“Tio Pássaro is sick,” she said, her voice shaking more than it had on her own behalf. “The bad woman hurt him.”
“I can see that, honey,” I said, catching her shoulder and turning her back to address her steaming cup. I could feel Sam’s gaze on me, uncomfortable, no doubt, with what her daughter had probably been telling her and now worried about her brother as well as her kids. “Senhor Carlos gave me some medicine for him, so we’ll have to see how he feels after he takes it.”
“He doesn’t need some kind of folk remedy,” Sam snapped, distressed beyond her ability to remain composed. “He’s ill and I don’t know why. Fever, sweats, difficulty breathing, his eyes are discolored. . . . It’s not the flu—it came on too quickly. I’d say it’s some kind of poisoning, but he needs tests, a hospital. . . .”
“We don’t have that luxury,” I said. “Your father’s friends will be looking for us, and if they know he’s sick, any hospital won’t be safe.”
I held out the packet to Quinton who blinked at it as if unable to see it clearly. He wasn’t arguing—not a good sign. I started to open the folded paper and pour the powder inside into an untouched mug, but Sam snatched the package from me.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but Carlos says it’ll cure him and I believe that.”
“You trust your friend with Jay’s life?”
I was still struggling to remember to call Quinton “Jay,” but I replied, “He’s trusted Jay with his.”
Sam sniffed at the packet. “It smells like . . . mint. Or catnip.”
It didn’t smell like either to me, but it also didn’t look completely benign in my sight, either—the glow around the package was as black as the poison that had dripped from Carlos’s wards, but I knew he didn’t need to go to this kind of trouble if he wanted any of us dead. And I did trust him.
“Dr. Rebelo,” I started, “if you can suggest anything better at this stage, I’m game to try it, but Jay isn’t improving while we argue.”
With poor grace, she handed the folded paper back to me. “All right. But I don’t like this. Your friend is a bit high-handed.”
“You get used to it after a few years.”
Sam bit her lip and her gaze darted around the room as she stuffed her fear and temper back down. With an effort, she sat next to her children and put her hand on Soraia’s head, smoothing the curls compulsively. “Just what the hell happened in that place?”
“It’s not a story we need to go over right now.” I filled a mug with hot water from the kettle and dumped the powder into it, then sat down next to Quinton and put my arm around his back. “Dr. Carlos says you have to drink this while it’s still warm.” His skin was hotter than before, but he was shivering and his muscles were stiff.
Quinton lifted the cup in a shaking hand. His face was the color of unfired porcelain. “It smells vile. . . . Will it turn me into a newt?”
“Yes, but you’ll get better.” At least he still had a sense of humor. . . .
He grumbled and slurped the liquid. “Tastes like dirt.”
“Could be worse,” I said, thinking of all the other things it could have tasted like, given its origin. “I think you’re supposed to drink the whole thing.”
He made a disgusted sound but drank the rest. “I don’t feel any better.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, horrified. “Oh God . . .”
He dove for the sink and vomited. I dashed to hold him up when he swayed and started to heave again.
Soraia huddled against her mother crying, pressing her face to Sam’s chest, and though it was clear Sam wanted to get up and help her brother, she stayed seated and comforted her daughter, instead. “It’s all right, little angel, Uncle Jay will be all right. Shhh, shhh. . . . It’s all right. . . .”
I kept close to Quinton when he was done and gave him a glass of water to rinse his mouth with before he staggered back to his chair. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, and I washed the mug and the sink out hastily before Sam could act all doctor-y and want to examine the contents. What Quinton had thrown up looked like a tarantula and it smoked at the touch of the water I’d used to rinse his mug. White spines like broken bits of bone and bile the color of squid ink swirled around the drain before they disappeared.
“I think I need to go to bed,” Quinton croaked.
Soraia pulled away from her mother and threw herself on him, clutching him as if she would hold on until the world ended. Her frightened crying blowing up to hysterical sobbing, tears streaking her face, she said, “No! No! You can’t sleep! You’ll die! I don’t want you to die, Tio! Nooo . . .”
Sam was startled and tried to pull her daughter back, which only made Soraia act more like a limpet. The noise and motion startled drowsy Martim into fussing and crying as well. Sam let go of Soraia and tried to hush the baby while I took over the panicking-child duty.
In spite of Soraia’s hysteria, Quinton did look slightly better. He wasn’t shivering as hard and his color wasn’t so much like raw clay. The black threads had vanished from his aura as well, and although it was still weak and an unhealthy shade of green, it was shifting as I watched. I put my hand on Soraia’s back and said, “He’ll be OK. See—he’s getting better already. You have to look at him from farther back. See?”
I encouraged her to lean back so her view was broader. If she really had a touch of Grey to her, she might be able to see some of what I saw while I was touching her. It was a long shot, but worth the trouble.
Soraia pulled back with reluctance and studied her uncle with a serious expression. She gestured at her own face. “Not all black anymore.” She leaned forward again and hugged Quinton so hard he squeaked. “I love you, Tio. Don’t die.”
“I love you, too, Soraia,” he said, his voice rough and cracking. “I love you too much to die.”
“Promete?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Come on, now, anjinho,” Sam said, bundling the baby against her chest as she stood up. “Let your uncle go to bed. You know sick people need to rest. And so do little girls who’ve had scary adventures.”
Soraia looked at each of us as if sizing up who was most likely to tell her the truth. She picked me, turning a baleful silence and piercing stare on me as if to say she’d hold me personally responsible if anything went south.
“I’ll take care of him,” I said. “I promise. He’ll be fine and in the morning I’m going to take you guys to meet some friends of mine.” I’m terrible around children—I never know what I’m supposed to say or do, and I was, as always, sure I was getting it wrong.
Soraia shivered and appeared on the verge of tears. I had to bend down to put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right. They’re very nice. They’ll keep all the bad people away from you. And they have a son who’s about your age,” I added, hoping to distract her from the horror and morbid thoughts that seemed to occupy her mind. “His name is Brian and he’s a lot like your uncle Jay, only smaller.” I hoped I was guessing right about Brian, since I hadn’t seen him in years, but I couldn’t imagine the Danzigers’ son being a serious problem—Mara would have turned him into a toad a long time ago if he misbehaved. “Now, let’s all go upstairs and go to bed. OK? We have to get up very early.”
Soraia stood, scowling with serious thoughts and trying not to fall asleep on her feet. She reached for her mother’s hand while I helped Quinton to his feet. “I’ll protect you and Martim from the ghosts, Mamãe,” she quavered.