Her eyes grow wide. “Saint Anthony’s fire? Maybe. But we haven’t had that in this country for centuries.”
“I saw a lot of it in Italy the lifetime I transitioned—all the symptoms are there,” Griffon says, shaking his head. “But where would she have gotten it?”
“I seriously doubt that it would appear organically,” Giselle says. “Not now.”
“Okay, what are you guys talking about?” I ask. They’re speaking so quickly I can barely keep up.
“Ergot is a fungus that causes symptoms like you’ve described,” Giselle explains. “It started on rye seeds and was common throughout the Middle Ages. It causes hallucinations, convulsions, and gangrene.”
“Ergotoxicosis caused the Salem witch trials—the accusers were actually hallucinating because of the fungus. The convulsions made for a nice show,” Griffon says, and I wonder if he got to see that in person.
“And there are rumors that an ergot outbreak in late 1024 caused spontaneous Akhet transitions in thousands of people in Germany,” Giselle says. “But we haven’t seen it in any part of the world for decades.”
“Wait, something can cause a person to become Akhet?”
Griffon gives Giselle a sharp look. “It’s only a theory, and most Akhet don’t believe it. An unusual number of Akhet transitioned that year, and the only thing they had in common was a critical case of Saint Anthony’s fire. But it’s never happened again.”
I feel a momentary panic as I remember what Veronique said about Rayne being ready to transition. “Could someone make the fungus? Like in a lab?”
Giselle shrugs. “I suppose so. There has been talk of people trying to synthesize the ergot mycotoxin, but as far as I know, nobody has ever succeeded. Why? Who do you know that would do this to your friend?”
“Veronique,” I say quietly. I don’t want to believe she’d go this far. But I know she would.
Griffon’s head snaps around. “What?”
“She’s been seeing Rayne again,” I explain. “She has this idea that Rayne is the essence of Alessandra. I told her that it wasn’t true, but she’s completely convinced.”
“And she’s a microbiologist, so she has the skills,” Griffon finishes for me. I can feel his anger as he speaks. “Plus, she’s just crazy enough to try it. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You haven’t exactly been around,” I snap at him. “But it doesn’t matter. What does matter is, what do we do now? If it is what you think, is there a cure?”
“Not exactly,” Griffon says. “And if it goes untreated, convulsive ergotism can be fatal.”
Fatal. “So why are we just sitting here? What can we do?”
“Hang on, there are treatments. Vasodialators and anticoagulants, along with Ativan to stop the hallucinations.”
“How are we going to tell the doctors? There’s no way they’re going to believe a couple of teenagers diagnosing a disease that disappeared centuries ago.”
Giselle reaches into her bag and pulls out a laminated medical identification tag from a hospital in Switzerland. “I’ve got this one.”
Of course. She’s a doctor too. “What are you going to say?”
She clips the tag onto her jacket. “That I’m a friend of the family and that I’ve seen this in rural outposts on my trips with Médecins Sans Frontières. All I have to do is point them in the right direction—once they do the research, they’ll figure it out for themselves.”
Giselle stands up and strides through the ICU doors like she owns the place. Peter’s still not back, and I’m acutely aware that Griffon and I are alone in the waiting room. At that moment my phone buzzes, and I can tell from his glance that Griffon hears it too. I check the display, but put it quickly back into my pocket. Not a call I want to take right now.
A flash of understanding passes across Griffon’s face. “It’s Drew, isn’t it?” His eyes, which had been so soft and concerned, turn hard and gleaming.
“Does it matter?” I say, putting every ounce of hurt and frustration I feel into my words. “You’ve already decided how things are going to be.”
“I just saved us both pain and aggravation because I already know how it would end.” His mouth is set so tight he can barely speak.
“And what about what I want? You took that totally out of the equation.”
I see a flash of indecision in his eyes, but he quickly turns away. “Look, I came here for Peter,” Griffon says evenly. “And for Rayne.” I can’t see his face, but the silence that follows that sentence says volumes. He didn’t come here for me.
Nineteen
My pocket is vibrating. I sit up straight in the chair, blinking in the dim light of the waiting room. I’ve been staring at the same four walls for two days now, only leaving when my parents demand that I come home because of the ridiculous notion that my staying here might somehow be doing Rayne some good. The hope that I had when Griffon first diagnosed the problem is starting to fade with every passing day, and whenever I think of the hostile words we said to each other even as Rayne might be dying, I feel sick to my stomach.
I glance over at Peter’s chair, but for once it’s empty. The only other people in the waiting room are an older couple quietly eating lunch out of plastic containers, and I wonder where Peter could be.
My phone vibrates again and I pull it out of my pocket. I told Drew the basics of what happened to Rayne and I know he’s concerned, but I can’t deal with talking to him right now.
Suddenly, I need to move, to feel like I’m doing something, even if that something is totally useless. I’m not sure where I’m going to go, but I can’t sit here any longer. I’m pressing the elevator button when Rayne’s mom comes rushing down the hall.
“Cole! Wait!” she calls, slightly out of breath. “Rayne wants to see you.”
“She—what?” I must have heard her wrong.
I see tears in her eyes, but she’s smiling underneath it all. “She asked for you. She’s awake, can you believe it? She can’t talk because of the ventilator, but she has a notepad to communicate.”
“How?” I manage.
Her mom shrugs happily and gives me a quick hug. “The doctors figured out that it’s some crazy disease that they thought died out a hundred years ago and gave her some medication for it. It’s a miracle. They say that if she continues to improve, they’ll take her off the ventilator tomorrow or the next day. Do you want to see her?”
“Of course,” I say, following her through the double doors. I can’t believe they listened to Giselle. There’s a change in the room, like a heavy cloud has been lifted. As soon as I pull back the curtains around her bed, Rayne looks straight at me, her eyes a mixture of pain and relief. She lifts one hand and motions me toward her bed.
“Go on,” Rayne’s mom says to me. She leans over the bed to talk to Rayne. “I’m going to get some of those lemon swabs the nurse said you can have, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Rayne nods with a small but decisive motion.
I stand next to the bed, amazed at the change in her, feeling suddenly awkward. Rayne points to the notepad that’s on the table by the foot of her bed. I pick it up and hand her the pen that’s lying next to it. Her fingers are still not working right, so she grips it awkwardly in her fist as I hold the pad up near her face.
You did, Rayne writes in a sprawling, nearly unreadable print.
“ ‘I did’?” I say. I look at her and she nods toward the pad. “I did? What did I do?”
Felt u. She puts the pen down for a second and I can sense her exhaustion. It takes a moment before she can continue. Here.