An Affair of Poisons(25)

“Move!” I yell. Another smoke creature with a blunt snout and massive curling horns has drifted dangerously close; the gray water of the Seine boils and pops beneath the bridge. Scalding steam ripples through the chilly spring air.

“You’ll never outrun them,” she whispers.

“I’m sure as hell going to try.” Green ash flutters down, kissing our cloaks with a hiss. The beast’s growls shake the struts of the bridge.

She bites down on her lower lip and looks back across the bubbling river—at the ghostly Louvre, at the fire and lightning and chaos. “He’ll die without treatment.”

“Where do you think I’m going?”

“Not the kind of treatment you can give. Not against Lesage’s magic.”

Lightning strikes less than a length behind me. Fragments of stone explode into the air, strafing my arms and hat. Her eyes widen and she retreats. At last. But when I move to go around her, she grits her teeth, tucks her frizzy hair behind her ear, and rushes toward me.

I fumble with my weapon, but she brushes past me and lifts Desgrez’s legs. The rapier falls to my side. “What are you doing?”

“Getting us across the bridge and into the nearest alleyway.”

“What?”

“Move unless you want to be scorched!”

It feels like a trap, but her voice is so fierce and her gaze so intense, I sheath the blade and lift Desgrez by the armpits. Then we scramble across the bridge into the muddy, cramped passages of the ?le de la Cité.

We slink along, unnoticed—with so many injured, it isn’t even strange to be carrying a body—until we reach a tiny chapel, half hidden by larger edifices. The girl nods to enter. I’ve never been the religious type, and Desgrez would sooner die than have a member of the Shadow Society pray for his soul, but we haven’t a better option. The larger churches are sure to be occupied by priests.

I squint at the sudden dark as we fumble into the nave and trip on a wayward hymnal. The girl gestures to one of the benches, and we carefully lay Desgrez out. His body glows unnaturally beneath the gothic archways and unlit niches.

The girl reaches into her bodice and extracts a small leather pouch from between her breasts.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“We need to work quickly,” she says, readjusting her bodice, though it doesn’t help. She’s a breath away from spilling out. She rips the sack open with her teeth and dumps the contents onto the bench. “I need fire, a bowl, and your blade.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat. “You can’t expect me to hand over my weapon.”

“I am trying to help you.”

“Why?”

Her small frame flinches and her voice is tight when she speaks. “That out there, it isn’t what we do. Or, it wasn’t.”

All the comebacks I’d been planning stick to my throat. “I don’t understand… .”

“You don’t need to understand.” She motions to Desgrez, whose skin has turned a sickly shade of green. Twice as green as the blotches marring Anne and Fran?oise. “Do you wish to save him or not? He hasn’t much time.”

I look at Desgrez’s wan face, his shriveled, sunken chest. “What is it?”

“A form of alchemical magic called désintégrer. The fire bolts liquefy victims from the inside out. So every second you waste doubting me, your friend’s liver decays, his heart withers, and his bones dissolve into ash.”

Vomit rises up my throat. His bones will dissolve into ash? Swallowing hard, I dash behind the wall of icons surrounding the sanctuary. With a complete lack of reverence, I rummage around until I find a collection plate and a sermon to use as kindling. Then I nick the sanctuary lamp and a piece of flint, hoping God won’t strike me down, and rush back to Desgrez.

I arrange the papers in a cluster and light them with the torch. The girl situates the collection plate over the heat and squeezes a foul-smelling paste and a pinch of herbs into the bowl. As she stirs the mixture with one hand, she returns the pouch to her dress with the other.

When she clears her throat, I realize I’m staring directly at her breasts. Again. Heat singes my cheeks, and I tug at my collar as I kneel beside Desgrez. The girl tears open his shirt and slathers the ointment across his concave chest. The paste is light gray and smells worse than the sewers, which I didn’t think was possible. I cover my nose. “What is that?”

“Periwinkle and ambergris,” she says, watching Desgrez’s chest rise and fall. She stands, blows the curls away from her face, and kneads the mixture more forcefully into his skin.

“And you conveniently happened to have it on hand?”

“Yes. It’s my fault Lesage can conjure désintégrer, so I developed an antidote.”

“Antidote,” I jeer. “What do you know of healing?”

The girl’s hands still and she glares at me with so much loathing, I swallow my laughter and lean away. “You’d best hope I know a lot, monsieur, if you want your friend to live. Now your blade, if you’d be so kind.” She holds out her hand.

I unsheathe the rapier but cannot bring myself to surrender it.

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. And if you want him to live, you’ll give me what I need.” She seizes the sword with a grunt, then after adding a bit more ointment to Desgrez’s chest, she places the tip of the blade directly beneath his breastbone. I grip the bench and try not to say anything, but a choked squeal rushes from my lips when she applies pressure. Blood seeps around the blade, running deeper and darker.