Page 91 of This Vicious Hunger
It didn’t hurt him. That is the thing I want you to know. It didn’t hurt him—just as it didn’t hurt me. There’s no way it could have. And now that I have the blood, I can save Olea. I will, without a doubt, willingly trade her trust in me for her life.
I should say a prayer, shouldn’t I? For this life I have taken? Orfor the life the pavement may have taken if not for me. I should grieve for this man, since it is one thing I can do for him.
But I don’t. It is too risky out here in the open. I can sense the stirrings of the scholars in their beds, the beginnings of dawn creeping. Olea will be awake soon—and if she isn’t, then she needs this cure more than ever.
I grip the jar of blood like a talisman, and then I bolt, flying like a bat in the night.
Chapter Forty-Three
Icreep back into the garden through its silent, rusted gate just as dawn is pinking the sky. The moon is a ghostly figure; only she looks upon me and knows what I have done.
Olea is still sleeping in the tower’s cellar, her body wrapped in thick blankets to ward off the night’s chill. I no longer feel any of the cold, hot blood pumping in my veins, glory on my breath. I check that she is breathing—she is, though she’s sicker than I realised. The rise and fall of her chest is painfully rapid and her skin is glossy with a fine sheen of sweat.
I change out of my ruined nightgown to avoid contaminating everything in case any of the blood is mine, and then waste no time scavenging dried cuttings of the stinging tree from Olea’s catalogue, pulverising the leaves and their fine, poisoning hairs to dust, just as I did before. Or as close as I can recall.
It isn’t accurate. Without the lab and the equipment it can’t be. Panic makes my movements jerky, my pulse pounding in my throat. I don’t have time to second-guess. I have one shot, and it has to benow. I let my hands guide me, relying on the muscles as I pound and grind and measure.
Then: the bubbling and sizzling as I add the dead man’s blood, still fresh but already congealing. I shake it well until the fizzy mixture begins to dance. My stomach lurches, heart racing. It’s ready.
I test it first, one mouthful. Swallow. It is sweet and pure and good and light. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t seem much different than the blood. Joy overflows, brightness in every inch of me. I’ve done it. I can save her.
“Olie,” I sing excitedly. “Oleeea. Wake up, my darling. Here I am with your medicine.”
Olea doesn’t respond. I drop to my knees, scooting along the flagstones. I check her breathing. Still fast, but slower than before. Her arms are like marble, stiff to the touch as I try to lift them.
“Olea,” I urge, this time less gently. “Wake UP.”
I jostle her, her body resistant as a statue. Panic overwhelms me. I push it down, shove it so hard I can’t breathe, until I am nothing but a machine. This can’t be it. I can’t have run out of time. I did everything right!
“Olea,” I growl her name like a curse. “Comeon.”
I grasp the antidote with one hand and her chin with the other, prising open her lips with sheer force. Her teeth are as white as salt. They begin to chatter as I hold her tight, forcing the rim of the jar to her lower lip. I pour all of the rest of the antidote into her mouth. Her chin jerks and I hold it steady.
“Come on, darling, drink it for me. Drink it, drink it,drink it!”
Finally—the bob of her throat. She swallows it down in one. There is a brief second before she begins to cough, spluttering and retching. She rolls out of my lap and onto her side, her breath hitching.
“Breathe,” I say. “Come, now. You can rest easy.”
It is another moment before she is herself. She wrests herself onto her elbows and stares at me with eyes as black as a moonless night.
“What did you do?”
“I saved you,” I say. It’s hard to contain my excitement. Already I can see the faint pink returning to her cheeks. She throws off the blankets angrily and her skin is smooth and cool-looking. I want to touch it.
“How?” The suspicion in her gaze cuts me to my core.
“There’s a hospital,” I lie. Thank god for the antidote, which greases my brain as if I were, actually, a machine.
Olea is silent. I can see her thoughts coiling and uncoiling, but she is precious minutes behind me with the antidote. I’m sure the fog in her mind will clear, but for now it’s my job to sell this reality. I watch her as she kneels back on her legs.
“How?” she asks again, this time gentler.
“I bartered for it.” I leave this open, waiting for her to fill the silence with her own assumptions.
“Oh, Thora,” she says softly.
“Don’t you feel better, though?” I prompt. “You looked so unwell. I thought… well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m glad you took it.”
