Two weeks earlier, Winter was at the hospital to visit her mother. 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, but technically still visiting hours. The Plague Saint must not have expected anyone else tonight, though. When Winter reached the open doorway to Mom's room, he was in the middle of putting a pale blue liquid in her IV. Blue-X. Winter was ready to ask him how her mother was doing when a second man spoke.
"I'll be in a lot of meetings the next couple of weeks," the man said. "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.
The man took a step forward and examined the bag attached to Mom's IV. "What is this, anyway? Some sort of poison?"
"Nothing harmful," the Saint told him. "Nothing that would raise suspicion. Simply a blue-dyed solution."
"How long do you think she has left?"
"Without real treatment? Not more than three days."
Winter took a step back from the door and pressed a hand over her mouth.
Footsteps approached the door. She was only aware of her heartbeat drowning everything else out, and then the cold wall behind her pressing into her back.
The second man, dressed in a blue suit, stepped out of the room and walked 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 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 left as the door clicked shut. The Plague Saint was still in the room. It was still visiting hours. If she could avoid acting like a wreck for two minutes, maybe she could find out what was happening without letting him know what she'd heard.
Winter stomped up to the door and threw it open, warning him of her approach. "Oh, you're in here," she said. The door clicked shut behind her. She pulled her shaking hand off the handle. "Sorry to interrupt. What is that? More Blue-X?"
The Plague Saint turned around slowly. "You're her daughter?"
Winter nodded.
"Yes, this is another dose of Blue-X." The Saint glanced at Winter's sleeping mother. "I'm afraid she hasn't shown much improvement today, though. I'm sorry. I don't know if the Blue-X will be enough."
"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.
"What else would it be?"
Winter's gaze darted nervously to the staff leaning against her mother's bed, then back to the Saint. "I—" Was there anyone nearby? Nurses? Other doctors? And even if there was, 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 someone before I came in," Winter said. "I'm not stupid, I—"
"Please, come with me. My office is on this floor." The Plague Saint grabbed his staff and bag, and nodded for Winter to follow him out of the room.
When they entered his office, the Saint gestured to the empty chair across from 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 moving things around, he turned around with a glass in hand. "Care for some water? You must be very upset."
"Sure," Winter murmured. Now that he mentioned it, she was thirsty. She reached out. Her fingers wrapped around 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. 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."
He was going to convince her she'd imagined it. Winter cautiously lifted the glass to her lips to avoid answering. She 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. She was an animal in a trap. The only way out was to let the Saint kill her mother. Winter faked another sip. First, she had to convince him she believed he was trying to help. And then she get someone to—
No. No. No. No one was going to help her.
"You feeling okay, Miss Pierce?" The Saint took a step toward her.
The room spun around her. "What did you—?" The glass slipped from Winter's hand. "You're going to kill me!" Water spilled across the floor.
The Saint didn't answer. He was waiting for something. Waiting for her to collapse? 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 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 grabbed an empty jar and smashed it against the side of his head. He dropped to the ground. The jar clattered to the floor with him.
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 respond. Blood spilled from around the scalpel.
Who was the man behind the mask?
Winter knelt down and pried off the plague mask with shaking hands. The man beneath was unfamiliar. His dark hair had faint streaks of gray, 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 door and fumbled with the handle until the lock clicked. Moving quickly, she poked around the office, throwing frequent glances at the Saint.
Notebooks detailed patient logs and treatment records. In the Saint's bag she found the Plague Bible, and the notes explaining which patients had received real treatment, and which ones had received nothing.
Most of the reports were lies, and the truth was here.
There were also more uniforms and masks in one of the cabinets, all identical. Winter held one of the uniforms up. It would probably fit. Maybe she could make some minor adjustments—
No, that was insane. She should just leave and let someone find the body. After she'd removed any evidence of her presence.
She was bound to miss something, though. Something that would tie her to the scene. And if no one found a body, no one would know about the crime. No killer, no murderer. No body, no investigation.
Plus, if the Plague Saint disappeared, countless people would die. And Winter had a chance to do what he wasn't doing: treating everyone who came in. Curing as many as possible. Saving lives of people who deserved it, not just the politicians and other powerful citizens the hospital director told the Saint to save.
You're not thinking straight.
Winter picked up a mask and stared at her faint reflection in the eyes. She didn't have all night, and she didn't have any better options.
She put on the mask.
She'd been correct about the uniform fitting. It wasn't perfect, but it worked. Winter 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 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.
The Saint had said this was his office. Winter hoped that meant no one would come in in the time it took her to find something with wheels. Still, she grabbed his arms and dragged him under his desk. That left her exhausted and struggling for air, but she couldn't stop yet.
The halls were mostly empty. The few doctors and nurses she did pass simply nodded at her. Winter walked fast, hoping if she conveyed enough urgency, people wouldn't bother her. She peered into passing windows until she spotted a row of carts. Without thinking, she opened the door and found herself in an office.
"Oh, Plague Saint!" A woman sitting at a desk looked up. "I wasn't expecting you. Are you looking for someone's bill?"
Winter glanced at the wall of cabinets behind her. This was where they kept bill and payment records? Noted. Winter opened her mouth to speak but caught herself. She cleared her throat and, in a voice that she hoped was low enough to match the real Saint's, said, "Actually, I need a cart. It's—an emergency."
The woman hesitated. She looked nervous. "Oh. Are all of your wing's being used?"
Winter nodded.
"Well, go ahead."
Winter crossed the room and grabbed a cart.
"I'm sure you're very busy," the woman said. "But if you could bring it back as soon as you have a chance, that would be great."
"Sure," Winter told her.
The world spun when Winter entered the hallway and was still spinning when she stumbled back into the Plague Saint's office. When had it gotten so hard to breathe? Her grip tightened on the cart. Come on. Come on.
With her shaking hands and stinging eyes and nausea overtaking her body, it took nearly ten minutes to get the Saint onto the cart.
After that, 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.
They knocked again.
Winter pushed herself to her feet. "One minute!" she called. If she was going to keep this up, she needed to find a better way to alter her voice.
She opened cabinets 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. Thank you. Sorry, I've had a—sudden emergency I've been dealing with." 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. 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 whole twenty minutes she spent wandering in search of an exit that wasn't the front doors. She finally found one and emerged in a dark alley.
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 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 tripped, and the cart slipped from her grasp. Her hands frantically flew out and barely managed to grab it before it could roll 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 after killing someone. 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 knelt down. She grabbed the Saint and dragged him down the riverbank, searching for a spot that looked deep enough.
Plague Saint. People had been using the title for as long as Winter could remember. What a stupid name. Who'd thought of that, anyway? Him? Surely, he didn't think he deserved to be called a saint.
This spot would do. Winter 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 into 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. Winter held out the treatment. "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 add it to her file—?"
"I already did. Don't make any notes, just give it to her."
Winter left the nurse and found her way outside, where she wandered until she found a dark alley to change out of the uniform in. She shoved it into the bag 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 stragglers. 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 stumbled 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.
"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." Winter 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. My old one had a hole in it."
"Up for a game of devil's bridge?" River asked.
"Sorry, not tonight. I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed."
Winter hurried to her room and 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?