“What if the cockroaches get to you before I return?” I lurched upright, balancing unsteadily on my one good leg.
“I’ll bite off their heads. I don’t know.” Pain tinged Balthazar’s voice. “Can you stop asking so many fucking questions and just do as you’re told? Go!”
I didn’t argue. I staggered into the next room—a stark contrast to the dungeon. This space was cleaner, and the air was less suffocating. On an old fireplace mantel, a vial labeled Calabar gleamed in the dim light. The liquid inside was dark, thick, and viscous, gleaming like fresh blood spilled across the pavement.
My breath hitched. Memories slammed into me, dragging me back to the moment that same vile substance had been used to heal me. My mind spiraled, trapped in the searing flashbacks—Balthazar standing over me, the acidic goo oozing over my torn flesh, the unbearable burn, the scent of scorched skin.
I forced myself to move. He didn’t have time for my hesitation.
When I returned, cockroaches had broken free, skittering toward Balthazar in hungry waves. I stomped on the closest ones, feeling their brittle bodies crack and burst beneath my heel. Their brethren didn’t flee. Instead, they swarmed the fallen, tearing into them with snapping mandibles, devouring their own like ravenous beasts.
Balthazar barely reacted. His breath came in ragged gasps, his skin glistening with sweat. He waved a jittery hand over his abdomen.
“Pour it over the wound. Then do the same for your mangled leg.”
His shirt was damp, clinging to his chest, his body racked with pain.
I didn’t hesitate. Clamping down on the cap with my teeth, I twisted it off and recoiled as the stench hit me—burnt hair, mold, and spoiled milk. My stomach lurched.
Still, I tipped the vial over Balthazar’s open wound.
The second the liquid touched his flesh, he let out a scream so mangled, it sent the cockroaches scuttling back into the cracks.
“More!” Balthazar rasped in agony.
I let another thin drizzle fall from the glass bottle.
He screamed again. “Pour it on your leg. Do it before infection takes over.”
I hesitated, gripping the bottle so tightly my knuckles turned white. I knew the kind of pain this so-called healing elixir inflicted.
“Do it!” Balthazar bellowed.
My hands trembled so violently I nearly spilled the tonic, but I forced myself to tip it over my distorted bones.
The moment the liquid touched my skin, a firestorm of agony erupted through my body. I howled—an inhuman sound—before darkness swallowed me whole.
When I came to, I was draped over Balthazar, my cheek pressed against his damp, feverish chest. The bottle of tonic was still clenched upright in my stiff fingers.
I jerked back, disoriented, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My gaze snapped to his wound. The flesh was still raw and angry, an oozing pit of torn skin, but the steam had stopped, and the scent of decay no longer clung to it.
I lifted my leg. The grotesque twist had lessened—still maimed but not as ruined as before.
Balthazar groaned. “Help me up.”
With a monumental effort, I heaved myself onto my one good leg and pulled Balthazar upright. We leaned into each other, half-collapsing, half-staggering toward the next room.
I steered him toward an opulent red velvet sofa. He dropped onto it, landing on his back.
I barely reached the oversized chair in the same shade before my legs buckled.
For a long moment, we lay there, gasping—the only sounds in the room were our ragged breathing and the distant chitter of cockroaches in the walls.
Balthazar spoke first, his voice filled with contempt. “That son of a bitch. How dare he do that to me? He poisoned me with belladonna! How the hell did he get his hands on it?”
I barely had the strength to respond. “Who are we talking about?” My eyelids were too heavy to lift.
“Malik, that’s who! How did he escape? How did he survive? I saw his damn body steaming, burning—covered in scorch marks and fistulas. Who the hell helped him? No one is stronger than me.”
