Page 75 of Blackwicket
Jack.
The detestable man seemed unnerved and didn’t wait for an invitation, barreling inside, proving Inspector Harrow’s point. Ramsey stayed outside, hands folded, eyes cast to the wood boards.
“William told me to bring the boy here, said you could fix him up,” Coppe said gruffly, and I clocked his anger, perhaps at being forced to come to this house and ask for help.
“What’s the matter with him?” I said, reaching to touch Jack’s face, turning his head towards me. Tears of red ash were trickling from the corners of his eyes. I froze as memories engulfed me.
“Do something, woman!” Coppe yelled, and Victor stepped into his view, gun raised, the barrel level with the Brom’s head.
“Victor,” Coppe spat. “The hell are you playing at?”
“Give the boy to Eleanora,” Inspector Harrow instructed.
I reached for Jack while struggling with the hysteria ripping at the fragile membrane of my mind. Coppe hesitated, then handed him over to me. The exchange brought me closer than I ever wanted to be to this man, who smelled of cigars and sour whiskey. Although Jack was tall, he felt remarkably light, and I cradled him to me as if he were a much smaller child.
“Get out,” the Inspector ordered, using the revolver to indicate the door.
The rim of Coppe’s eyes had gone red, the same color as the rest of his face, as a violent rage bloomed.
“Don’t you hurt this kid,” he started, but Victor was on him, grabbing his collar, yanking him off balance so he could toss him out the door like a stray dog. He landed on his ass near Ramsey’s feet. The driver stepped away from Coppe’s prone form as though he were filthy water thrown from a window. He then raised his head, locking eyes with me meaningfully.
“Ramsey,” Jack said, the name falling dry from his cracked lips, and the man made an assuring face as Inspector Harrow slammed the door and turned the lock. Holstering the weapon, he came to collect Jack from my arms.
“Curses. I don’t know how many,” I said, as Jack was gathered from me. The inspector made a direct course to the parlor.
“No!” The word was a high shriek, and I mindlessly clutched the fabric of the blouse near my heart. I couldn’t helpJack in that room, where another child, infested with polluted magic, had breathed his last breath, all because of me.
When the Inspector stopped, I gestured to the stairs, attempting to regain my composure.
“Up. The first room. Take him there,” I led the way, giving the Inspector no room to argue. I was grateful that he asked no questions.
The doors were still locked, but I didn’t need keys, not anymore. My magic coursed, the lock snapping, the door flinging in with such force it crashed against the wall as though blown by a gale. Inspector Harrow was right at my shoulder. He took Jack to the bed, neatly made in crisp white linens, and lay him down with all the gentleness of a father.
Attempting to mimic Victor’s unearthly calm, I sat on the edge of the mattress and pressed the child’s hair from his temple. “Jack, look at me.”
The child’s head rolled in my direction, wisps of curses rising from his mouth.
“How many curses did you eat?”
“Dunno,” he rasped, “One? Don’t remember.”
I took his hand in mine as his eyes closed, his breath coming in deep, uneven pulls. His fingers were icy despite the fever in his cheeks. I began my search for the blight, fearful of what I might uncover. His affliction wasn’t hard to locate; it churned in an oily cloud, eclipsing Jack’s natural power, trying to suffocate it.
This wasn’t a single curse.
“Victor, it’s a Drudge,” I said.
“Help him,” Inspector Harrow replied, low.
Tears sprang to my eyes as memory after memory of Thomas Nightglass’s face flickered in my thoughts: his bright smile, gradually becoming solemn resignation, the way he’d held my hand so tightly the night we walked Dark Hall, and the tears that left tracks on his temples from fighting then as Jack wasfighting now. And I’d done everything wrong, hadn’t been able to help. I’d killed my best friend.
“It’s going to hurt him.”
“Better hurt than dead.”
I took hold of the shattered pieces of my life and my history and pulled them together, knowing I would have to be whole to help the boy whom the Brom had used as bait, a trap to keep unwanted Drudge at bay. The Drudge was so entwined, I couldn’t coax it free. Even when presented with an offering of my stronger magic, it had no interest in coming willingly, happy with its current quarry. So I began the tedious work of plucking at the Drudge, like pulling threads from a knot, searching for whatever was left of Jack’s magic. It was a process that might take more time than we had.
Jack opened his eyes, whimpering, not from the pain of the corruption gnawing at his insides, but from fear. His gaze fixed on the ceiling, where a Drudge had emerged from the shadows of the beams, slinking in a ghostly crawl, its neck disproportionately long, its head small and concave. It twisted its face as it moved to keep the boy in sight, eyes billowing with the same smoky red as Jack’s. Another was forming on the underside of the desk, limbs tangling with the chair legs. They would keep coming, sensing death nearby and preparing for their next meal.
