“What’s that about?” Blake asked Beaumont.
The thin man shrugged. “He didn’t say.”
And you followed him anyway.But Blake didn’t say that. Alvarez was an open book—easy to read if you knew where to look. But Beaumont? He was interesting. The fluffy-haired blonde followed Alvarez in from a mission one day, trailing behind him like a loyal hound. And he’d stayedthere, ensconcing himself as Alvarez’s second. Sometimes Blake wondered whether Beaumont stayed so close to Alvarez because he liked him or because it was safe. Because Beaumont had a secret. One Blake would bet he needed protection from.
Blake never asked him about it—he didn’t care. As far as Blake was concerned, Beaumont was the guy who beat Judd at cards and helped Tommy make shelters for all the strays in his little Snow White cult. Beaumont pulled his weight and didn’t cause trouble.
Irving’s voice carried across the lobby, and Blake looked back in time to see Alvarez throwing his arms up, storming out of Irving’s office to breeze past Blake and out the door. Beaumont just shrugged before following him.
In the quiet of the lobby, Blake met Irving’s gaze. He looked pristine, as usual. His clothes starched; his mustache trimmed above his upper lip. He looked like he was in his forties, maybe, but Blake was pretty sure an age would constitute personal information, something Irving didn’t do. He’d probably break out in hives if someone had the audacity to ask where he was from.
Blake knew, of course. It was in the way his carefully curated accent skated over vowels. Even in the brand of wheelchair he preferred. Irving knew he knew.
And hehated it.
Shooting him a quick salute, Irving frowned as Blake walked out of the lobby and into the freezing air, clutching his coffee close to try and protect it.
Tommy was still messing with his chickens when Blake stopped by to give him the can of peaches. He smiled, letting his chickens peck at the can. “Want some?”
“Nah.” Blake shrugged him off. “Don’t give it to those fuckers, either. They can hunt their own food.”
Tommy flipped him off. He’s been hanging around Judd too much.
With his pockets lightened, Blake stepped around the pool and back toward the conference room. He refused to call it a Med Bay or Infirmary, because it wasn’t.
The room was only marginally warmer than outside, but it felt good. He shook out his fingers and set his food down so he could slip off his thick outer jacket. It didn’t really fit. They’d scavenged it from somewhere. Blake couldn’t remember. There had been so many houses and shops that they all started to blur together.
Hanging his jacket off the back of his chair, he moved to pick up his coffee when he noticed how still the room was. A certain unnaturalness that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Blake’s heart rate picked up as he glanced at Graves. He was still under his mound of blankets.
“Graves?” Blake called, taking two steps over toward him. The blankets were over his head. Not unusual—it was fucking cold. But something was different. Blake ripped them back to find Graves' face pale, his eyes bulging, and his lips blue.
“Fuck! Tommy!” Blake screamed, his voice sharp like a clap of thunder. He heard chickens squawk before falling to his knees, reaching for Graves' pulse. It was pounding so hard he could feel it before he even pressed down.
Graves' breaths were shallow and squeaky. He couldn’t breathe. Was this the infection? No. It couldn’t be. Not that fast. He’d only been gone a few minutes.
Tommy came skidding into the room, his eyes falling to Graves. “What do you need?”
“I don’t—” Blake’s knee hit the antibiotic vial beside the bed. It clinked to its side, rolling against the baseboard.
I’ve never even broken a bone before.
Oh God.
“Anaphylaxis!” Blake shouted, and before the last syllable left his mouth, Tommy was darting to the back of the room, ripping through the tackle box.
Blake ripped Graves’ heavy shirt away from his neck. His throat was distended, breaths turning ragged as he lost consciousness. His skin was hot under Blake’s hands. “C’mon, stay with me, Graves.”
Tommy returned with a fistful of medication. “I have Benadryl.”
The pills clattered in the plastic jar like they were mocking him. It wasn’t enough. “He can’t fucking swallow!”
“There’s an EpiPen, but?—”
Blake snatched it from Tommy, twisting the safety cap off and stabbing it into the meat of Grave’s good thigh. It would take time for the medicine to work through his system. Time Graves didn’t have.
“You’re going to have to crike him.” Tommy’s voice hitched.
Blake blanched.
