Ward Against Darkness (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer) (14 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Ward grabbed Quirin’s dagger, and Celia lengthened her stance, but Quirin didn’t wake. His hand twitched again, the trembling racing up his arm and then his whole body began to shake.

And kept shaking. His body was seizing.

Instinct kicked in, and Ward dropped the dagger, yanked off his shirt, and shoved it under Quirin’s head before he realized what he was doing. He’d never seen a fit before, but everything he’d read flashed through his mind. It would pass. It wasn’t dangerous.

But it was like nothing he’d ever seen—Quirin’s whole body shook. The muscles in his jaw were tight, and he hadn’t drawn breath in seconds. Ward was sure Quirin’s face must be turning blue.

Celia grabbed Ward’s shoulder and yanked him back. “He’s dangerous.”

“No, he’s not.” Ward wrenched free of her grip.

“I know evil when I see it,” Val said. “He wants to be an Innecroestri and has opened his soul to evil possession.”

“It’s not possession. His muscles are seizing.”

“You have to get cleaned up for Macerio’s dinner. We don’t have time for you to get distracted over some medical oddity,” Celia said.

A medical oddity. Just like the cases in the back of his medical text. He dropped to his knees beside Quirin’s head.

“Ward, please.” Celia’s voice was soft, filled with concern.

“No, I think—” This was his fault. He’d taken an Oath. Even if he hadn’t, his family honor demanded that he protect life. The case in the book described a man kicked in the head, just above the ear, by a horse. He fell unconscious and shortly afterward his body seized, and he died.

Quirin had hit his head on the stall when Ward had punched him. The impact could have been just above his ear.

The necropsy of the dead man discovered a massive clot of blood between the brain and the skull near the site of impact. Quirin was dying, and it was Ward’s fault. He had to stop it, take it back, do something.

Except he’d punched Quirin to save Celia. And Quirin was trying to become an Innecroestri.

No request unanswered, any soul in need, with all of his skill. Ward had taken that Oath. Any soul. Good or bad. Physicians didn’t judge who lived and died. That was the Dark Son’s job. They just tried to save life.

Celia tugged on his shirt. “We have to go.”

“I can’t.” If he abandoned this Oath, what else would he be willing to abandon? Evil and madness. One neglected value at a time.

“You can’t save everyone,” she said

But he had to save this one. He had to prove he was still Ward de’Ath and not some monster. “Bring the lantern over.”

In the medical book, it had said death had been averted in other patients with similar symptoms by draining the blood gathering around the brain. He had to fix this. He was a physician. He couldn’t be a killer.

“Ward.” Icy warning edged Celia’s tone.

“I won’t leave him like this.”
Goddess, don’t let him die.

Quirin went limp. He sucked in a ragged breath from between teeth clenched by the muscle contractions.

“He’s stopped. He’s fine,” Val said. “You have to get going.”

“We don’t want to alert Macerio that anything is wrong. He’ll know something’s up if we’re late,” Celia said.

“I will deal with that when we get there. But this needs to be done now.” He stood. This was right. This was what it felt like to be himself. Somehow, in the last couple of days, he’d lost that. “I need light. If you won’t help, then get out of my way.”

Celia’s eyes widened. For a heartbeat, he thought she’d grab him and drag him from the stables. But instead she gave a tight nod. “Fine. What do you need?”

“Light first.”

Celia grabbed the lantern and brought it over.

“And then?” Val asked, crossing his arms.

“His brain is bleeding. There are things I can check. If I’m right.”

Val snorted. “Fools get themselves killed. I’m proof of that.”

Celia laid a hand on Ward’s shoulder and kept it there. “And this fool saved my life.”

“Twice, actually,” Ward said, shifting the lantern closer to Quirin’s head.

Celia snorted. “Yes, twice.”

Quirin dragged in more harsh breaths but remained unconscious. Not a good sign. In the worst of the cases, unconsciousness meant the bleeding in the patient’s head was fast, and time was of the essence.

Ward swept his fingers along Quirin’s skull. No blood. But that didn’t mean anything. Next check, the eyes. They weren’t the same in their sockets. The left one, the side of the blow, protruded. Pressure was building behind it. Fast. He hadn’t wanted to be right.

“I need my rucksack, the drill from the tool shed on the other side of the stable, and the strongest alcohol you can find, and I need it now.”

Celia grabbed Val’s hand and they raced out of the stall. Quirin stiffened and started jerking again. Ward adjusted his shirt, ensuring it still protected Quirin’s head from the floor.

Ward shoved to his feet. He’d need water, too.

He grabbed a half-filled bucket two stalls down. The side door rattled, and Celia rushed into the barn, the lantern light bouncing wildly against the walls.

“Val’s gone to the house for the alcohol.” She held out the drill.

He hurried back into the stall. Quirin’s second fit had stopped. His face was ashen and the skin around his mouth blue. His left eye bulged even more. There wasn’t time to wait for the alcohol. Ward had to start and pray infection didn’t set in.

He took the drill from Celia and dunked it in the water. He then scrubbed the dirt from his hands as best he could.

Quirin stiffened. His muscles were going to seize again.

“Hold his head with his left temple exposed.”

Celia knelt above Quirin and positioned his head. His body writhed. Ward’s heart leapt with it. These were not the circumstances he would have wanted for his second unsupervised surgery. A twitching patient. Very little light. Unclean instruments—

And one injured because of
his
actions.

Focus.

There wasn’t time to shave the scalp or cut back the flesh around the injury. He was going to have to skip to the next step: drilling.

He placed the tip of the drill against Quirin’s skull.

Quirin jerked, knocking the tip off position.

“Hold tighter.” He ground his teeth. No hesitation.

He pressed the drill back on Quirin’s skull, digging it into his flesh until he struck bone. Before he could second guess, he turned the handle. Blood oozed around the tip, darkening Quirin’s pale hair.

Ward turned the drill again. He had to pay attention to the resistance against the tip, drilling just far enough to puncture the skull but not damage the brain. Except he didn’t know how many turns that would take or how much pressure he needed to apply.

Quirin shook. The muscles in Celia’s forearms flexed as she struggled to keep him still.

Surely only a few more turns.

The pressure against the drill gave way. Ward pulled back before the tip cut into brain. Blood gushed from the hole.

Quirin went limp and sucked in a ragged breath. It worked! He’d done it. Proof this was what he was meant to do. Proof he wasn’t turning into Macerio.

“Turn his head, let the blood drain.” Ward dragged his gaze from Quirin to Celia.

She stared at him, her eyes wide, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just seen.

“Celia, turn his head.” Ward placed a hand on hers.

She jumped. Something flashed across her expression, but it was so fast Ward wasn’t sure what it was. She turned Quirin’s head, and more blood oozed onto Ward’s shirt.

Footsteps pounded into the stables. Celia yanked a dagger from her bodice. Ward grabbed Quirin’s head, steadying it. Val rushed into the stall carrying a crystal decanter with clear liquid sloshing inside. His lips pressed into a hard line, and for a heartbeat, he looked hungry. Quirin was hoping to become an Innecroestri. The magic in his soul had to be significant.

Ward grabbed the decanter before he could consider the implications. Celia and he had to get ready for Macerio’s dinner. Someone would need to keep an eye on Quirin. Could Val be trusted not to…eat him once they were alone? Now he had no idea what to do.

Quirin sucked in another ragged breath. Ward poured the alcohol over the wound.

“What now?” Val asked.

“Someone has to watch him, ensure the wound stays clean until the blood stops draining. Then I need to bind his head.”

Val rolled his eyes. “Someone has to watch him? Who did you think that was going to be? Goddess, you are a fool. We don’t have time for this. You’re going to get us killed. Tortured first, for a very long time, and then killed.”

“Val,” Celia said, her tone sharp.

“No, he’s right. My Oath shouldn’t endanger either of you.” Ward poured more alcohol over the hole.

“I’m not leaving you here. What are our options?” Celia asked.

“There are no options,” Val said.

And there weren’t. There wasn’t anyone—

No, there was someone. Macerio didn’t know about Nazarius. And Nazarius owed Ward for saving Pietro.

“There’s a friend Macerio doesn’t know about. He’s by the oak.” Ward didn’t say filling in a grave. That much would be evident when Celia or Val got him. “He’ll watch Quirin until we steal the grimoires.”

“I’ll get him.” Celia stood.

Val grabbed her wrist. “You’re wasting your time.”

“It’s my time to waste.”

“It’s my revenge you promised.”

She leaned close. The lantern light flickered across their faces, both hard, beautiful features. Her eyes were filled with such ice it made Ward shiver. He’d been on the receiving end of that look.

Everything froze. Val, Celia, time itself. Silence pressed against Ward’s senses as if the world feared to make a noise and be noticed by Celia Carlyle, assassin.

“You will get your revenge. I make a promise, I keep it.”

Val didn’t move. The silence grew heavier. The silence—

There was too much silence.

Ward ripped his attention from Celia and Val to Quirin. The man was still. Too still. Surely he’d draw another ragged breath. Ward couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard one. Quirin was due.

But the silence remained.

No.

Ward pressed his cheek close to Quirin’s lips, straining to catch any hint of breath. Nothing.

No no no.

He pressed his fingers to the man’s neck. Still.

There had to be breath. He’d drilled the hole, drained the blood, released the pressure. Done everything the surgical book said. The seizing had stopped.

“Ward?” Celia’s voice was soft and far away.

Quirin had been breathing. He had to still be breathing.

But there wasn’t anything. No breath. No pulse.

“Ward?”

He couldn’t have killed this man, couldn’t be responsible. There had to be something else he could do. He could cast a wake, bring him back. But that would only last for fifteen minutes and any other spell that lasted longer would be unnatural, the realm of the Innecroestri.

“Where’s the oak, Ward?” Celia asked.

“It—” He couldn’t become Macerio. He was supposed to save lives. If he couldn’t save lives, who was he?

“Ward?”

It didn’t matter that physicians lost patients all the time. Right now, he needed life. He needed to prove his destiny was life. But he wasn’t life. He was death. A de’Ath. He couldn’t escape his name. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“But—”

Ward shook his head. He couldn’t say the words. Quirin was dead.

“The dinner is about to begin. If you don’t want this night to be a complete waste, you have to get cleaned up.” Val almost sounded apologetic. “I’ll take care of…this.”

“Ward.” Celia placed a delicate hand on his forearm.

He dragged his attention from Quirin…from his corpse.

“We have to finish what we started.” She squeezed his arm, but he barely felt it.

“Yes.” Everything was numb, his body, his thoughts. He was a de’Ath. That was his truth.

He dunked his hands in the bucket, rinsing the blood from them. Goddess help him. “Let’s finish this.”

Chapter Twenty

Celia made sure Ward successfully climbed back into his bedchamber window before making the climb herself. She’d never seen anything like Ward’s surgery before, and she’d never seen Ward like that, either. He was so confident. He hadn’t even flinched when he’d commanded Val and her to help. She’d been shocked, uncertain about everything. But Ward hadn’t.

That was the true Ward. He might’ve possessed some great, unrealized magical strength, but saving lives was his calling.

She did a fast scrub, removing the grime and blood from the fight, and threw on the black gown—with a bit of contortionism to get the laces tight enough. Here was hoping Ward had pulled it together. They didn’t have a lot of time, and he’d been stunned when he’d realized Quirin was dead.

When she rushed out of her room, Ward stood in the hall, his gaze unfocused. There wasn’t a spot of blood or dirt on him. He was dressed in his borrowed finery—the shirtsleeves an inch too short—his damp hair slicked back, accentuating his chiseled features.

“Ward.”

He blinked, his eyes finally seeing her.

“Are you ready?” For a moment, she feared he’d break down and run back into his room—she wouldn’t blame him if he did—but his expression hardened, and he offered her his arm.

Tonight, there wasn’t a servant waiting by the door to the stairwell. Celia wasn’t sure if that meant Macerio finally trusted them, or if one of the other guests was being escorted to the great hall and a replacement hadn’t arrived yet.

They took the stairs to the first floor and headed down the hall toward Macerio’s dinner. Ward’s arm beneath her hand trembled, but when she glanced at him through veiled lashes, the rest of him appeared stony. He was a mess and holding it in. It was clear in the tight lines of his body.

Up ahead, the white antechamber gleamed with candlelight. A cacophony of life poured from the great hall’s opened doors. If he didn’t relax and focus, they were in trouble. There was no way he’d be able to hold up his end of the plan in this state. She needed to do something.

With a tug, she pulled him into the last hallway before the antechamber and past the first door onto a small, strange patio caught between additions. Light shone though smoky-glass windows on the three walls, casting bands of illumination across a reflection pool. At the back, a wrought-iron gate opened into a narrow lane and the gardens beyond.

That he didn’t question the sudden change of direction proved he wasn’t concentrating on where he was supposed to be. “You’ve got to pull yourself together.”

“I am.”

“That’s not what I see.”

“I—”

“Don’t lie to me. If you’re not focused, Macerio will see right through you and kill you.”

He glared at her. The muscles in his jaw clenched, and he stormed to the reflection pool and glared at it. His hands balled into fists, and he drew in a long, noisy breath.

Then another.

His jaw relaxed, and he uncurled his hands. His back straightened, and he looked like a different person. A strong, confident man. The same man she’d seen take control to save Quirin. He exuded grace and power—power he didn’t want to accept he possessed.

She blinked, but the image didn’t disappear. The man before her wasn’t the scarecrow she’d first met in her father’s house. He wasn’t the wide-eyed necromancer thrown into a world he barely knew existed. This was the man Ward would become…was becoming.

He glanced at her, his expression dark, his gaze focused. Now, he looked dangerous. Ward the Innecroestri. This was what she was making him.

No. It was what Macerio and fate were making him. He couldn’t save Quirin with surgery, did he think he could save Allette with magic? His gentle, intellectual endeavors had been pitted against dark reality. And reality was winning.

It broke her heart. Ward was finally seeing the truth of the world, and he’d been forced to adapt to survive. Except she needed him to stay honest, compassionate Ward. The Ward who could see good in everyone, even an undead assassin like herself.

He ran his hand through his hair, and its untamed spikes popped up. She smiled. There was a hint of the Ward she knew. For a moment, she thought he’d smile, too, but the door banged open.

Rodas stood in the entrance, his girth filling the space, blocking out the light from the hall. He sneered. “The master is waiting for you. I think he should remain waiting.”

“And I think you shouldn’t assume to know what Macerio should do.” Ward squared his shoulders and revealed a hint of the dangerous man he could become.

“I’m the more powerful necromancer. He’ll pick me to be his apprentice.” Rodas pushed back the sleeves of his dark blue robe, but they slid back down to his wrists.

Ward shrugged, everything about his posture proclaiming his indifference to Rodas. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

Goddess, how confident Ward sounded. Where was the uncertain scholar she’d met two weeks ago? Or the shaken surgeon from moments before? A trickle of sweat beaded on his temple and trickled to his jaw, giving him away.

“You think you’re so smart,” Rodas said. “Bringing a fake pet here to prove your ability.”

“That has yet to be seen.”

“You won’t take my place.” Rodas clenched his hands. A sure precursor to violence.

Celia shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. As much as she wanted to cut Rodas’s throat, it wouldn’t do to have another body around—at least, not yet. It was bad enough Val was disposing of that Quayestri and the real Quirin.

Ward raised an eyebrow, looking cocky and slightly bored—she had no idea he could do that. “Are you done?”

With a growl, Rodas leapt at Ward. She reached to shove Ward out of the way, but he’d already moved, and Rodas was upon her. He swiped a clawed hand at her, the action ridiculous compared to her martial prowess. It wasn’t even close to a fair fight.

She sidestepped his flailing attack, grabbed his wrist, and used his forward momentum—and great weight—to topple him, face first, into the reflection pool.

His wig fell from his head and water splashed over the edge onto her boots. She glanced at Ward. She knew he was all right—at least physically—but she couldn’t help checking. His expression was grim.

Rodas rolled over, washing another wave of water over the edge of the pool, sending his wig floating to the far side. He sputtered, his face a brilliant crimson. “Macerio will hear of this!”

Ward laughed. If she listened carefully, she could tell it was forced, but probably only because she knew him.

“I’m sure he will. Gossip and small houses and all that.” Ward turned his back on Rodas—a dangerous move at the best of times, but it was part of the role he played. He offered her his arm, and she took it. “Don’t spend too much time cleaning up. You never know what Macerio will think of it.”

They took the few steps across the garden, into the hall, and around a corner. Then Ward sagged against the wall, all the color drained from his face. He glanced over her shoulder and jerked back to attention. They were in full view of the antechamber. He couldn’t show any weakness here, not when Macerio or one of his vesperitti could step out of the great hall at any minute.

“Let’s get through this dinner.” The muscle in his jaw twitched, then the corner of his mouth turned up in a cocky smile.

The confidence only partially reached his eyes, but that was probably because she knew the truth. He was terrified. Well, so was she.