House of Sand and Secrets (Books of Oreyn #2)(44)

“A war,” Harun says then shakes his head viciously. “No, no, no – jumped too far ahead. I’ve seen this. I want where it starts.”

“He’s not making any sense,” Isidro says.

“More fool you for expecting anything else from a Saint.”

“Send a message to a physician then.” He looks past me, at Jannik. “Please.”

I want to tell Isidro that a doctor will make no difference, but the words are jammed up so tight I can’t even swallow. Jannik touches my shoulder, urging me to follow him out.

As soon as we’re alone in the next room with the doors shut behind us, I turn on Jannik. “There’s no point.”

“Why didn’t you tell him that?”

“Do you think he wanted to hear it? Harun will live or he will die, and no practitioner of medical alchemy is going to change that.”

A shout interrupts our whispered argument. We turn as one, running back into the room.

Harun is standing, swaying drunkenly, his eyes filled with rage. Whatever he saw it didn’t bode well for Isidro, who is pressed against the wall, one hand at his cheek. A weal of blisters spreads across his skin. A single strike, and there was enough scriv in Harun’s veins that it could affect Isidro so badly.

The vampire’s breath is whistling and laboured. There is danger in this room. Not just the threat of Harun’s overdose, but that he could do real damage to Jannik too if he wanted to. If he saw something he didn’t like.

I drag Isidro away from the wall and shove him toward the door. “Get him out of here,” I say to Jannik. “Upstairs, see if you can find something to treat the blisters.”

“And you–”

“I’ll be fine. Oddly, I’m not allergic to scriv,” I say. Fear is making me acid. Get out of the room, I want to scream, but I don’t have to. Jannik understands.

When the two of them are gone, I close the door that leads to the rest of the house and make me way slowly toward Harun. He’s hanging onto the mantelpiece now, barely able to keep himself upright. “Lie down,” I tell him. “Or fall down, whatever suits you. One’s bound to be less painful.”

“And you care about my well-being?” He laughs hollowly.

I’ve never dealt with someone who has taken this much scriv before. My childhood best-friend was a Saint, but like all women, she was restricted in her consumption of the drug. But I have heard enough gossip to know that an overdose is ugly and painful and protracted. “Not particularly, but I’ve no desire to mop up the blood when you crack open your skull.” It will do no good to worry Harun unduly with my fears.

He lets go and crumples to his knees, then wavers there a moment before collapsing gracelessly.

I watch him for a while, but he shows no sign of moving. Not even to roll away from the mess of ash and soot from the dead hearth. “Harun?”

He says nothing, and I lift my skirts and step up alongside him before crouching. At least he’s still breathing. Carefully, I turn his head to the side. Harun’s eyes are wide-open, glazed and unfocused. I snap my fingers, and he blinks, the pupils going pin-point sharp.

“What?” he manages groggily.

“Still alive, and still capable of speech,” I say. “That’s almost more than you can ask for.”

“Where’s–” he stumbles over the words, like his tongue has forgotten how to shape the name he wants to say.

“Gone.” I feel a momentary burst of pity for the bedraggled and pathetic figure before me. “Jannik’s taken him somewhere.” Somewhere safe. Away from you. Away from both of us.

“Is this before the war,” Harun says. “Or after?” He struggles to sit, clutching painfully at my arm for support. “Am I now?”

“I suppose so.” He needs to relax or he’ll set off some kind of fit, burst his brain. “There’s no war.” Even just saying it out loud makes me shiver. I hate the idea that there’s one in our future. Possibly. If the path Harun’s seen is a true one. And from the amount of scriv he’s taken, it more than likely is. What kind of war will it be?

Before I can ask him, he lunges forward and makes a grab for my throat. “You’re a fool,” he says, just as I manage to dive out of his way. He catches the crook of my shoulder instead, and digs his fingers in deep, pinning me in place.

I hold myself absolutely still and swallow thickly. “Care to tell me why?” The ease with which I manage this is at odds with the thrumming of my heart, and he must know.

“They all die,” he tells me.

My breath stutters. “Jannik?”

But he doesn’t hear me. “It’s always the same, Felicita. Every time. I don’t know why you keep doing this, it just hurts him. And it hurts you.”

I relax in his grip. I do not think we are in this Now, but another. “And what is it I’ve done this time?” I whisper back.

“You’ll lose it, when we need you most.” He pinches harder, his thumb sliding up into the hollow of my throat and half-throttling me. “Don’t do this to yourself. I know you think you want children–”

Children. Oh sweet Gris, he’s talking about children. I wrench out of his grasp and crawl backward, away from him. “Shut up!”