I pulled back my senses, but I had opened myself up for too long. I was tuned into her anguish now.
“Who is that?” she rasped, her voice hoarse with the tears I knew had swelled her eyes.
“Someone who can help you,” Vikter answered in a way I was all too familiar with. He used that calm tone whenever I was seconds away from acting out in anger and doing something entirely reckless—which, according to Vikter, was way too often. “Please. Allow us to enter.”
Fingers stilling around the button below her throat, she gave a curt nod and then stepped back. I followed Vikter inside, scanning the dimly lit room, which turned out to be a combined kitchen and living space. There was no electricity in the home, only oil lamps and fat, waxy candles. That wasn’t exactly surprising to see, even though electricity had been provided to the area of the Lower Ward, to light the streets and some of the businesses. Only the wealthy had it inside their homes, and they would not be found in the Lower Ward. They’d be closer to the center of Masadonia, near Castle Teerman and as far from the Rise as possible.
But here, the Rise loomed.
Drawing in a shallow breath, I tried not to focus on how the woman’s grief painted the walls and floors an oily black. Her pain had gathered here, among the knick-knacks and clay plates, quilted blankets with frayed edges and tired furniture. Clasping my hands together under the cloak, I took another breath, this one deeper, and looked around.
A lantern sat on a wooden table, next to several sticks of burning incense. Surrounding the brick hearth were several chairs. I zeroed in on the closed door on the other side of the fireplace. My hooded head tilted as I squinted. On the mantel, closest to the door, was a narrow spike of a blade the color of burgundy in the low light.
Bloodstone.
This woman had been prepared to handle this herself, and with the way she felt, that would be disastrous.
“What is your name?” Vikter asked as he reached up to lower the hood of his cloak. He always did this. Showed his face to comfort family or friends, to put them at ease. A lock of blond hair fell across his forehead as he turned to the woman.
I did not reveal myself.
“A-Agnes,” she answered, her throat working on a swallow. “I…I heard about the white handkerchief, but I…I wasn’t sure if anyone would come. I wondered if it was some kind of myth or a trick.”
“It’s no trick.” Vikter may be one of the deadliest guards in the entire city, if not the kingdom, but I knew when Agnes looked up into his blue eyes, all she saw was kindness. “Who is ill?”
Agnes swallowed once more, the skin around her eyes puckering as she briefly squeezed them shut. “My husband, Marlowe. He’s a Huntsman for the Rise, and…and he returned home two days ago—” Her breath caught, and she exhaled heavily. “He’d been gone for months. I was so happy to see him. I’d missed him terribly, and with each day, I feared he’d perished on the road. But he came back.”
My heart squeezed as if it had been caught in a fist. I thought of Finley. Had he been a Huntsman, a part of this group that involved Marlowe?
“He seemed a little under the weather at first, but that’s not uncommon. His work is exhausting,” she continued. “But he started…he started to show signs that night.”
“That night?” Only a small note of alarm had crept into Vikter’s tone, and my eyes widened with a whole cartload more dismay. “And you waited until now?”
“We hoped it was something else. A cold or the flu.” Her hand fluttered back to the buttons. Threads were beginning to show along the wooden discs. “I…I didn’t know until last night that it was something more. He didn’t want me to know. Marlowe is a good man, you understand? He wasn’t trying to hide it. H-he planned to take care of himself, but…”
“But the curse would not allow it,” Vikter finished for her, and she nodded.
I glanced back at the door. The curse progressed differently for everyone. It took hold for some in a matter of hours, while for others, it could take a day or two. But I knew of no cases that went beyond three. It had to be only a matter of time before he succumbed, possibly hours…or minutes.
“It’s okay,” Vikter assured her, but it truly wasn’t. “Where is he now?”
Pressing her other hand to her mouth, she jerked her chin toward the closed door. The sleeve of her blouse was stained with some dark substance. “It’s still him.” Her words were a little muffled. “He’s…he’s still in there. That’s how he wants to go to the gods. As himself.”