The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(5)

Wiping the last of the blood off the man’s chest, Kiva inspected his newly cleaned skin, taking in the considerable bruising across his abdomen. A kaleidoscope of color blossomed on his flesh, indicating that he’d taken more than one beating during his trip from Vallenia. But after some careful prodding, Kiva was confident there was no internal damage. A few deeper cuts would require her attention, but they weren’t enough to warrant the amount of blood that had coated him. With some relief, she was beginning to realize that the most grievous wounds must have belonged to his deceased companions, and perhaps he had attempted to save their lives by stemming the flow of blood, albeit in vain.

Or . . . perhaps he had been the one to kill them.

Not everyone sent to Zalindov was innocent.

Most weren’t.

With only a slight tremble to her fingers, Kiva turned her attention to the man’s face. Having focused on checking his vital organs before all else, she’d yet to clean away the blood and grime, so it remained thick enough to make it difficult to distinguish his features.

Once, she would have begun her work at his head, but she’d learned years ago that there was little she could do when it came to brain damage. It was better to focus on putting everything else back together and hope that the person in question awakened with their wits intact.

Peering from the man’s filthy face to the equally filthy water left in the pail, Kiva bit her lip as she weighed her options. The last thing she wanted was to make a request of the Butcher, but she needed fresh water to finish her work—not just to wash his face and hair, but to more adequately clean out his wounds before stitching them.

The patient must always come first, little mouse. Their needs before yours, every time.

Kiva exhaled quietly as her father’s voice came to her again, but this time the heartache was almost comforting, as if he were in the room with her, speaking right into her ear.

Knowing what he would do in her place, Kiva lifted the pail and turned toward the door. The Butcher’s pale eyes locked on to hers, dark anticipation spreading across his ruddy features.

“I need some—” Kiva’s quiet voice was cut off before she could finish her request.

“They want you back in the isolation block,” the amber-eyed guard said, appearing behind the Butcher and diverting his attention. “I’ll take over here.”

Without a word—but with a leering look thrown at Kiva that made her skin crawl—the Butcher spun on his heel and marched away, his boots crunching on the gravel path leading from the infirmary.

Kiva wished the water in her hands were clean enough to scrub away the feeling of his parting glance. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear to hide her discomfort, she looked up to catch the amber-eyed guard’s gaze.

“I need some fresh water,” Kiva said, less fearful of this woman than of the Butcher, but still wary enough to keep her voice low, to appear submissive.

“Where’s the boy?” the guard asked. At Kiva’s uncertain look, the woman clarified, “The red-haired kid with the stutter. The one who helps you with”—she waved her gloved hand around the room—“all this.”

“Tipp?” Kiva said. “He was sent to the kitchens for the winter. There’s more for him to do there.”

Truthfully, with the recent outbreak of tunnel fever, Kiva would have appreciated Tipp’s help with the quarantined patients, since the two other prisoners who had been allocated roles in the infirmary struggled with health anxiety and stayed as far away from illness as possible. Because of them, Kiva’s workload was such that, aside from the scant hours she was given to sleep each night, the rest of her time was spent single-handedly treating Zalindov’s countless inmates—a demanding task even during the winter months when new arrivals were scarce. Come spring, she alone would be carving hands in droves, and that was on top of addressing the day-to-day health concerns of the prisoners. But at least then Tipp would be returned to her and could take some of the pressure off, if only by assisting with small tasks like stripping the beds and keeping things as clean as possible in their markedly unsterile environment.

Now, however, Kiva had no helper; she was on her own.

The amber-eyed guard seemed to be considering Kiva’s words as she took in the room, noting the grimy-faced, heavily bruised, half-naked survivor, the two dead men, and the filthy bucket of water.

“Wait here,” the guard finally said.

And then she was gone.





Chapter Three


Kiva didn’t dare move a muscle until the guard returned minutes later. With her was a young boy who she motioned past her and into the room. The moment his eyes found Kiva, his freckle-splattered face brightened, and a big, gap-toothed smile stretched across his features.

With bright red hair and wide blue eyes, Tipp looked like a burning candle. He acted like one, too, full of energy and crackling with passion. At eleven years of age, nothing ever seemed to faze him. No matter the ridicule and frustration he suffered through every single day, he always brought light with him wherever he went, always had a kind word and a gentle touch for the prisoners who needed him the most. He was even pleasant to the guards, regardless of how rough and impatient they were with him.

Kiva had never met anyone like Tipp, certainly not in a place like Zalindov.

“K-K-Kiva!” Tipp said, rushing forward. He looked for a moment as if he might try and hug her—as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, rather than days—but he resisted at the last second, reading her body language. “I d-didn’t know what Naari was b-b-bringing me here for! I was s-s-s-s-s—” He pulled a face and tried a different word. “I was w-worried.”