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“And if they don’t want that?”
“They stay.” Irvin shrugs. “Anyway, it’s not only for them. Since the cataclysm, things haven’t been right in the afterlife.The souls of the dead are restless—people sense it. Demons are just one piece of the problem. Our song is meant to help those souls find peace.”
“Things aren’t right across the realms,” Arsene mutters.Back to treason again.
“You can say that again,” Irvin agrees. “But if Earth can heal, I believe that so can everywhere else.”
Arsene frowns. Irvin’s words tease out a thought that’s lingered in his subconscious for a while now. “What about people?”
“Can people heal, you mean? Well, I’m a doctor—so I remain optimistic.”
“Not like that—I mean souls. Can a soul be healed of corruption?”
“Ah.” Irvin’s gaze sharpens. Arsene is careful not to look across the camp at Nur. “Perhaps. With the right medicine—and the right will.”
“In New Yden, the healers learn to treat wounds of the soul,” he presses. “Surely you’ve had a similar education.”
“Some have, but not me. I only know physical ailments.” His mouth twists. “And sometimes not even those. There’s plenty in this world that surprises me, not always for better. I’ve read a lot about the horrible illnesses that came after the cataclysm. We live in the shadow of those times. We pluck every life from the very grip of fate before she squeezes us into oblivion.” He claps Arsene on the arm. “Maybe you’d better ask these healers of yours about souls.”
Across the camp Nur lifts children into the wagon. They’ll ride in the shelter for most of the day, protected from the dust. The taste of his ichor lingers on the back of Arsene’s tongue, bitter and strangely compelling. Like Nur himself. His mind fizzes like he’s on the brink of an idea.
He hardly noticesthe day’s travel until shouting shakes him out of his reverie. Arsene reaches for his knife but there’s no enemy: on the other side of the caravan Nur has collapsed, a crumpled heap on the sand. Rhys and several others crouch at his side. Arsene closes the distance before he can think. The humans part to let him close.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Rhys says, wide-eyed.
“He has a pulse.” On Nur’s other side, Irvin meets Arsene’s eyes. “He’s too hot. We’ll have to put him in one of the wagons.”
Arsene curses. “We need to figure out what’s wrong first. Is he sick? Is there a parasite?”
“He could be sick. As for the latter…” Irvin stands. “You’d better check.”
He crouches. Someone grabs Rhys’s shoulder and urges him away, and the rest of the humans move back. What will he say if Nur’s saliva is black with corruption? Can he even be affected by a parasite?
But when he parts Nur’s lips with his finger and swipes the inside of his cheek, it comes back clean.
“Not a parasite.”
Irvin’s shoulders drop. “Small mercies.”
Small mercies indeed. Nur’s skin is as feverish as the doctor says. Arsene slides a hand under his shoulders and he moans quietly but doesn’t wake. His head lolls. This close, he smells overwhelming. Sweet, metallic, and hot as the day. Arsene breathes deeply before he catches himself and stops, disturbed.
There’s another smell underneath. A familiar smell.
Slick. Need. Desire.
Blood rushes to his face and greedy hunger surges. He may not have completed the sentinel training program, but he suddenly knows what that scent means.
“He’s not sick,” he says roughly.
“What is it?”
Irvin’s boots come closer and Arsene bares his teeth in pure instinct.
“Stay back,” he growls. No one can approach them.
His vergis is in heat.
