After a few seconds, Imran’s breathing settles into those shallow pants that have been his regular thing for the past couple weeks.
Clay steps closer to the cage. “Tally,” he groans. “I don’t know if I can handle it.”
I lower my voice then nod to Imran. “You can. You have to.”
“Fuck, Tally,” he whispers. “Every day he’s a little worse. He hasn’t got much longer.”
Clay is probably right.
Layla thinks Imran has leukemia, acute myeloid leukemia to be precise.
We both remember a patient at Mom’s clinic, not much older than us, who looked like Imran, had the same symptoms. And that kid went downhill fastwithtreatment.
We’ve been racking our fucking brains to think of something to help. I’ve been to both Dimitry and Voss, but neither cared. I had nothing to offer them. Nothing they wanted.
Fuck.
But I do now—Aurora.
And I would put money on that crazy, fierce woman offering herself up to either of those fuckers if it could secure Imran treatment. She mustn’t know that’s an option.
I mean, I care for Imran, he’s a great kid, but at this stage his chance of survival is basically zero. All we can do is try to keep him comfortable.
Lay has been bartering for ginger from the kitchen, which helps the nausea, and we have magic mushrooms most of the time, but it’s not enough.
We all know the kid is hiding how much everything hurts.
“Try Hennessey again, next time you’re in education,” I tell Clay. “I think he’d bring something in with enough pressure.”
“I think he must have quit, he’s never around now.”
“Fuck. OK, and Spigot?”
“That fucking weasel brought in one blister-pack of acetaminophen, but then wouldn’t give it up unless Keisha agreed to ‘massage’ him.”
I picture the Jamaican woman and grimace. “I bet that went down well.”
Clay sighs. “At least Skid has some hooch brewing. That will ease the pain if he can keep it down.”
Skid makes this fucking awful concoction from moldy bread, fruit and veg scraps. He calls it pruno, and it’s absolutely vile. All the sewer workers drink it though, probably because their sense of smell has been destroyed.
“I feel so fucking useless.”
“Join the club,” Clay groans. “But switching back to Hector for a minute. You didn’t bring a crocodile shifter in here just to gossip about François. What’s going on?”
I rub my face, feeling the grit of the concrete dust and dried blood on my skin. “I’ll tell you but you’ll think I’m a fucking lunatic.”
“And I don’t already?”
“Funny. The truth is, I’ve been dreaming, Clay. Or I think it’s a dream, I just don’t know. I can taste the forest. I can feel the wind in my fur. And when I wake… my sense of smell is off thehook. And my hearing. I can scent de Vaux—his animal scent. This has been happening ever since he fucked me up in the yard.”
Clay’s eyes widen. He doesn’t laugh. “You’re saying you’ve developed a spark? In here? With the wards active?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s more than that. There’s a predator in me, Clay, and it wants out,” I whisper. “Whatever lives inside me wants to tear François’s throat out.”
“But how? Real talk, Tally. How could that be?” Clay looks uncomfortable. “I don’t want to be a dick, but are you sure your head didn’t get fucked?”
Yeah, I’ve thought about that, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure this is not a brain injury. “When François and I fought, it wasn’t normal. It was like he pushed a poison into my body so I couldn’t retaliate. I still feel the toxicity in my body now. Whatever that shit was, is, I think it triggered my own innate magic—somehow.”
