Page 9 of The King's Man 4

He’s flushed, and he’s keeping his voice low. “I was in the watchtower when those soldiers died.”

“You saw what happened?”

He shakes his head. “But there was someone in the shadows outside.”

“Why didn’t you tell this to the constable yesterday?”

He reddens. “I was on watch. It’s my job to apprehend anyone who’s not meant to be here but I... fell in the chase. I... Um, could you not... tell my superiors?”

“Can you give us a description of this man?”

“I can do better.” He pulls folded paper from inside his uniform and hands it to us. “I hoped one of you might come again. I drew his face best I could remember it.”

A short distance from the constabulary, Quin tells our driver to halt. I blink and lift my head from its resting place against the window. Quin orders me out, and when I’m too slow, helps me with an arm around mine. With me in tow, he snaps his way to the nearest stall and orders lunch.

“The moment we left the outpost, you lost all energy,” he says. “Eat.”

I pick at the plate. “I’m not hungry.”

My belly rumbles.

He watches me closely for a moment, and then asks me to pull out the soldier’s drawing.

I unfold the sketch and we study it. There’s something vaguely familiar about the small eyes and large forehead... “Wait. I’ve seen this man.”

I tuck the picture away for safekeeping and lead Quin through the streets towards the apothecary where I’d met Vitalian Dimos. I explain all I know—that he’d recently had his soldad revoked and had been packing up his shop. That it had sounded like he held a grudge.

Inside, the air is thick with the residual perfume of potent herbs and dried flowers, but the vials, jars, and boxes have all gone. All that’s left is a bench, pushed up against the back wall, and a counter littered with stray papers. Quin takes the chance to ease his pain and sits while I leaf through the papers. Maybe I’ll find another address, or names of people Dimos worked with. Maybe they’ll know where to find him.

Quin murmurs, “You came here hoping for a cure.”

I pause my fingers on a page and stare unseeingly at the words scrawled over it.

“How many vitalians have told you the same thing?”

The page blurs.You cannot be cured.I hurriedly scoop the pages up. “Let’s take these for closer inspection.”

“Cael . . .”

“We’re here for Nicostratus.” I lift my head to meet his eye firmly, but my gaze shoots to a green-striped snake slinking down a corner of the wall, frighteningly close to Quin.

I yelp and throw my hands to cast a shield between its venomous fangs and Quin’s exposed skin, but nothing comes out of me.My knee-jerk reaction has Quin jumping, and at his sudden movement the snake strikes.

Quin hisses, blasts the snake away across the room, and slaps his wounded neck.

I’m frozen only for a second before I’m bounding across the room, dropping to my knees before him. My fingers shake as I lift them to Quin’s neck, pulling his away. The puncture marks are clean but deep. I trail my fingertips over the wound, but... no magic.There’ll never be magic again.

I stiffen. Quin touches my arm. My breath becomes rapid, panicked. “I can’t extract the poison! The venom is quick working, when it reaches your organs, it’ll paralyse you and then...” I grit my teeth.If there’s never magic again, how can I protect you!

Quin cups my cheek, voice weakening. “Southern kingdom healing.”

Southern . . . Rural farmers must survive bites while working the fields. They would . . . I swallow.

Quin’s head drops back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. A surge of fear washes through me and I scramble off my knees to straddle his lap, knees digging into the bench either side. One hand cradles his head, the other cups his shoulder; his wounded neck is exposed to me, a reddish two-pronged puncture marks the flawless, sensitive skin.

I glance at his slackened face and hurriedly drop my trembling lips to his neck. I suck deeply. Poisoned blood rushes into my mouth, and I spit out the bitter taste; lower my head to his neck again.

Sweat pearls at my temples, and my hands are clammy where they’re supporting him. My thumb moves under his jaw, a calming stroke for both of us. He stirs, and I spit and check his face for any sign of improvement. His eyelids are opening. His lips are parting.

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