The morning after the assembly meeting, George Gordon came into the hospital complaining of a cough.
“I know you said you’d get us preventative treatment as soon as possible, but I need whatever this is gone now,” he said. The handkerchief he’d been coughing into didn’t show any signs of blood, but that could always change.
“Of course,” Winter told him.
She gave him a useless serum and told him to drink half at noon and half at three.
“I wouldn’t do this for any ordinary patient,” Winter said after handing him the bottle. “I don’t have the time for them. But I can come by your office at the factory this evening with a new batch of medicine I’m making this afternoon. If you’re still not feeling better, it’ll be the most effective thing for you.”
Gordon believed her, took the bottle, and left.
Winter left around five, early enough to stop by the factory before meeting Phoebe for dinner at her family’s apartment. Per Gordon’s instructions, she made her way to a door at the back and knocked.
Gordon opened the door. He looked terrible. Bags under his eyes, bruising on his neck, deathly pale skin. “Come in,” he said, his voice hoarse. “And please tell me you brought something better.”
“Of course I did.” Winter followed him into his office. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the two of them alone in a quiet building. All of the workers had gone home for the night. “How are you feeling?”
“Awful!” Gordon sank into the chair behind his desk. “Just getting up to answer the door felt like enough to kill me.”
“I’m sure it did.” Winter took a deep breath. No going back, now. “You make a lot of money running your factory, don’t you?”
“Well, yes.” Gordon coughed. “What—?”
She cut him off. “But none of that would have been possible without your workers.”
“Technically, but—”
“They seem to be disposable to you, though.”
More coughing. Then, “It’s not exactly a high skill job. As long as there are people who need work, I do fine.” Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“I’m not saying you don’t do work. But is your labor really worth ten times what theirs is?” Winter held up the staff and pressed the button on the top. The handle popped up, and she pulled the blade free.
“What the hell?” Gordon moved to stand but didn’t make it more than an inch off the seat of his chair.
Winter pointed the blade at him. “So eager to sentence innocent lives to death. For what, a little more profit? The city will be better off with you gone.”
Finally, he realized what was happening. His eyes went wide. “You—you’re supposed to be a saint!”
“Then consider me the patron saint of killing you slowly.” Winter laughed, a cold laugh that took her by surprise. “Besides, a saint? Really? Adams had the Plague Saint killing anyone he considered a political rival, and letting those who wouldn’t be able to afford real treatment die with fake medicine in their blood.” Her grip on the weapon tightened. “And I know he worked with the mayor. A wolf parading around in saint’s clothing.”
“You’re—someone else?” That tremble in Gordon’s voice was satisfying to hear.
Winter lifted her chin. “I’m the saint that’s really going to save Devil’s Pass.”
“So, you’re just going to wait here with your blade pointed at me until I die?” Gordon spat. “I’m not gone yet.”
Winter should have known she wouldn’t be that lucky with timing. Her gaze darted around the office. A phone hung on the wall, and she certainly couldn’t let him get to that. She carefully circled around the desk. Gordon’s eyes followed the blade.
Winter kicked the chair he sat on, sending it and him toppling to the ground.
Gordon hit the floor with a thud and went into another coughing fit. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
“I don’t get it,” he hissed, glaring up at her. “You could be rich. You’re in Atherton’s good graces. Why give that all up to kill me?”
“This didn’t start with you, and it won’t end with you. You’re just a name on a list.” Winter took a step toward him. His words were nothing more than fuel added to the anger burning bright in her chest. “And you tried to kill my brother.”
“Please,” Gordon wheezed. “I’ll do whatever you ask. Cure me. I won’t tell anyone what you did. I’ll help you. I’ll—”
Winter felt a new emotion swell in her chest, almost enough to drown out that hot anger. Gordon had acted so high and mighty, so sure he was an untouchable elite. And now he was pleading for his life at her feet. It made Winter feel…
Good.
Satisfaction. She had the power now. Winter dropped to one knee and brought her face as close to Gordon’s as she dared. Even with the mask protecting her, she didn’t want to put herself in the path of his exhaled air. “There is one thing you can do,” she told him, voice low.
“Anything, Plague Saint.”
Winter slid the blade back into its scabbard and pushed the handle in. “Shut the hell up.”
She straightened up and swung the staff against the side of his head.
Maybe the coroner would believe the head injury, if he discovered it, came from the desk as Gordon slipped from the chair. Winter wasn’t too concerned with that matter right now, though. She was too distracted by the buzzing in her skull. She clutched at her chest. Her heart was going to explode.
But despite her body’s physical reaction, this didn’t feel as awful as the first two kills. There was a steady resolve growing, swallowing her dull nausea. She was succeeding. River would live.
On her way out, Winter checked that the door into Gordon’s office from the factory floor was locked. She also loosened the phone cord enough that it wouldn’t work, but not so much that it would be noticed anytime soon. She’d come back later tonight—or early in the morning—to make sure he died before anyone else found him.
Would she kill him with the blade, if it came to it? She didn’t want to make it obvious that he was murdered. It might make the mayor and the city guard rethink Adams’s death. It might make them take a closer look at her.
The snow came down hard outside. Winter crossed the street to a bar and snuck into the bathroom. After changing and shoving the uniform into her bag, she remained hidden in the stall, checking her pocket watch every few minutes until she had to leave to meet Phoebe on time.
“Stupid snow,” Winter muttered as she climbed out the bathroom window and back into the cold’s embrace. “Stupid frozen city.”
Phoebe was already at the trolley stop when Winter stepped off. “Sorry,” Winter said, rubbing her gloved hands together as she joined her. “You weren’t waiting long, were you?”
Phoebe shook her head. “It’s all right!” She was oddly upbeat, considering the many snowflakes clinging to her dark curls and the red tinge the cold had brought to her cheeks and nose. As they walked, she asked, “Did you learn anything new about the Adams investigation?”
There wasn’t much happening on that front, but exaggerating the truth to convince Phoebe’s uncle to give them information wouldn’t hurt anyone. “They’re having a hard time finding evidence,” Winter said. “But there are more than a few people at the station who find the whole thing suspicious.”
“I know the city guard asked the Plague Saint for information, but he didn’t give me any details about what was going on.” Phoebe sighed. “I just hope we can convince my uncle to give us something. Maybe even tell us how his research was going. If he was close to a breakthrough with the plagues…” She sucked in a slow, steadying breath. “I just can’t shake the feeling it’s all connected.”
“You might be right,” Winter said, choosing her words carefully. “But if you are, that’s all the more reason to be cautious. We don’t want to become targets ourselves.” If she had to scare Phoebe to keep her from getting too close to the truth, so be it.
They turned a corner, and Phoebe pointed to an apartment complex a few buildings down. “That one’s mine,” she said.
They reached the old brick building and approached a door at a ground level. When Phoebe opened the door, a shred of the peeling white paint drifted to the ground. Unlike Winter’s apartment building, this one had interior hallways. An exterior window at the end of the hall ahead offered a glimpse of the dark city outside. The two walked the corridor and took a corner before arriving at the entrance to Phoebe’s home.
Anxiety welled up in Winter’s stomach as Phoebe led the way in. When was the last time she’d been to someone else’s home? What if she did something wrong and offended them? What if—?
“Right through here,” Phoebe said. “You can put your shoes there.”
“Phoebe?” A woman called from another room. “That you? Are you with Winter?”
Oh, God. These people knew about Winter. What all had Phoebe told them?
Before Winter could completely wrap her mind around the concept of other people perceiving her existence, the woman poked her head in from the next room. “Hello! You’re just in time. Dinner’s ready.”
“Is Uncle Mark home?” Phoebe asked.
The woman—Phoebe’s mother, Winter assumed—nodded. She gave Winter a warm smile. “He’s looking forward to meeting you.”
Winter offered a smile in return and prayed she didn’t look as much like a frightened prey animal as she felt. Looking forward to meeting her? Why? It was probably politeness, but alarm bells were going off in Winter’s head.
Phoebe led her around the corner into the dining room. Winter’s gaze moved from her mother, setting a pot of soup in the center of the table, to her father, reading a book, to—
“How are you feeling?” Phoebe asked the man sitting at the other end of the table.
“Better.” Marcus Blackburn smiled at his niece and ran a hand through his dark hair. Light from the fireplace illuminated the faintest streaks of gray mixed into it. And the scar running down the right side of his face.
Winter was staring at the man whose body she’d thrown in the river.