Two weeks earlier, Winter had made a trip to the hospital to visit her mother. Alone.
Mom had been there a week already with the blue plague, and while she didn’t seem to be getting worse, she wasn’t getting better, either.
It was late when Winter arrived, but technically still visiting hours. The Plague Saint must not have expected anyone else to come tonight, though. When Winter reached the open doorway to Mom’s room, he was in the process of putting a pale blue liquid in her IV line. The lights in the room were dimmed.
Winter was just about to ask the Saint how her mother was doing when another man spoke.
“I’ll be in a lot of meetings at City Hall the next couple of weeks,” the man said from the corner of the room. “Won’t be around much. But I think you can figure out who to treat with what. I’ll send a message if anything changes.”
The Plague Saint nodded. The low light gleamed off his mask’s bronze beak.
Winter wasn’t sure why her instincts drove her to move back from the doorway, but she did. Neither of the two men took notice. She could just see the man in the corner now, and the Plague Saint was at the other edge of her vision.
The other man took a step forward. His dark blue suit was one of the nicest Winter had ever seen, and he carried himself with an air of calm confidence. He was undoubtedly an important man, she thought as he moved to examine the bag attached to Mom’s IV. Something about that fact terrified her.
“What is this, anyway?” the man asked. “Some kind of poison?”
“Nothing harmful,” the Saint told him. “And nothing that would raise suspicion in an autopsy. Simply a blue-dyed saline solution.”
“How long do you think she has left?”
“Without real treatment? Not more than a few days. Her immune system is nearly to its breaking point.”
Comprehension dawned on Winter slowly. But as it did, she took another step back from the door and pressed a hand over her mouth. Her feet kept moving, despite her making no effort to control them, and carried her ten feet down the hall.
Footsteps approached the room’s doorway. She barely processed it through the sensation of her heart pounding in her ears. Through the cold of the wall hitting her back.
The second man stepped out of the room and walked right past Winter. He cast her the briefest glance as he did, but didn’t seem concerned by the trembling, disheveled mess backed against the wall. He hadn’t realized she was eavesdropping and probably saw people like her all the time. People who’d received what might be the worst news of their life.
Winter’s gaze darted to the door as it clicked shut behind him. The Plague Saint was still in there. And it was still visiting hours. If she could avoid acting like a wreck for two minutes, maybe she could learn more about what was happening without letting the Saint know what she’d overheard.
Winter stomped up to the door and threw it open, warning him of her approach. “Oh, you’re in here,” she said as she entered, hoping the tremor in her voice wasn’t too noticeable. The door closed behind her. She pulled her shaking hand off the handle. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. What is that? More Blue-X?”
The Plague Saint turned around slowly. “You’re her daughter?”
“I am.”
“Yes, this is another dose of Blue-X.” The Saint glanced at Winter’s sleeping mother. “But I’m afraid she hasn’t shown much improvement today. I don’t know if the Blue-X will be enough. I’m sorry.” Despite the words, the monotone of his voice didn’t convey much by way of sympathy.
Winter swallowed. “But that is Blue-X?”
The Plague Saint paused. Then, slowly, he straightened up and took a step forward, and Winter found herself staring into the glassy black eyes of his mask. Her terrified reflection gazed back.
“What else would it be?” the Saint asked, voice low. Dangerous.
Winter’s gaze darted nervously to where the Saint’s staff leaned against Mom’s bed, then back to him. Was there anyone else nearby? Nurses? Other doctors? And even if she could find someone to help her, would they take her side if she accused the Saint of planning to let her mother die?
Probably not.
But Winter couldn’t just let this happen.
“I heard you talking to that other man before I came in,” Winter said, her growing anger just barely managing to mask her fear. “I’m not stupid, I—”
The Plague Saint cut her off. “Please, come with me. My office is on this floor.” He grabbed his staff and bag, then nodded for Winter to accompany him out of the room.
Dumbfounded, all Winter could do was stare after him for a moment. Then, not feeling as if she had any other options, she followed.
When they entered his office, the Saint gestured to the empty chair next to his desk. “Have a seat. I think you may have misunderstood what you heard.”
Winter wanted to believe it. Desperately. But what other explanation could there be? While she settled reluctantly into the chair, the Plague Saint closed the door and walked to the counter. After a moment of shuffling and the sound of liquid pouring, he turned around and approached her with a glass in hand. “Care for some water? Most people don’t realize how easy it is to become dehydrated when under a lot of stress.”
“Sure,” Winter murmured. Now that he mentioned it, she was thirsty. She reached out. Her fingers embraced the cold glass. A chill ran down her spine.
Why the hell was she taking this? She’d just told the Saint that she’d overheard him planning to let her mother die. She should have left while she had the chance. She should have told Dad. Or someone. Anyone. Her hand squeezed the glass. Maybe it was poison. Maybe it was—
“I understand how terrible you must be feeling, with your mother so sick,” the Saint said, his voice the same cool tone it had always been. He made no move to sit down. “I’m sure you’re having a hard time thinking straight.”
So, he was going to try convincing her she’d imagined it. Winter cautiously lifted the glass to her lips to avoid answering. Pretended to take a sip. Some of the water touched her tongue. Was it her imagination, or did the water taste strange?
With the mask covering his face, the Saint was unreadable. Winter was an animal in a trap. The only way out was to go along with this and let the Saint kill her mother. She faked another sip. First, she had to convince him she believed he was truly trying to heal Mom. And then find someone she could ask for help…
No. No, no, no. No one was going to help her.
“Are you feeling all right, Miss Pierce?” The Saint took a step toward her.
The room spun around her. “What did you—?” The drink slipped from Winter’s hand. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” She was dimly aware of the sound of glass shattering on wood.
The Saint didn’t answer. He was waiting for something. Waiting for her to pass out? To drop dead? What had he given her?
In desperation, Winter lunged at him.
He sidestepped and dodged her easily. Winter stumbled into a counter, knocking over a couple of bottles. A hand grabbed her arm. The Saint’s grip tightened, and Winter blindly reached out with her free hand for something, anything. Her fingers grazed cold metal.
By the time she’d processed that what she grabbed was a scalpel, she’d already jammed it into the Saint’s chest.
He staggered back a few steps. Winter didn’t stop. She grabbed a jar and smashed it against the side of his head. He dropped to the ground. The jar clattered to the floor with him, the dark brown liquid inside sloshing haphazardly.
Oh. God.
What had she done?
Was he dead?
No. No. He couldn’t be.
Winter nudged the body with her foot, trembling so violently that she could barely move. The Saint didn’t so much as twitch. Blood gushed from around the scalpel wound.
For a long moment, all Winter could do was stare at the body. Minutes passed. She wasn’t sure how many. Finally, she acknowledged that she had to do something.
So, who was the man behind the mask?
Winter knelt down and pried off the plague mask with hands that were both shaking and numb. The man beneath was unfamiliar. His dark hair had faint streaks of gray, his light skin had a tan to it, and there was a pale scar running down the right side of his face. He looked to be in his forties. Blood trickled from the wound made by the jar.
Tears blurred Winter’s vision. She had the fleeting thought that she should check his pulse or see if his chest was moving, but it was overwhelmed by a dozen other concerns. Should she run? If he somehow survived, she’d be arrested and her life would be over. And Mom would still die.
If he was still alive, she couldn’t—she couldn’t let him stay that way, could she?
Winter staggered to the office door and fumbled with the handle until the lock clicked. She moved on to poking around the office, throwing frequent glances at the Saint to make sure he hadn’t moved.
The tools and vials she found didn’t mean much to her. But the notebooks detailed patient logs and treatment records. In the Saint’s bag, she found the Plague Bible. Instructions for making medicine. Guides to building treatment plans. And notes explaining which patients had received real treatment, and which ones had received nothing.
The hospital reports were lies, and the truth was here.
There were also more uniforms in one of the cabinets, all identical. Winter held one of the coats up. It would probably fit. Maybe she could…
No, no, that was an unbelievably bad idea. Ridiculous. Completely absurd. Dangerous. She should just leave and let someone find the body. After she’d removed any evidence of her presence, that was.
But she was bound to miss something. Something that would tie her to the scene. And if no one found the Saint, no one would know the crime had happened. No death, no murderer. No body, no investigation.
Plus, if the Plague Saint disappeared and no one was around to make his medicines, people who could have been saved would die. And Winter had a chance to do what he wasn’t doing: treating everyone who came in. Curing as many as possible. Healing people who deserved help, not just ones the hospital director told the Saint to save.
She didn’t know enough about medicine to develop new cures. But she could follow instructions.
You’re not thinking straight.
Winter picked up a spare mask from the cabinet and stared at her faint reflection in the eyes. She didn’t have all night, and she couldn’t think of any better options.
She put on the mask.
Winter had been correct about the uniform fitting. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked. She pulled on the gloves last. Now all she had to do was get rid of the—
The—
Winter swallowed and approached the body again. She wasn’t strong enough to carry him. Okay, that was fine. The hospital had beds on wheels and carts. But she still had to take him outside.
And then where?
This was an easier question to answer. Devil’s Pass was built next to a river. Some of the water was diverted into canals and pipes for the city to use, but the rest continued through the mountains, to lands in the south. Once the Saint left the city, no one would find him. Not any time soon, anyway.
The Saint had said this room was his office. Winter hoped that meant no one else would come in during the time it took her to find something with wheels. Still, she grabbed his arms and dragged him under his desk, hiding him from view of anyone at the door. The act left her exhausted and struggling for air, but she couldn’t rest yet.
The hallways were mostly empty. Still, Winter walked fast, hoping if she conveyed enough urgency, people wouldn’t bother her. Thankfully, the few staff members she did pass simply gave her polite nods.
She peered through passing windows into rooms until she spotted a row of flatbed carts. Without thinking, she threw open the door and found herself in an office.
“Oh, Plague Saint!” A woman sitting behind the desk looked up. “I wasn’t expecting you. Are you looking for someone’s bill?”
Winter glanced at the wall of cabinets behind the woman. This was where they kept bill and payment records? Noted.
She opened her mouth to speak but caught herself. She cleared her throat and, in a quiet voice that she hoped was deep enough to resemble the real Saint’s, said, “Actually, I need a cart. It’s…an emergency.” Would that reasoning work? Winter wasn’t entirely sure what the carts were typically used for.
The woman hesitated. She looked nervous, Winter realized. “Oh. Are all of your wing’s being used?”
Winter nodded. The less she spoke, the better.
“Well, go ahead.”
Winter crossed the room and grabbed a cart.
“I’m sure you’re very busy,” the woman said, her tone bordering on fearful. “But if you could bring it back as soon as you have a chance, that would be great.”
“Sure,” Winter told her. Was it purely because the woman thought she was the Saint? Was he that intimidating to hospital staff?
The world spun when Winter reentered the hallway and was still spinning when she stumbled back into the Plague Saint’s office. When had it gotten so hard to breathe? Come on. Come on.
With her shaking hands and stinging eyes and nausea threatening to overtake her, it took nearly ten minutes to get the Saint’s body onto the cart. After that ordeal was over with, she staggered to the nearest wall, sank to the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, closed her eyes, counted to ten, counted to ten again, counted to ten again—
Someone knocked on the office door.
Don’t throw up in the mask.
The visitor knocked again. Louder.
Winter pushed herself to her feet. “One minute!” she called, her voice straining. If she was going to keep this up, she needed to find a better way to alter her voice.
She opened cabinets in a rush until she found a stack of folded sheets. She grabbed one, threw it over the cart, moved the cart behind the desk, and hurried to the door.
A nurse stood on the other side. “Sorry to bother you, Plague Saint, I know you’re leaving soon. But I have the treatment schedule Dr. Liang made for Miss White.” In response to Winter’s blank stare, she held up a file. “That was the one you wanted, right?”
“Oh. Yes.” Winter took the file. The nurse nodded and hurried off.
Well, at least that was quick. Winter tossed the file onto the desk and assessed the cart. The sheet on top was a bit awkward, but it would have to do. If anyone questioned her, she’d tell them she was getting rid of…biohazard waste? People seemed to be slightly afraid of the Saint, which was going to work to her advantage.
As a matter of fact, no one questioned her during the entire twenty minutes she spent wandering in search of an exit that wasn’t out front. She finally found one and emerged in a dark alley between the hospital and the apartment complex next door.
The biting cold was almost an improvement over the suffocating hospital corridors. Almost.
She pushed the cart to the back of the hospital, across a narrow patch of dirt, and to the tree line. The forest terrain was a nightmare to navigate, and snow had begun to fall, but the sound of the river drew Winter forward.
She nearly collapsed when she reached the water’s edge. She did trip, and the cart slipped from her grasp. Her hands flew out frantically and barely managed to catch it before it could tumble into the river. She wouldn’t have cared about losing the thing otherwise, but she had promised that woman she’d return it.
What a stupid thing to care about at a time like this. Winter shook her head. She wanted nothing more right now than to crawl into her bed. And maybe never come back out.
The wind picked up, and the uniform’s overcoat billowed around her. Winter yanked the sheet off of the cart.
Another wave of nausea rolled over her as she was forced to see the body again. She avoided looking too closely, instead focusing on the terrain as she dragged the Saint down the riverbank, searching for a spot that looked deep enough.
Plague Saint. People had been using the title for nearly as long as he’d been in the city. What a stupid name. Who’d thought of it, anyway? Him? Surely he didn’t think he deserved to be called a saint.
Winter stumbled to a halt. This spot would do. She pushed the Saint until he rolled into the water.
Everything was a blur after that. She remembered dragging the cart back to the office she’d taken it from, gathering some of the Saint’s belongings in a bag, and searching his lab until she found the treatment that would save her mother.
When she returned to her mother’s room, a nurse was there scribbling something on a clipboard. She glanced up when Winter walked in.
Winter held out the vial of medicine. “She needs this. All of it.”
The nurse didn’t question her. She took the vial and nodded. “I’ll give it to her once I’m done checking her vitals. Should I note it in her file—?”
“I already did,” Winter cut her off quickly. “Don’t make any notes. Just give it to her.”
Winter wanted to spend more time with Mom, but she couldn’t do that as the Saint. It was getting late, anyway. All she could do now was hope the medicine did its work overnight.
She left the room and found her way outside, where she wandered until she found a dark alley she could change out of the uniform in. She shoved it into the bag she’d taken and stumbled to the main road, snow in her hair and wind in her eyes.
The trolley she rode home was nearly empty this time of night, but there were a few other stragglers leaving their late shifts. Winter couldn’t shake her paranoia that the people glancing her way could see the blood on her hands. The reflection of a dead man in her eyes. The way she trembled from the effort of throwing his body in the river.
She got off at her stop and hurried up the stairs to the apartment.
Dad and River waited at the dining table. Damn it. Winter had hoped they wouldn’t be home yet.
“How’s Mom?” River asked.
It took Winter a moment to remember she didn’t need to use her imitation of the Saint’s voice. She cleared her throat. “Uh, same as she was when we went the other day. But they’re giving her a new treatment tonight. If it works, she should be doing better tomorrow.” She adjusted the bag slung over her shoulder.
Dad frowned. “Is that a new bag?”
“Oh, um.” Winter swallowed. “Yeah, uh, I had to get a new one from the station. The zipper broke on my old one.”
“Up for a game of devil’s bridge?” River asked, thankfully putting a halt to Dad’s line of questioning.
Winter shook her head. “Sorry, not tonight. I’m exhausted.”
She wanted to sprint to her room but settled for walking quickly to avoid raising any further suspicion. She shoved the Saint’s bag behind her bed before crawling under her blankets. All she could hear was her racing heart. All she could see was the Plague Saint.
What the hell was she supposed to do now?