The smell of gut-blood assaulted Nate, gagging him. “Sparks, how bad is it?”
“Bad. Maybe bad enough for the med clinic at the gate.”
“They won’t take him. Not without workhouse papers.”
“Maybe bad enough that he’s gonna die, Nate,” Sparks said with a snarl. Her breath came out ragged as she composed herself. “He’s gut-stabbed. I know a place, a Servant woman. . .”
“The sick-dens are full,” Nate realized aloud. “Sparks, they won’t be able to help him.”
“We wouldn’t get that far anyway.” Brick’s voice was soft and grim. “I can’t fight and carry him at the same time.”
Nate closed his eyes. No sick-den. No Servants. No time.
He hugged his middle until the basement stopped spinning.
I can’t lose him.
There was only one thing he could do. He let out a sharp breath. “I can help.”
“How?” Sparks spat.
“Trust me. We’ve got to get him somewhere warmer, where we can heat up water and clean him off. Brick, can you carry him up the fire escape here?” Nate asked.
“I can carry him as high as you need.”
Nate glanced up. The floors above them were full of crowded apartments. “We’ll have to break in.”
Brick shook her head. “But we don’t—”
“We have to! Climb up now and find somewhere dry where we can keep a decent lookout, okay?”
As a rule, they never broke into anyone’s home. Each of them knew how important a home was. But the rules didn’t matter now. “Can you get him upstairs with Brick’s help?” he asked. “Keep him warm? Keep him from bleeding out for now?”
“For now?” Sparks asked, broken with the same worry aching down to Nate’s bones. Reed was beyond help. Gut wounds festered. If Reed woke up again, he’d be begging for the stillness to take him.
“Alden’s got stuff nobody’s supposed to have. Stuff that can help him.” Nate touched Reed’s clammy cheek. “Get him dry and warm and safe. And alone. I’ll be back in an hour. Keep him alive for an hour. Please.”
“Don’t sayplease,” Sparks said. “It won’t be for you.” Her mouth trembled until she clenched her jaw. “But I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Do you know what time it is?” Alden asked, standing in the doorway to his shop in a lacy nightgown that hugged his lanky body like a bandage.
“Alden, I don’t have—”
“It’s seven in the morning!” He tapped his bare wrist. “I’m closed. I went to bed two hours ago. You better have a truly profound reason for waking me. Better than a bump on the head.”
“Reed’s hurt. He’s dying.” Nate panted on the doorstep, hunched over and winded from running twelve blocks across the Withers. A sob caught in his aching throat, and he slammed his palm into the doorframe.
“Oh, dear,” Alden said. “By the smell of you, I’d say he was accosted by a rogue sewer rat.”
Hot with a flash of rage, Nate pushed Alden back with both hands and kicked the door shut behind him. His chest heaved, and his breath whistled. He didn’t care if he looked sick and crazed. Reed was running out of time.
Alden stared at him, one slender strap of his nightgown slipping off his pale shoulder. He fixed it, sighed, and ran his fingers back through his sleep-snarled hair. “You honestly expect me to do something about this? I might have some strong meds from the city, but I’m no miracle worker. Take him to the med clinic and pray to the Old Gods.”
“They won’t help him. You know they won’t.”
“Then what do you want from me?” Alden stepped closer to Nate and dashed his hands out, quick as a snakebite, pushing Nate back against the door. “Sympathy? I told you a long time ago you’d get nothing running with a gang of thieves.”
