A Deeper Love (Ghosts of the Shadow Market 5)

But every nameless patient was precious to someone. She forced herself to breathe more deeply.

“Take his hand,” Catarina said. “It will work better if you do it. Think of him, who he is to you. Give him your strength.”

Tessa had practiced a small amount of warlock magic before, though she was not advanced. As Catarina watched, Tessa took Jem’s slender hand in her own. She curled her fingers around his, his violinist’s fingers, remembering the care with which he had played. The time he had composed for her. His voice echoed in her heart.

People still use the expression “zhi yin” to mean “close friends” or “soul mates,” but what it really means is “understanding music.” When I played, you saw what I saw. You understand my music.

Tessa smelled burned sugar. She felt Jem’s lips hot against hers, the carpet underneath them, his arms holding her against his heart. Oh, my Jem.

His body surged against the stretcher, his back arching. He gasped, and the sound sent a shock through Tessa. Jem had been silent so long.

“Can you hear us?” Catarina asked.

I — can, came the halting reply in Tessa’s mind.

“You need the Silent Brothers,” Catarina said.

I cannot go to my brothers with this.

“If you do not go to them, you will die,” Catarina said.

The words hit Tessa like a blow.

It is not possible for me to go to the Bone City like this. I came here hoping you might be able to help.

“This is no time for pride,” Catarina said sternly.

It is not pride, Jem said. Tessa knew this was the truth; he was the least proud person she had ever known.

“Jem!” Tessa begged. “You must go!”

Catarina started. “This is James Carstairs?” she asked.

Of course, Catarina knew the name of Will Herondale’s parabatai, though she had never met him. She did not understand all that had passed between Tessa and Jem. She did not know that they had been engaged to be married. That before there was a Tessa and Will, there had been a Tessa and Jem. Tessa did not speak of these things because of Will, and then because of the absence of Will.

I have come here because it is the only place I can go, Jem said. To speak the truth to the Brothers would be to endanger another life than mine. I will not do it.

Tessa looked to Catarina in desperation. “He means it,” she said. “He will never seek help if it means someone else will be hurt. Catarina—he cannot die. He cannot die.”

Catarina inhaled sharply and opened the door a crack to peer into the hall.

“We will need to get him back to the flat,” she said. “I can’t work on him here. I don’t have what I need. Get our cloaks. We will need to move quickly.”

Tessa seized hold of Jem’s stretcher. She understood the complications involved. They were nurses, in charge of many sick people who would be pouring in during the attack. The city was being bombed. It was on fire. Getting home was not a simple matter.

But it was what they were going to do.

The city they stepped back out into was not the same one that it had been only an hour before. The air was so hot that breathing burned the lungs. A high wall of orange jumped out of the buildings around them, and the silhouette of St. Paul’s stood out in intense relief. The scene was at once terrifying and almost beautiful, like a dream image from Blake, a poet her son James had always loved. On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

But there was no time to think of things like London burning. There were two ambulances right outside on the street. Next to one, a driver was having a cigarette and talking to a fire warden.

“Charlie!” Catarina called.

The man tossed his cigarette aside and came running over.

“We need your help,” she said. “This man has an infection. We can’t keep him in the ward here.”

“You need me to take him to St. Thomas’s, sister? The going will be rough. We’ve got fires in almost every street.”

“We can’t make it that far,” Catarina said. “We’ve got to move him quickly. Our flat is just on Farrington Street. That will have to do for now.”

“All right, sister. Let’s get him in the ambulance.”

He opened the back and assisted them in getting Jem inside.

“I’ll be back in one moment,” Catarina said to them. “I just need to get a few supplies.”

She dashed back into the hospital. Tessa climbed into the back with Jem, and Charlie got into the driver’s seat.

“Don’t usually take patients to nurses’s flats,” Charlie said, “but needs must when the devil drives. Sister Loss always looks after them. When my Mabel was having our second, she had a terrible spell. I thought we was going to lose them both. Sister Loss, bless her. She saved them both. I wouldn’t have Mabel or my Eddie without them. Whatever she needs.”

Tessa had heard many stories like this. Catarina was both a warlock and a mundane nurse with over a hundred years of experience. She had nursed in the last great war. Old soldiers were always coming up to her and saying how she was “the spitting image of that nurse who saved me in the last one.” But, of course, she couldn’t be. That was twenty years ago, and Catarina was still so young. Catarina stood out to them because of her dark skin. They did not see a blue woman with white hair—they saw a nurse from the West Indies. She had faced considerable prejudice, but it was clear that not only was Catarina a good nurse, she was the best nurse in all of London. Anyone who got Catarina as a nurse was considered lucky. Even the most miserable bigot desired to live, and Catarina nursed all who came to her with equanimity. She could not save them all, but there were always a few, at least one a day, who survived something unsurvivable because Sister Loss was the one at their side. Some called her the Angel of St. Bart’s.

Jem stirred and groaned lightly.

“Don’t you worry, mate,” Charlie called back to him. “Best nurses in the city, this lot. You couldn’t be in safer hands.”

Jem tried to smile—but instead he coughed, a bad, burbling cough that came with a trickle of blood from the side of his mouth. Tessa immediately wiped it away with the

edge of her cloak and leaned close to him.

“You hold on, James Carstairs,” she said, trying to sound brave. She gripped his hand in hers. She had forgotten how wonderful it was to hold Jem’s hand—his long, graceful hands, the ones that could produce such beautiful music from the violin.

“Jem,” she whispered, leaning low, “you must hold on. You must. Will needs you to. I need you to.”

Jem’s hand tightened on hers.

Catarina came running out of the hospital carrying a small canvas bag. She leapt into the back of the ambulance, slamming the doors behind her and snapping Tessa back.

“Go, Charlie,” she said.

Charlie shifted the ambulance into gear, and they started forward. Overhead, the drone of the Luftwaffe was back, like the hum of an army of bees. Catarina immediately scooted next to Jem and passed Tessa a bandage to unwind.

The ambulance juddered, and Jem was jolted on his stretcher. Tessa tented herself over him to keep him in place.

“Catarina,” Tessa said, “what is this? What’s happened to him?”

“It looks to me like a cataplasm,” Catarina said quietly. “It’s a rare belladonna concentrate with demon poison added in. Until I can get the antidote we need to try to keep it from spreading in his bloodstream, or at least slow it down. We’re going to tie some tourniquets, start cutting off blood flow.”

This sounded incredibly dangerous. By tying off the limbs, they could be risking their loss. But Catarina knew what she was doing.

“This will not be comfortable,” Catarina said, unwinding a bandage, “but it will help. Hold him.”

Tessa pressed her body down on Jem a bit more as Catarina looped the bandage around the injured arm and shoulder. She made a knot, then grabbed the ends of the bandages and pulled tight. Jem arched against Tessa’s chest.

“You’re all right, Jem,” she said. “You’re all right. We’re here. I’m here. It’s me. Tessa. It’s me.”