Two constables helped carry Alec to a doctor on Magpie Lane, a few short blocks from St. Mary’s Church. His name was Couch and his skills were highly regarded, although Alec lost so much blood on the way, it was obvious no one except Vivienne expected him to live.
A rail-thin housekeeper answered their frantic pounding on the front door. She took one look at Alec and led them straight to the surgery at the rear of the house. Shelving held rows of neatly labeled glass bottles and medical textbooks. A black leather bag perched on a small desk in the corner. It was nearly identical to the one they’d seized from Clarence.
“Put him there,” the housekeeper said briskly, pointing to a long wooden table. “Dr. Couch is having his supper. I’ll fetch him immediately.”
The police deposited Alec on the table, then waited awkwardly in a puddle of melted snow. Vivienne snatched a folded sheet from a pile, wadded it up, and pressed it against Alec’s abdomen. Within seconds, scarlet bloomed through the white cotton. He hadn’t woken up. It was a mercy, she thought. Vivienne had felt the blade go in. Through their bond, she experienced perhaps a tenth of what Alec did, and still the pain had taken her breath away.
“What’s happened?” A man of late middle age bustled in, wavy grey hair sticking out in unruly tufts as though he had a habit of tugging at it. He had shrewd blue eyes and a broad, ruddy-cheeked face with large features that made him seem younger. The buttons of his dark frock coat strained against a prosperous paunch.
“He was attacked by an escaped mental patient,” Vivienne said. “The man had a knife.”
“Was the assailant apprehended?” Dr. Couch asked in alarm, rushing to Alec’s side and checking his pulse.
“Not yet. But the police are combing the streets. It happened over at St. Mary’s.”
“We’d best join the search, milady,” one of the constables said, touching the brim of his cap. He glanced at Alec, then away. “Dr. Couch will see to Mr. Lawrence.”
Vivienne nodded distractedly as the officers hurried out the door.
“Let’s have a look,” the doctor said, gently lifting the wadded sheet. His face grew grave as he unbuttoned Alec’s shirt. Vivienne sensed a presence in the doorway. The housekeeper had returned with bandages and a pot of boiling water.
“What’s that for?” Vivienne demanded.
Couch shot her a harried look. “I’m a believer in heat sterilization, Lady Cumberland.”
She frowned. “What’s that?”
“A new technique that seems to reduce infection.” He used a pair of forceps to dip a surgical needle in the pot. “Fetch the black thread, Mrs. Bergmann.”
The housekeeper moved to comply. She had the same cool efficiency as her employer and Vivienne guessed they’d been together a long time.
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
“Stand over there and try not the get in the way,” Dr. Couch replied, not unkindly.
Alec lay still as a corpse while the doctor shot him full of morphine and sewed him up. Couch’s demeanor remained calm and competent throughout, but Vivienne could see the resignation in his eyes. All he could do was suture the skin. There was no way to repair the internal damage.
“I’m terribly sorry, but it’s unlikely he’ll last the night,” Dr. Couch said when it was done. He had a direct manner Vivienne respected. “The blade pierced both liver and kidney. I counted seven separate stab wounds. The survival rate for this kind of injury is roughly one in twenty, Lady Cumberland. Even if he does live, there’s a good chance he’ll be septic within a week.” He wiped his hands on a cloth. “He’ll stay here tonight. You might wish to remain. Just in case.”
“I’ll stay. Thank you for what you’ve done.”
Dr. Couch nodded. “I wish it was more, but he’s in the Lord’s hands now. Call me if you require anything.”
The stairs creaked as Dr. Couch went up to his rooms, which occupied the top three floors of the building. Vivienne sank into a chair. She watched Alec sleep. He looked as bad as she’d ever seen him. White and bloodless as the children who’d been taken by Harper Dods. The morphine dulled his pain, but she felt it at the edge of her awareness.
Vivienne didn’t blame Alec for not waiting. She would have done the same. But it terrified her to think of what might have happened if she’d been a few seconds later. Vivienne had been bonded to one other daēva before Alec. She had died trying to work fire. Part of Vivienne had never recovered from the loss.
He’ll live, she thought. He’s a tough bastard.
She took his hand. It felt feverishly warm. The daēva blood working to repair ruined tissue. There wasn’t a bone in Alec’s body that hadn’t been shattered at one point or another. Not an inch of skin that hadn’t been torn open. Had he been mortal, he would have been dead a thousand times over. He’d always pulled through.
But eventually, there would come a day when he wouldn’t. She knew this too. Alec wasn’t immortal, just very old. Lucky too.
You’re a tough bastard, she thought again, barely aware of the tears on her cheeks.
Alec’s eyes fluttered open sometime after midnight. He’d already metabolized a dose of morphine that should have kept him in twilight for a full day.
“Where?” he croaked.
Vivienne brought a glass of water and helped him drink. She understood what he was asking.
“Clarence got away. He scaled down the side of the tower like a bloody spider.”
Alec closed his eyes. “He knew…my name.”
“What?”
“He called me…Achaemenes. Called me a slave.”
Vivienne was silent for a long moment. “When I find him, I’m going to send him back to a pit so deep and dark, he’ll never find his way out.” She produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one, snapping the lighter shut with a savage snick. “You’re in a doctor’s surgery, by the way. He plugged the holes. Took hours.”
“Oughtn’t…smoke in here,” Alec managed.
She waved a hand through the nicotine fog. “Couch’ll never know.”
Alec laughed weakly. “Rots your lungs.”
“Not mine.” Her full lips curled. “Called you a slave, did he? The tosser.” Her language tended to grow coarse when she was angry.
“Thought I still was.”
She frowned. “That’s interesting. Doesn’t get out much, our daemon, does he?”
“He could have killed me, Viv.”
“I know. You got lucky.”
“Not what I mean. He chose to spare me.”
She snorted. “I’d say he carved you up pretty badly, Alec.”
He coughed, wincing. “Yes. But he knew the wounds wouldn’t be mortal. Why not the heart? Only way to be…certain.”
Her almond eyes grew thoughtful. “Are you sure?”
“Fairly sure.” Alec lay back and closed his eyes. “Need to sleep now.”
Vivienne nodded and fussed with the sheet, tucking it around his shoulders. “Heal yourself,” she said. “And do a proper job of it.”
“I am,” he murmured.
She smiled at the thought of what Dr. Couch would say when he came down in the morning and found his patient sitting up.
Tough bastard.