The Prison Healer (The Prison Healer #1)(85)

Gentle fingers on her chin had her head tilting upward again, his hand cupping her face.

“Something to know about me, Kiva Meridan,” Jaren said softly, “is that I’m always right.”

Out of nowhere, Kiva’s heart began to thump madly in her chest. It was so loud that she was sure Jaren must be able to hear it. But he gave no indication, only stared into her eyes, the moonlight flowing like liquid between them, dusting everything with a glittering bluish-silver.

Kiva was frozen to the spot, unsure if she wanted to push Jaren away or if she wanted to pull him closer. Her brain was screaming warnings at her, telling her she needed to keep her distance, the tunnel dust on his face a damning reminder of where he worked and the odds of his survival. He, like all of Zalindov’s laborers, had one foot in the grave, whether he knew it or not.

But . . . Cresta had survived for years working in the quarry, and a handful of other prisoners had defied certain death as well. Maybe Jaren would be among them—maybe he would live long enough for it to count.

Kiva, however, still had two Ordeals to face, either of which could take her life. And if by some miracle she survived, she would then be free to leave Zalindov, never to see Jaren again.

They were doomed to fail before they even started.

And yet, despite what her mind was telling her, despite all the rules she had carefully maintained for years, when he inched forward, Kiva didn’t stop him. Her hand rose of its own accord, clutching his dirt-smeared tunic as she leaned into him, her knees wobbling as he continued closing the distance between them.

“Kiva,” he whispered, his breath touching her lips.

A shiver ran down her spine, her eyes drifting shut as one of his hands trailed through her hair before coming to a rest at the base of her neck.

“Kiva,” he whispered again. “There’s something I need to—” He broke off suddenly, his body tensing against hers. “Did you hear that?”

Kiva’s eyes fluttered back open. Dazedly, she asked, “Hear what?”

But then she heard it, a low, moaning sound.

Jaren pointed deeper into the garden, the gabbergrass obscuring their view. “It came from over there.”

“Maybe it’s Boots?” Kiva offered. She’d been doing her best to keep the cat out of the infirmary and away from the rats, and the little beast was moodier than normal because of it. But even so, she’d never heard Boots make such a noise before.

“Maybe,” Jaren said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

The moan came again, and something about it struck Kiva as familiar.

Too familiar.

Ice flooded her veins, and without thinking, she took off into the darkness, hearing? Jaren’s footsteps right behind hers.

The garden was only small, so she barely had to round one bend before she skidded to a halt, finding the small body curled on the ground beside the overgrown thistlewort bush, pale and shivering in the moonlight.

It was Tipp.

And he was sick.





Chapter Twenty-Four


The night that followed was one of the worst Kiva had ever experienced.

After Jaren sprinted back into the infirmary with Tipp in his arms, Kiva helped lay him on the bed opposite Tilda, ignoring all quarantine procedures in favor of keeping him within reach at all times. His fever was off the charts, with him clutching his stomach and moaning, but otherwise unable to communicate anything to Kiva about what he was feeling.

She forced remedy after remedy down his throat, half of which he vomited up, so in an act of desperation, she cut open his forearm and shoved a small, hollowed tube into his vein, funneling medicine directly into his bloodstream. She’d attempted it with some of the other ill patients without success, but this was Tipp. He had to survive. He had to.

Three hours passed.

Six hours.

Twelve.

Jaren and Naari stayed with Kiva, fetching her fresh water and clean linens, preparing medicines, removing buckets of sick. When the time came for Jaren to begin working in the tunnels, he didn’t leave, and Naari didn’t make him. The three of them remained with Tipp, watching the young boy, waiting for any sign of improvement—or deterioration.

Kiva couldn’t stop berating herself for leaving the boy so alone, distracted as she’d been by her research and the Ordeals. If only he’d gone with her to collect her samples yesterday, then maybe . . .

It was useless, she knew. She had no idea what had made him sick, just as she had no idea what was making anyone sick. She called herself a healer, but what did she really know? She’d never had any official training, nor had she apprenticed under a master or studied at an academy. All she knew was what her father had taught her in the short time they’d had together, and with such limited resources. Nothing had prepared her for an illness of this magnitude, for how many people were dying without any known cause . . . for the possibility of losing another person she loved.

Her father had already succumbed to this sickness. She couldn’t stand the thought that Tipp might soon follow in his footsteps.

“K-Kiva?”

Kiva’s head shot upward. Confusion fogged her mind before adrenaline cleared it, making her realize that she’d dozed off with her cheek on Tipp’s bed, her sleepless night and the long hours of the previous day having caught up to her.

“Tipp,” she gasped, reaching for his hands. They were ice-cold, but also clammy with sweat. She frowned at the sensation, since none of the other sick patients had exhibited a similar symptom, but she cast it from her mind and focused on the young boy staring at her with tears in his scared blue eyes.