CHAPTER FIFTEENPATRICK
Patrick paced interminably.
He willed himself to conceive any viable plan. He heard boots on the floorboards beyond his door and wondered if it was Theo returning. Was there any hope in the man at all? Or was he tucked in bed, sleeping off the guilt?
Patrick had siphoned idium from the remaining terranium and stored the vials in his pockets, downing one for himself. He beat at his own forehead, breathed too rapidly.Think, he berated himself.Think.
But the hours disintegrated, and soon there was light dawning beyond the window, illuminating the stained glass God in all His bare glory. Patrick threw the remnants of the terranium ore at His face. The window didn’t even scratch.
Nina would be beaten today, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. There were no more deals to be made, no strategies at play. He was locked inside this room with nothing but terranium and God.
He was useless. Horribly mortal and weak, to have let this unfold beyond his control. And whatever Nina’s transgressions, he wondered if he had failed her in more ways than she had failed him.
She had traded his name and his town to free her mother, and he’d traded her freedom for his own means. She’d been his captive before she’d been his partner.
She’d pleaded once, and he hadn’t listened.
He’d used her for her medium, just as Theo said.
And now she would pay for a truce that had been bargained over her unconscious body.
Patrick knelt, and the contents of his stomach climbed his throat and spilled out. He heaved until his stomach was empty.
This is what needs to happen, son, his father had told him.She’d want it for us, if she’s truly on our side.
“Fuck,” Patrick cursed. He wanted a blade. A gun. He felt the desperate urge to fire in any direction. And he thought he understood then, how she’d been able to betray him to save her mother. How could he fault her, when he’d kill through ranks of beating hearts to get to her?
He spent those final hours feeling the way he had as a boy, his mother lying prone in her bed, fading with gray fever. He’d been as useless then.
In a last spasm of desperation, Patrick threw his fists into the stained glass window, his knuckles breaking. But the glass remained intact, another reminder that Patrick was an ant of this world.
In this mania, Patrick lost his sense of time. He spent long moments with his head in his hands, heart thundering. He looked to see how high the sun had climbed. Was it already over, or was Nina on her way now to that city square, the population of Artisanal Belavere gathering to watch?
Then, when the sun seemed at its highest, a crumb of mercy.
The bolts of the door slid back. The hinges creaked.
Theodore slunk in with mottled cheeks, oscillating eyes, and closed the door carefully behind him. There was a wildness about him, a determination.
Patrick leapt to his feet.
“I—God almighty,” Theo said, seeming to steel himself. From the inside of his robe, he pulled a bundle of navy and threw it to Patrick. “Put this on. We’re leaving.”
Patrick hesitated for only a second, but Theo, who yesterday was gaunt and shamed to silence, was now feverishly awake. Patrick’s blood sprinted. He unraveled the Artisan robe and donned it. “Is there still time?”
“Time enough,” Theo muttered, and he held out his hand. “There’s a guard outside the door. I’ve got about ten seconds before he comes in to check on me. I need idium.”
Patrick rummaged in his pocket and came up with a trembling vial. He was out of schemes. He could only follow.
Theo pulled the cork and swallowed the ink in one gulp, shivering as it went down. It only took seconds for idium to meld with one’s bloodstream.
“Come on,” Theo hissed, already backing toward the door. “And be quiet.”
Patrick rushed forward.
Theo took a singular breath, wrapped his hand around the handle, and opened the door to a baffled guard, who looked between the two men with dawning realization. In his hand was an uncorked bottle of finest brandy, which he’d evidently been drinking from.
He raised his baton with wide eyes.
