I gasp. The palm of his hand is a ruin. The cut from the wine glass—originally a clean slice—is now a jagged, angry mouth. The edges are swollen, turning a terrifying shade of purple-black. Yellow pus oozes from the center, streaked with red. Red lines are starting to track up his wrist, disappearing into his sleeve. Sepsis. The blood poisoning is moving toward his heart.
"Jesus, Alaric," I whisper, looking up at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Pain is information," he mutters, quoting his own twisted philosophy. He sways on his feet, his eyes rolling back slightly. "It tells you... you're still..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. His knees buckle. The rifle clatters to the floor with a deafening crash. Alaric Graves—the monster, the savior, the king of the asylum—collapses.
I catch him. Or I try to. He is six foot three of solid muscle and dead weight. He crashes into me, driving me to the polished concrete floor. My knees slam against the stone, pain shooting up my legs, but I manage to cushion his head before it hits the ground.
"Alaric!" I shake him. "Alaric, wake up!"
He groans, his eyes fluttering. "Elodie... lock the door..."
"The door is locked," I promise, trying to wriggle out from under his weight. "You have to get up. I can't carry you."
He is burning up. I can feel the fever soaking through his clothes into mine. I have a choice. I look at the door. I know the code. I watched him punch it in. I could leave him here. I could let the infection take him. It would be slow, painful, and guaranteed. In twenty-four hours, he would be dead or too weak to stop me. I could take the helicopter keys from his pocket. I don't know how to fly, but I could try. Or I could find a radio. I could be free.
I look down at his face. Even in pain, his features are sharp, beautiful in a cruel way.“I didn't push her. And I won't push you.”He saved me from my father. He gave me the music back. He killed for me. And he is the only thing standing between me and a world that wants me dead.
"Damn you," I whisper, tears of frustration pricking my eyes.
I shove him off me and scramble to my feet. "Alaric, listen to me," I say, using the voice I used on the horse. The Command Voice. "Stand up."
He blinks, trying to focus on me. "Can't..."
"You can. You rode the chaos. Now ride the pain. Stand up!"
I grab his good arm and pull. He grunts, gritting his teeth, and forces his body to obey. He stumbles up, leaning heavily on me. I stagger under his weight, my arm wrapped around his waist, his arm draped over my shoulders. We are a pathetic, three-legged beast shuffling toward the stairs.
"Downstairs," I pant. "We need the med kit."
"Bathroom," he slurs. "Under the sink. Surgical grade."
Of course. He has a surgical kit in his bathroom. Because he is prepared for everything except his own mortality.
Getting him down the spiral staircase is a nightmare. Twice we almost fall. By the time we reach the master bedroom, I am drenched in sweat and shaking with exertion. I dump him onto the bed. He sprawls across the fur throw, shivering violently. "Cold," he chatters. "So cold."
"I know," I say, running to the bathroom. I find the kit. It’s a metal box. Inside: scalpels, sutures, antiseptic, antibiotics, morphine. I grab it all. I run back to the bed.
"Alaric, I need to clean this," I say, climbing onto the mattress beside him. "It’s going to hurt."
He laughs—a weak, delirious sound. "Good."
I cut the sleeve of his jacket and shirt off with surgical scissors, exposing his arm. The red streaks are higher now, halfway to his elbow. I pour the antiseptic over his hand. He hisses, his backarching off the bed, his hand clenching into a fist. "Open your hand!" I order. "Don't fight me!"
He forces his fingers open. The wound bubbles. I have to cut the dead tissue. I pick up the scalpel. My hand hovers. I am a pianist, not a surgeon. My hands are made for creating beauty, not carving flesh.Show me the monster.
I take a breath. I focus. I cut. Alaric roars. It is a primal sound, choked back by sheer will. He bites into the pillow, his body thrashing. I pin his wrist down with my knee. "Stay still!"
I work quickly. I cut away the black, necrotic edges. I flush the wound again. I inject the morphine directly into his arm. I inject the strongest antibiotic I can find. I thread the needle. I stitch him up. Ten jagged, black sutures closing the mouth of the wound.
When I am done, I am covered in his blood. My hands are red. My sweater is ruined. Alaric has stopped thrashing. The morphine has pulled him under. He is breathing heavily, shallow gasps that rattle in his chest.
I bandage the hand. I sit back on my heels, wiping the sweat from my forehead with a bloody wrist. I look at him. He looks small. For the first time since I met him, the Director looks human. And that terrifies me more than the monster ever did.
Night falls like a hammer blow. The storm intensifies, howling around the glass house, rattling the panes in their frames. The power flickers. Once. Twice. Then dies. The generator kicks in instantly, a distant hum, but the heating system takes a moment to reset. The temperature in the room drops.
Alaric is freezing. Despite the mound of blankets I’ve piled on him, he is shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. Thefever spike is here. I check his temperature with the digital thermometer from the kit. 103.5°F. "No," I whisper. "Come on, fight it."
