“If she was, you’d be dust.” Doyle took another beer. “Mortal against god? Who do you lay your money on?”
“I’d bet on myself,” Riley tossed back, “and my four friends here. I don’t know about you yet, big guy.”
“We’re more than mortals,” Bran pointed out. “So I’d say, however fickle, the gods gave us some edge. We’ll use it.”
“The star isn’t in the cave. I spent considerable time looking,” Doyle continued, “before things got interesting.”
“There are other caves.” Riley frowned into her beer. “I’ll make some calls, get us a boat, some gear. We talked about trying some of the underwater caves. Maybe that’s the next step.”
“I have some things I can put together, in case she goes at us again. We weren’t prepared enough.” Bran pushed to his feet. “That’s the bottom of it. We weren’t prepared, and we need to be.”
“Then we will be. I’ll take care of the dishes.” Sasha got up to clear.
She had some ideas of her own.
CHAPTER NINE
Once she’d set the kitchen to rights, Sasha went upstairs for her easel and paints. She’d take an hour for herself, smooth out any remaining jagged edges.
She set up on the terrace, commandeering one of the tables and covering it with a drop cloth from her kit.
After filling several jars with water, she set out brushes, palette knives, a palette.
And began to prep a canvas. She chose a golden, fluid acrylic—it would give the painting she saw in her head an underglow. She covered the edges first, then began to scrub the paint into the canvas so it would soak in. She kept the mix thin and lean, brushing it out, wiping it down until it satisfied her.
Then she set the canvas on her easel, began a line drawing. Clouds and sea, the curve of sand, the rise of cliff, the shape of the channel that cut through.
A sweeping view, she thought, not the more dramatic and focused study she’d been compelled to paint, not the storm-tossed night, but sparkling day. No figures caught in that storm and one another on the cliff, but the hint of people on shore and sea, bright drops of color and life.
She mixed colors—greens first—the deep, dark green of cypress, the duskier hue of olive, the richer of citrus trees. All this against the sun-bleached brown of the cliffs.
It gave her peace, the process of it, and the ability to translate not only what she saw but what she felt with paint and brush and canvas.
The blues, dreamy, bold, soft, sharp—the hints of green and aquamarine around the rocks. The pale gold of sand flowing into deeper tones where the sea rolled over it, retreated, rolled again.
The clouds she painted cotton white against the pulse of blue sky, then changed brushes to add their shadows, like an echo on the sea.
She lost track of time in the work, in the pleasure. With the sparkle in front of her, and on her canvas, the cold, dark shadows of the cave in the hills didn’t exist.
She stepped back to study what she’d done, reached for a detail brush. Stopped when she heard Riley’s voice, heard her coming up the terrace steps.
“I’m all over that. Yeah, yeah, probably by nine. Really appreciate it, and tell Ari I owe him.” She laughed as she came to the top of the steps. “I don’t owe him that much. Later.”
She swiped off her phone, stuck it in her pocket as she saw Sasha and the easel.
“Hey, sorry. Didn’t know you were playing up here. I just got us . . . Wow.” She stopped in front of the canvas. “And let me repeat. Wow. That’s amazing.”
“It’s not quite finished.”
“You’re the boss, but it looks perfect to me. I Googled you, you know.”
“You did?”
“Oh, yeah, the first night. Wanted a sense of who was what. I brought up some of your paintings, and they were pretty great. But this? Alive and in person, it’s freaking awesome.”
“Thanks. I wanted to do something sunny, something clear and beautiful. Like cleansing the palate, I guess.” A thought struck her. “I’ll trade you.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll make you a trade for the painting if you want it.”
“I did enough digging to have an idea what an original Sasha Riggs goes for. But . . . I figure my firstborn’s a ways off, so that’s safe.”
Interested, she shoved her hands in her pockets, studied the painting again. Wanted it. “What did you have in mind?”
“Teach me to fight.”
“You want me to teach you to fight?”
“Today, in the cave, I froze. Now that I’ve calmed down, and finished my pity party, I accept that wasn’t altogether my fault.”
“A god had you by the throat, Sash. It’s give-yourself-a-break time.”
“Yeah, there was that. But my instinct right along was duck and cover, or run and hide. It wasn’t stand and fight. You had the gun, but now that I can look back on it, see it all more clearly than when it was exploding around me, you weren’t just shooting. You used your fists, your feet. Kicks and spins. And Annika . . .”
“Yeah, she had that whole Cirque du Soleil thing going.”
“And I just stood there because I don’t know how to fight, not physically fight. You could teach me.”
“You don’t have to give me the painting for me to teach you some basics.” Thumbs hooked in her pockets now, Riley studied the painting again. “But since I’m not an idiot, I’ll take it.”
“Can we start now? I just need to clean my brushes.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“But somewhere more private.”
“You should change into a T-shirt or a tank, something that gives you more room. Meet me in the olive grove around back.”
“All right. Thanks, Riley.”
“Hey, fun for me—plus the painting. I need a couple of things.”
She cleaned her brushes, knives, jars, exchanged her shirt for a black tank. By the time she got out to the grove, Riley was there, and pulling on leather gloves.
“Private enough?”
Sasha looked back at the villa. You could see if you looked, she thought, but she wouldn’t feel nearly as exposed as she would have on one of the terraces or on the lawn in front of the house.
“Yes. Just enough.”
“Okay, first things first. Make a fist.” When Sasha did, Riley shook her head. “Just as I figured. You keep your thumb up like that, you’re going to—”
“Ow!” Sasha snatched her hand away after Riley bent her thumb back.
“Exactly. Remember that, and keep your thumb folded down. See?” She demonstrated; Sasha mimicked her.
“Thumb down.”
“Always outside, never inside the fist. Okay, punch me.”
“I’m not going to punch you!”
The smirk came quickly. “I can guarantee that. But try. Come on.” She tapped her nose. “Straight in the face or this lesson’s over.”
Irritated, intimidated, Sasha struck out. Riley tipped to the side, and let the halfhearted punch meet air.
“Like you mean it this time. It’s my face, Sash. I can promise you’re not going to hurt me. A little faith here.”
That’s what it came down to, didn’t it? All across the board. A little faith. She punched out again, putting enough into it that when Riley sidestepped, she stumbled forward.
“Okay, see, you’re punching like a girl.”
“I am a girl.”
“Nobody’s a girl in a fight. You’re a fighter. You need to distribute your weight, your balance, and for right now, you’re going to plant your feet. Knees a little soft, but you need to feel solid on the ground.”
Riley circled her. “That’s better. When you punch, don’t throw your body at it, bring the punch out from your shoulder. Lift your shoulder as you extend your arm. No, don’t straighten your legs. The power comes up from your legs, and when you straighten them or lean forward like that, you lose power and balance. Keep your body centered. And exhale on the punch.”
Riley nodded or frowned as she circled, as she ordered Sasha to try it with her left. Left again. Left then right.
“Don’t flap your elbows like chicken wings. The jab’s not sexy maybe like a cross, but it’s your most powerful punch. Defense, offense. It punches, it pushes, and best of all it can distract while—”
She jabbed out at Sasha with her left, followed it with a right cross. Both fists stopped less than an inch from Sasha’s face, and came so fast and hard she lost her breath.
“Didn’t see the right coming, did you?”
“I hardly saw either of them. How many fights have you been in?”
“I don’t keep count. Here.” She held up her gloved hands, palms toward Sasha. “Fist in the palm, like the ball in the glove. Left. Come on, rookie, left! Left. Right. Left. Better. Lead with your knuckles, exhale, lift your shoulder. Concentrate. I want you to rotate your arm. You lift, and as you jab, you rotate. All one motion now. Left!”
Sasha threw jabs until her arms ached.
When she lowered them, Riley poked her. “Come on, you haven’t even broken a sweat yet.” But she reached in the small duffle she’d brought out, handed Sasha a bottle of water. “Hydrate anyway.”
“I thought you’d show me some martial arts, not just have me punch your hands.”
“Baby steps, Sash.”
She opened the water, drank. “I’ve never actually hit anyone before.”
Riley widened her eyes. “I’d never have guessed.”
“Oh, shut up.” But rolling her aching shoulders, Sasha laughed.
* * *
Bran thought yanking some bloody weeds from the bloody vegetable garden might purge him of the considerable resentment still stuck in his gut. And he’d take some of the herbs and roots while he was about it. He could use them.
Armed with a hoe and work gloves from the garden shed, his own boline for harvesting, he made his way to the garden gate. Over the odd and homey hum the chickens made, he heard Sasha laugh.
The woman plagued him, he thought with no little bitterness. Those big blue eyes filled with her hurt feelings. And worse. Disappointment.
As if telling everybody and their brother you were a hereditary witch was part and parcel of everyday conversation over a bloody pint in the bloody pub.
He hadn’t known her a week, for Christ’s sake. And let’s not be forgetting that being what he was, using what he had, saved her from an ugly fate.
But not before she’d been hurt, he thought. It fucking killed him she’d been hurt.
And he didn’t have time for that. They were, all of them, going into a situation that risked more than cuts and bruises, so he couldn’t afford to find himself worrying about her the way he found himself worrying about her. Each of them had to hold their own, use whatever skill or power at their disposal.
There was a lot more at stake than one woman.
He could want her, he thought, glancing toward the grove again. That was allowed. Sex never hurt anyone if done right and both were willing. And did a lot more to ease the mood and clear the mind than hoeing rows or pulling weeds.
He caught movement and, curious, propped the hoe against the fence, walked to the far corner of the garden.
He could see now, through the trees, Sasha in a skinny sleeveless black shirt punching into Riley’s open hands. She’d twisted her hair up somehow or other, he noted, leaving the back of her neck exposed.
Entertained, and considerably charmed, he leaned on the fence, watched the show.
Teaching her a right cross, he realized.
Doyle wandered down, stood on the other side of the fence. “What’s the deal?”
“Looks like a boxing lesson.”
Doyle watched a moment. “Brunette’s got form. The blonde hits like a girl.”
“She does, but I’ve got twenty says she won’t when Riley’s done teaching her.”
Doyle watched another moment, the way Riley demonstrated technique, or came around to take Sasha’s shoulders, move her body with the punch.
“Sucker bet, but I’m going to take it anyway. What’s life without a gamble?”
“Done. She won’t give up, you see. And Riley, she won’t give up on her. She may not turn her into a brawler, but Sasha will learn to hold her own. And that’s needed for all of this.”
“You could walk away from it.”
“We all could. None of us will, if that’s what you’re wondering. We all got our arses handed to us today, yet here we are.”
With a tug of pride, Bran lifted his chin toward the olive grove. “And there’s the two of them, getting and giving boxing lessons under the olive trees. The gods, I think they don’t understand the mortal’s stubborn resilience. So they underestimate us.”
Doyle hooked his thumbs in his pockets, watched Sasha throw a combination of jabs and crosses into Riley’s hands. “Boxing lesson, such as it is, makes sense. More than a sorcerer with a hoe digging up weeds. You could . . .” He wiggled his fingers. “And get rid of them.”
“The physical helps the brain, and I’ve been taught not to use magick to be lazy. Still.” As a kind of test, Bran held his hands out, spread them. After no more than a quiet shimmer, not a single weed remained.
“Quicker that way,” Doyle commented.
“It is. You don’t have much of a reaction to the magickal.”
“Dated a witch.”
Intrigued, Bran lifted his scarred eyebrow, leaned companionably on the fence. “Did you now?”
“Redhead, built in a way made you sure God’s a man.”
“It didn’t work out between you?”
“For a while it did. She wasn’t shy about using what she had. She wasn’t shy about anything,” Doyle added with a grin.
“She couldn’t help you with this venture?”
“Not for lack of trying. But she told me there would be five others, each with a separate power. Once united, we might forge the sword that would pierce the heart of a vengeful god. Then again, she also told me love would pierce my heart with fang and claw and lead me to the path of death.”
He let out a half laugh. “She had a way, that redhead. So . . . you got dibs on the blonde?”
“No.” It seemed childish, and he– Bloody hell. “Yes.”
“Just getting with the program. Hey, that was a decent combination.” Frowning, Doyle watched Sasha repeat it. “Decent,” he repeated. “Fuck me, I’m going to owe you twenty. I can already see it.”
* * *
As it struck him as foolish to put the weeds back, then hoe and yank at them again, Bran harvested the herbs he wanted, then walked up the hillside, through another olive grove for the roots and plants he found useful.
He’d continue to work in his room, he decided, as he didn’t see the point in pushing what he did and was in everyone’s face. Clearly they’d need more salve if their first encounter with Nerezza was any indication.
Plus, the way his side had begun to pull, he needed another application himself. He considered making salves and basic potions housewifery—with no offense to the housewife—in that it was both tedious and necessary.
Since it was, the work on the more interesting potion and spell he’d only begun would have to wait.
As he wasn’t in the mood for more conversation, he took the terrace steps, intending to slip into his room, deal with what needed doing.
He saw the easel, the painting and, struck, stopped.
It was . . . glorious, he decided. He could all but smell the sea breeze wafting out of the canvas. Everything glowed, as if lit not only by the sun, but some secret, inner light.
There were all manner of magicks, he thought, and she had her own.
He heard her coming—her laugh, or more a laughing groan, and her voice mixed with Riley’s as they came up the steps. Rather than slip into his room, he turned.
She glowed, he thought, like the painting. From the sun, the exercise, and he decided, the accomplishment.
“I was just admiring your work.”
“It isn’t finished.”
“Isn’t it?”
“And it’s mine,” Riley said, definitely, “so don’t get any ideas. If you want anything from the village, speak now. I’m heading in to get the makings for my world-famous margaritas.”
“Actually, there are a couple things.”
“Make a list or come with.” Riley nodded at the herbs and plants in his hands. “You making dinner?”
“No, I have other uses for this, and since I do, I’ll just give you the list I’ve already made up, as I was going to ask for the loan of the jeep and go in for them myself.”
She took the list, glanced at it, shifted her eyes up to his. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks for that.” He took some money out of his pocket. “Let me know if it runs more.”
“Count on that. I’ll see you back here at cocktail time.”
“When would that be?”
“When I get back. I’ll dig out those bands for you,” she told Sasha and strode off.
“And how’s your arm?”
“It’s fine,” Sasha said, just a little primly. “Thank you for what you did.”
He cupped her elbow, examined it himself. If she’d asked him—which she hadn’t—he would have advised waiting at least a day before a damn boxing lesson. As it was, the graze showed pinker than he liked.
“Use the salve again, then once more tonight. By morning it should be well healed.”
“All right.”
“And the ankle?”
“It’s fine, Bran.”
He lifted those hooded eyes, pinned her. “And you’d tell me, would you, if it was otherwise?”
“We all have to be strong and healthy if we’re going to face off with Nerezza again. So yes, I would. What are those for?”
“These? For what you’d call medicines for the most part. It’s best to be prepared.”
He felt a burning in his side, and for a moment, his vision blurred.
“What is it? What’s wrong? Oh! You’re bleeding.”
He glanced down toward the burn, cursed when he saw the spread of blood on his shirt. “Fuck me.”
“How bad is it? Let me see.” Before he could stop her—proving he was more than a little off his game—she’d tugged his shirt up. “Oh, God! Did this happen today? Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why are you an idiot?”
“It’s better than it was. I just ran out of salve. And aren’t I about to make more? I’ll see to it.”
“And you continue to be an idiot. I still have plenty. Go in. Sit down. Take off your shirt.” She touched her fingers to the rawness around the scatter of open wounds. “It’s hot to the touch.”
“You think I can’t feel it, seeing as it’s myself?”
As fed up as she was afraid, she grabbed the plants from him, tossed them on her makeshift worktable. “Inside, and sit down. Damn it, you’re fussing over a cut on my arm when you’ve got this?”
“I know what to do for it,” he snapped, as she shoved him toward the doors.
“Good. You’ll tell me what that is, and I’ll do it. It’s no wonder it wasn’t done right when you insisted on doing it yourself. You can’t possibly reach it all well enough to do it right, and you wouldn’t have run out of salve if you’d kept enough for yourself.”
“I thought I had.” Heat rolled up through him until he feared he might drop from it. “I told you this isn’t my strength—the healing.”
But he sat on the side of her bed as the room wanted to spin on him. “I thought I’d let it run clean, but I missed something.”
“Get this off.” She dragged the shirt over his head, then used it to staunch some of the blood. “Some look like they’re healing fine—like my arm—and others are raw, a little swollen. But this one around toward your back, it’s the worst. A puncture—a pair of them.”
Fangs, she thought.
“I don’t have to be a doctor to know infection when I see it.”
He twisted, winced, then bore down until he could see. And didn’t care for the red streaks on his skin.
“That’s what I missed, though I got some of the salve on it, so now . . . I need a couple of things from my room.”
“You’re white as a sheet,” she said, easily pushing him back. “And you’re burning up, clammy. Tell me what you need and I’ll get it. I won’t touch anything else,” she said between her teeth when he hesitated.
“It’d be best if you didn’t. I need a knife—should be on the table I set up for work. And there’s a leather case—I can unlock it from here. Inside are vials and jars. I need the vial with the diamond-shaped stopper. There’s a blue liquid inside. Like your eyes. Clear and crystalline blue. And . . . Why didn’t I think of this before? A small copper bowl. Three white candles wouldn’t hurt. That’s another case, much like the first. There’s a triquetra on the top.”
“All right. I’ll be right back.”
Careless, he told himself. But his whole side had been a misery, and he couldn’t see the damn punctures on his back. Now, as she’d said, there was infection, and that was running through him hot and fast, inflaming the other wounds along the way.
He knew what to do, and some good could come out of it.
Provided he didn’t pass out first, and die while unconscious.
And he’d be damned if he would.
She came rushing back with the bowl, the candles, the vial—and three knives.
“I didn’t know which one.”
“My fault.” Focusing against the pain made his heart hammer. He couldn’t slow it. “The silver handle would be best. If you’d get a glass of water? Whiskey’s better—but that’s a matter of taste. The water will do fine. Three drops from the vial—no, make it five, considering.”
She got a glass of water from the bathroom, carefully added five drops from the vial, re-stoppered it.
“What does this do?”
“Think of it as a kind of antibiotic.” He gave the glass a scowl, then downed the contents. “Ah, God. Whiskey masks the taste of it, but beggars can’t be choosers. You should get Sawyer or Doyle for the next.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t reach the fecking wound with the knife myself. It needs to be opened a certain way, and we’d catch the blood—and the poison in it—in the bowl. It’ll be useful.”
“Poisoned blood, useful?”
“Don’t ask if you don’t want to know. It’ll be messy, but it should do the job. So if you’ll get either Sawyer or—”
