Marcus was faster than Winter. Enough so that by the time she staggered into the church, he’d already found the prep room.
When she entered, he was searching the wrong shelf. Tables and chairs were overturned behind him, and every cupboard door was open.
“What the hell did you follow me here for?” Marcus pulled a box off the shelf and, when he didn’t find what he was looking for, tossed it to the ground. “I was starting to think you were smart.”
“I could say the same about you,” Winter replied, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. “I really thought you’d figure out what I’d done by this morning.”
“You mean besides stealing the cure I made?” Marcus tried another box. He was getting closer to the right spot.
“I’m also surprised you didn’t save more cure for yourself.”
“I’ll admit I miscalculated in a few aspects. Is that what you wanted to hear?” Marcus threw aside the next box with more force. The glasses inside shattered.
His desperation made it clear that he was sicker than Winter had dared to hope when she’d first seen him. “I took a fair amount to the hospital,” she told him. “You could try there. Assuming word hasn’t spread far enough for the people inside to want to kill you.”
Marcus whirled around. “You came here to taunt me? To watch me die?” Still, he couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering to the door behind Winter. He had to be seriously considering the hospital. “This is beyond saving lives, Winter. Wanting to kill me like this?”
“As long as you live, you’re a threat to Devil’s Pass.”
“If you’re really as good and noble as you act, would you be so eager to see me suffer like this?” Marcus drew his dagger and gestured toward her with it.
“You really don’t have time for this,” Winter told him. “Are you going to fight me for the cure here and hope you find it before you’re weak enough for me to kill you, or will you give the hospital a try?”
“Giving you more time to put a stop to my carefully laid plans?” Marcus managed a weak chuckle. “For an idiot, you’ve gotten pretty lucky.”
Just end this now. Winter raised her sword and flew at Marcus.
He sidestepped and shot past her. Within seconds he was out the door. Gone.
“You’re not even going to fight me?” Winter yelled after him. No response. Her ragged breathing was the only sound. Her legs refused to let her go after him, and she was forced to admit her body was beginning to fail her. Damn it, she didn’t have time for this.
Winter stalked to the shelves and grabbed the box hiding the cure. She shoved the bottle in her bag. Her fingers grazed another bottle, the smaller bottle of cure she’d set aside for herself at the factory.
Winter didn’t want to believe she was getting sick, but it would be stupid not to take precautions. She should have taken the cure as soon as they’d left the factory. Her trembling fingers unscrewed the cap and she chugged the clear liquid inside.
Ugh. The taste wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever had, but the medicine burned her throat on its way down and made her eyes water. Winter wiped her mouth with her arm, tossed the empty bottle to the floor, and left the prep room.
Now to reunite with River and Phoebe and end this.
Winter casually swung the sword as she walked the halls. When her hands tired of that, she slashed at the walls.
Time to end this.
Doors to the chapel approached on her left.
End this.
Winter’s free hand moved to her bag. Her fingers twitched.
River and Phoebe are waiting.
Out came the mask. Winter separated the two parts, returned the upper faceplate to the bag, and slid the beak over her jaw. She peeled her gloves off, slid them into the bag with the sword, and entered the chapel.
The priest looked up from the passage he was reading, his voice faltering. The few people gathered in the pews turned their gazes to Winter. A lone church maiden holding a donation basket froze.
One last thing. One last thing.
“It’s about time you all left,” Winter said, her hoarse voice echoing through the chapel. In the silence that followed, distant chanting and yelling drifted in from outside. The mob was approaching, after all. Maybe they’d get their hands on Marcus.
“What’s happening out there?” The priest asked, glancing toward the stained-glass windows that failed to offer much of a few. His attention shifted back to Winter. He took in her clothing, her mask, and frowned. “And who—?”
“I am the Plague Saint.” Winter had some smaller vials of cure left, so she pulled a few out. “Who here has sick loved ones?”
Nearly every single person rose to their feet. One woman in a pew just a few feet from Winter spoke up. “My brother is at the hospital with red plague.” Her voice quivered. “They told me yesterday morning they’ve done all they can, but they don’t think he’ll—”
“If the hospital does not have enough cure to treat him now, give him this.” Winter tossed a vial to the woman. “I gave them as much as I could, but there are so many who are sick.”
A younger man stepped into the aisle and took a few steps toward her. “My mother’s at home with green. We were hoping since it’s less severe she could fight it off on her own, because we can’t afford what they’d charge us.”
Winter handed him a vial. “She can drink this if you don’t have the proper syringes to inject it into her blood.”
More people approached, one by one, and she handed out most of what she had left. Some left immediately after receiving medicine, while many remained gathered around her. Watching her with a mix of gratitude and curiosity.
“Go now,” she said to those who still lingered once she’d finished her administrations. “You all need to leave this place. Nothing here will save you. Go to your loved ones instead.”
The priest, who’d watched her in appalled silence until now, stormed away from the alter and down the aisle. “The Plague Saint works for the hospital!” he exclaimed to the dispersing crowd. “He doesn’t march around the city handing out strange vials, and he’s certainly not a young girl with no knowledge of medicine.”
“I’m not a man who works at a hospital saving only those who can afford it.” Winter gestured to the beak hiding the bottom of her face. “But I am the Plague Saint. I’ve spent weeks learning to make medicine and saving as many as I can. And as far as strange vials go…” She popped the cap off one of the vials, pulled down the beak, and took a swig to prove she thought it was safe.
“This really is a cure,” she continued as she slid the beak back into place. She glanced around at the last stragglers. “Now like I said, I suggest you all leave.”
The people listened, despite the priest’s continued protests.
“What are you really here for?” he hissed to Winter.
“To save people,” Winter repeated. With everyone else gone, she dared to pull out the sword. Candlelight glinted off the unspoken threat. “Now, I think you should go, too.”
“I’m calling the city guard,” the priest muttered. He scurried out of the chapel.
One last thing.
Winter let the tip of the blade sink into the wood floor and dragged it behind her as she walked. The scratch in the floor traced her path between the pews up to the altar. The altar that was draped in cloth and covered with burning candles. Winter tapped one of the candles with the side of the blade. It tipped over easily, and the cloth beneath it ignited in an instant.
The warmth was almost irresistible. The ache in Winter’s bones was accompanied by a cold that no amount of heat would banish. She pressed a hand to the side of her face. Her skin was feverishly warm. What would win the race: whichever plague had taken hold of her, or the cure racing through her body?
Winter grabbed another candle and held the flame to the cloth at the other end of the altar. While the new blaze spread, she reached for a third.
As she moved the candle toward another corner of the altar, she misjudged the distance between her hand and the first fire she’d started. Its flames licked her hand. She hissed and dropped the candle.
The candle rolled to the edge of the altar, hung in precarious balance for a moment, and fell to the floor. Fire jumped to wood. The old, dry wood that had been salvaged from some other building, some other life. It burned quickly.
Winter stepped back, still clutching the other candle. She backed into a pew, and the flames spread further, eager to swallow the old bench. Fire found her fingers before she could pull them out of the way.
This stupid old place had been one giant fire hazard for years, just waiting for something like this to happen. Sure, if a candle had been knocked over by accident during service, someone could have put it out quickly. But Winter had no intention of stopping the flames.
The fire of the candle she still held flickered and died out, unable to keep up with Winter swinging it through the air as she backed away from the altar. She cautiously held it out to the growing blaze in front of her to relight it.
Candle reignited, she moved on down the aisle, starting fires on more pews. Wax melted in her hand, but Winter held out until the burning became unbearable. When that happened, she tossed the candle to the floor and dug around in her bag for the lighter.
Smoke formed into a cloud around her. She coughed under its embrace, but she wasn’t ready to stop yet. She continued adding to the flames with the lighter, so lost in her task that she didn’t realize how quickly the first fire had spread until she was completely surrounded.
Winter stood alone in the center of the burning chapel and turned in a slow circle. After all she’d been through—being arrested, being attacked by Marcus, almost drowning, bleeding, killing—she didn’t think she’d feel fear like this again.
One last thing. One last stupid detour to get her killed.
No, it wasn’t going to end here. Not yet. She desperately searched the growing wall of fire for a gap. For anything to give her hope. Smoke clouded her vision. Where was it the least intense? Where did she have a prayer of making it though alive?
She thought about putting the rest of the mask on for some protection, but she needed every second she had. Run.
She picked a spot, forced every thought and fear from her mind, and ran.