“It’s nothing,” I say.
I smile at her, but look away quickly as I do. I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. She’s a lovely girl, loyal to the cause, funny, and she’s got a remarkable body. I’m flattered that she wants me, but there’s nothing there for me. I’ve tried to have sex with normal girls—to move on, like Tristan says a guy should. But I’m not built like that. Sexy isn’t on the outside, it’s on the inside, and unfortunately for me I know what it’s like to love someone from the inside out. That’s not something you just move on from, or at least I can’t. I
’m not like Tristan. Looking at Mirabelle makes me kind of wish I was, though.
She leans closer as she hands me my usual, and flicks her painted eyes to the back of the room. “He’s waiting,” she whispers.
I take my tea and spice cake and head to a table in the back. I see the messenger. He’s the same one who came last week from Alaric’s camp. The rough translation of his name is Swimming Otter. He’s an Outlander but he looks white, and that’s why Alaric uses him to go in and out of the city. He attracts less attention that way. Otter’s probably been here since dawn. That’s when the guards start allowing Outlanders through the gates.
He’s sitting near a window, but that can’t be helped. This café is on a corner, and the windows wrap around. I don’t sit down with him. Instead I sit at a table next to his, taking the chair that puts our backs to each other. I pull apart my spice cake with my fingers, waiting for him to start.
“We need more of that salve for burns,” Otter says.
“More?” I say, trying not to move my lips. “I made two cauldrons full a week ago. What happened? Was there a fire?” There’s no way they could need that much, unless there was some kind of disaster.
“We just need more, okay?” he replies. “The less you know, the better. That’s the way Alaric wants it.”
I sip my tea, swallowing some of my frustration. A witch would have a much easier time getting information from this messenger than from me. Alaric doesn’t really understand how powerful I am. Or maybe he doesn’t trust me when I say that I’ll never let another witch claim me. He’s heard how mechanics are drawn to witches, how we crave the power they give us. If he only knew how much. This new willstone of mine is like an empty lung that pulls and strains for air every second of the day. My one comfort is knowing that there’s no witch strong enough to fill it, none but Lillian, and I didn’t smash my first stone to get away from her only to allow myself to be claimed by her again.
I’m offended, but in a way I can’t blame Alaric. Like any other addict, my craving compromises me. It makes me sick to think it, but he’s right. I crave Lillian, our biggest enemy, and I’m a little ashamed that Alaric knows that.
“I’ll have the salve ready before noon,” I say. “I’ll drop it off here, like last time. Mirabelle will dole out a small portion to each of your couriers as they come to her register to buy tea. Work out a password with her before you go.” I expect him to leave now, but he doesn’t. “Anything else?”
“I have to show you something,” Otter says. He sounds anxious.
I glance down and see his hand twisted back toward me, palming a small vial. He slips me the vial and I move it into my lap to keep it hidden under my table while I look at it. It’s filled with blood. My willstone flares subtly as I sink into its composition. The world tips sideways as my consciousness falls in deeper and closer. I see palettes, white cells, and the plasma to red cell ratio. Hang on. Something’s off. Down I sink, into an individual cell. I’m so shocked by what I find that I almost drop the vial.
“Where did you get this?” I hiss.
“Can you fix her?” Otter asks.
There’s a strained note to his voice, even though he’s doing everything in his power to conceal our conversation and act naturally. Whoever this woman is, she means a lot to him. That’s why I try to keep my voice neutral, because I know she’s going to die a painful death.
“Look, Otter,” I begin, realizing that there’s no way I’m going to keep the pity from my voice, “I’ll make a strong opiate for you to give to her. Lots of it. Enough to last her until—” and here I stop.
“I can sneak her into the city and get her to you. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
He hasn’t heard me. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to hear me, either. “It’s not about money,” I say. “She’s got a wasting sickness, and it’s too far gone. The Salem Witch couldn’t fix this.”
“She’s carrying my baby.” The words choke out of him.
I look out the window at the people walking past. Vague expressions and easy strides show how smooth life is for them. None of them know that there’s a guy dissolving just inches away from them on the other side of the glass.
“I’m sorry,” I say. A long silence hangs between us. I can feel the heat coming off his back as he struggles not to cry, like his pain is radiating around him in a hot cloud. “How far along is she?”
“Four months,” he replies. His voice is thin and tinny. He’s calm again, having bit back the enormous helping of hurt he’s been served. He’s an Outlander. He’s probably had plenty of practice losing people he loves. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s about to lose two more. His woman probably won’t last another week—too soon to try to save the baby.
He stands up and leaves the café before I can ask him any more questions. We’ve already been talking for longer than we should, and we’ve been sloppy about it. The seating area is starting to get crowded and we may have already been overheard. Still, I wish he hadn’t left. Something isn’t right about that woman. Her sickness is so advanced I can’t see how she could have been well enough to get pregnant to begin with. Her disease has many causes, but the result is the same. Cells divide at an alarming rate, but they are dummy cells that do nothing for the body. All they do is reproduce and spread while the person wastes away. If it’s caught early enough it’s easy to cure, but if it isn’t, the end is horrible. What this poor woman had was beyond anything I’d seen in a living body. Her cells were so shot through, as if all of them had been riddled with tiny bullets. It’s hard to believe she isn’t dead already.
I’m still thinking about the doomed woman and baby when I lift my eyes and look out the window.
Lillian is looking right at me.
I jump up and hear a clatter as my chair and the table next to me tip over onto the floor.
She’s just staring at me—wild eyed, confused, and frightened.
I’m vaguely aware of the fact that I’m causing a scene as I race to the door, my arms paddling over shoulders and heads as I swim against the tide of people coming in for their morning tea. Mirabelle calls my name, but I’m already out on the street.