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I sat up and peered at him. The dim light from the air shaft fell on his face, pale except for the twin red spots on his cheekbones. He mumbled something else, then stilled.
I laid the back of my hand against his cheek. He was burning up with fever.
I muttered a curse and jumped up for a bottle of blood-wine. I opened it and kneeled on the sleeping bag. “Drink.” I slid my hand under the back of his head and touched the open bottle to his mouth.
His head lolled to the side.
“Hey.” I gave him a light shake. “Stay with me.”
He didn’t move.
Panic sleeted through me. “Drink, damn you.”
I tipped his head back until his mouth opened and dribbled some wine into it. To my relief, he swallowed.
“That’s it.” I tipped a little more into his mouth.
He swallowed that, too. His eyes opened. “More.”
I put my arm under his shoulder and lifted him partway up. He drank another few mouthfuls, then turned his head away. “Enough.”
“You sure?”
“Just…need sleep.”
I nodded and laid him back on the sleeping bag and examined his wrists. They looked better, although not much. At least the scrapes had scabbed over.
“I have to go out,” I told him. “There’s no toilet in here.”
He didn’t answer.
I put the wig on and left. Outside, tourists were strolling the cemetery, visiting the graves of famous people like Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde and Edith Piaf. I made my way out of my private corner of Lachaise, then hurried down the wide, paved stone walkway until I reached the bottom and the building with the bathrooms. I used the john and washed my face, then jogged to a bakery to pick up a baguette and chocolate croissants. I bought cheese at the fromagerie next door, then hurried back to Zaq.
He was still sleeping. I touched his cheek. He was still hot.
I swallowed a sliver of panic. Shouldn’t he be healing by now? I’d never dealt with someone with this degree of silver poisoning.
He’s a dhampir. He’ll heal. He just needs rest and blood-wine.
I hunkered down against the wall and ate a couple of chocolate croissants. This time, I was able to wake up Zaq and get him to drink a few mouthfuls of blood-wine.
I passed the next few hours doing tricks with my switchblade—spinning it by the point on my finger, twirling it through my fingers. At lunchtime, I had some bread and cheese and another strip of beef jerky.
Zaq groaned and muttered in his sleep. I got a little more blood-wine into him and considered my next step.
It was time to change things up on Moreau. He’d expect us to fly out of Paris, but I didn’t trust him not to be watching for us. I hadn’t forgotten that he’d sent Ines after us.
So we’d take a train south to Provence and fly out of Nice. The small airport there had a direct flight to Newark. From there it was a short taxi ride to Manhattan.
Another hour inched by. Zaq woke up enough to say he had to piss. I helped him pee into a bottle, then urged him to drink some more wine. Heat radiated off him. He peered at me like he didn’t know who I was.
He lay back down and went so still, I touched my fingers to his neck to make sure he was still with me. His pulse was fast and thready.
The sliver of panic expanded, filling my throat and landing with a sick thud in my belly.
He can’t die. He’s a dhampir. We don’t die from dehydration.
But we could die from silver poisoning, especially festering wounds like those on his wrists.
