A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire #2)(81)

I brewed Lambe a cup of tea and forced him to drink. Most of it ran down his chin, but it was a start. His eyes fluttered open, and Wolff groaned in relief.

“Are you all right?” I whispered. Wheezing, Lambe tugged at my sleeve.

“You will. Won’t you?” he asked. His pupils were dilated.

“Won’t I what?” I said. He slurped more tea, and Wolff managed to give him a few spoonfuls of hot broth.

“Help the girl defeat the woman. It’s the only way,” he whispered. Then, “Poison.” He said the word twice more, emphasizing it.

“Someone poisoned you?” I whispered.

Wolff swore, but Lambe shook his head. He took more broth, mopping it in a piece of bread. Faint color returned to his waxen-looking cheeks.

“Listen. Poison. Belladonna. You must take it. Take the belladonna when you can,” he rasped. Belladonna was incredibly lethal. Lambe was clearly delirious. “Take the belladonna and you’ll finally know the truth. The poison will show you.”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about half the time.” Wolff swiped the back of his hand over his eyes. “I warned him about drinking their damned Etheria juice.”

“Why did he go to the priory in the first place?” I laid a cold cloth on Lambe’s face. “I thought he wanted to stay in London.”

“He said that there were things he could only learn up north.”

“I’ll get some more cold water from downstairs,” I said, wringing the cloth and taking up the basin.

I walked out the door, but halfway to the landlady’s rooms I realized I’d forgotten to bring the tray. I ran back up, opened the door…and stopped in my tracks.

Wolff had Lambe tight in his arms. Lambe murmured gently while Wolff kissed his forehead, his cheek, his lips. Lambe’s pale, thin fingers tangled in the other boy’s hair. Their embrace was tender, passionate even. What in the devil?

I backed away and accidentally knocked into the door. Wolff released Lambe and shot to his feet. We stared at each other, neither seeming to know what to do. What had I seen? A tortured moment ticked by in silence.

“I should leave,” I said, setting down the basin as I tried to find my cloak. I’d no idea how to behave. Wolff trailed me as I walked around the room, bumping up against one of the chairs.

“Why won’t you look at me?” He sounded heavy.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Forcing myself to stay calm, I brought my eyes to his. He sighed.

“I can see how much you loathe it. What we are,” he muttered.

“I could never loathe you.” The idea of it shocked me from my stupor. Damn it all to hell, this was Wolff. My friend. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he sat next to the sofa. Lambe reached out his hand, and Wolff took it. I was struck by the honest fearlessness of that simple gesture.

“You’ll run straight to Whitechurch now,” Wolff said.

“No. Never.” I found my normal voice at last. They could be excommunicated if anyone knew about this relationship, perhaps even jailed.

Wolff brushed a piece of hair out of Lambe’s face, his expression full of tenderness.

“I won’t give him up. Not for the world. Maybe it’s a half life, living this lie, but it’s the only one I want.” He looked up at me. “No matter what I do, I’m trapped.” His voice wavered.

His pain was palpable, and I recognized that sensation of living and breathing a lie. Damned if I would let another friendship be ruined, I sat beside the sofa, took up the teacup, and offered it to Lambe once more.

“I don’t bloody care what you do. Whitechurch will never hear about it from me.” As far as I’d seen in my life, love was too rare to squander.

Wolff touched my shoulder before going to the table. He picked up a plate of food and then returned, and together we tried to get Lambe to eat something solid. After a while, Lambe was able to finish half of some cold mutton stew. His cheeks regained their color.

“You’re all right,” I said, relieved.

“Yes. There’s one more thing to discuss, though.” Lambe focused on me. “The bells.”

I nearly dropped the cup. “Bells?”

“Molochoron at York. Yes, and the Skinless Man is there as well.” He quirked an eyebrow and took a bite of potato.

“How…did you…” I couldn’t finish.

“I returned to London because I am to be your mirror, Howel, now and in the wars to come.” He nodded. “I will help you with the Imperator.”

“Thank you,” I breathed. Yes, we would hunt down R’hlem together.

Because I’d decided something, watching Magnus cry over his mother’s body and Rook scream like an animal. My father was responsible for all of this, and I would stop him…no matter the cost.





Whitechurch watched the hovering square of water glass, brows furrowed. Lambe waited in the front row of the obsidian cathedral, his pale hair visible from where I sat. I crossed my fingers in my lap as Whitechurch scanned scene after scene until he came to what he wanted.

“That,” he said with quiet excitement, “is R’hlem.”

Indeed, we caught faint glimpses of a man striding through a swarm of Familiars. He was taller than most, his face slick with blood. R’hlem was there. He hadn’t moved from his position outside York.