Stars of Fortune (The Guardians Trilogy 1)

Careless, he told himself. But his whole side had been a misery, and he couldn’t see the damn punctures on his back. Now, as she’d said, there was infection, and that was running through him hot and fast, inflaming the other wounds along the way.

He knew what to do, and some good could come out of it.

Provided he didn’t pass out first, and die while unconscious.

And he’d be damned if he would.

She came rushing back with the bowl, the candles, the vial—and three knives.

“I didn’t know which one.”

“My fault.” Focusing against the pain made his heart hammer. He couldn’t slow it. “The silver handle would be best. If you’d get a glass of water? Whiskey’s better—but that’s a matter of taste. The water will do fine. Three drops from the vial—no, make it five, considering.”

She got a glass of water from the bathroom, carefully added five drops from the vial, re-stoppered it.

“What does this do?”

“Think of it as a kind of antibiotic.” He gave the glass a scowl, then downed the contents. “Ah, God. Whiskey masks the taste of it, but beggars can’t be choosers. You should get Sawyer or Doyle for the next.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t reach the fecking wound with the knife myself. It needs to be opened a certain way, and we’d catch the blood—and the poison in it—in the bowl. It’ll be useful.”

“Poisoned blood, useful?”

“Don’t ask if you don’t want to know. It’ll be messy, but it should do the job. So if you’ll get either Sawyer or—”

“Do you think I’m so weak?”

“I don’t think that at all.” He swayed, had to catch himself, grip the bed to sit upright. “It’s only that—”

Because she worried she was weak, she picked up the silver-handled knife. “How do I open it?”

“All right then, all right. I need to stand.” He gripped one of the bedposts, pulled himself up. Fresh sweat popped out on his skin. “The candles on the floor, they’re three points of a triangle.”

She set them out. “Do they need to be lighted? Should I get matches?”

“Yes, and no.” He stretched out a hand, and the wicks flickered to life. “Stand behind me, and hold the bowl under the wound in your left hand, the knife in your right. When I tell you, you’re to draw a circle around the two punctures.”

“With the knife?”

“Not deep, just enough to break the skin. And when I tell you, you’ll open each puncture by carving them with an X. Sharp and quick now, and if you feel you’d hesitate, get one of the men.”

“All right.”

He gripped the bedpost with both hands, and stared at the candles.

“Whatever you see or feel, do just as I’ve said.”

He took a moment to steady himself, center himself.

“Airmed, Brigid, Dian Cecht, hear your son and servant. This pure light I offer you, one by three.” As he spoke the flames speared up, shone white as the wax. “Banish the dark within my blood. Within this circle, draw it clear. Now, Sasha, the circle.”

His fingers whitened on the bedpost as the knife point scored over his inflamed flesh. “I call upon you, power to power and blood to blood, till the black runs clear, runs true.

“As you will, so mote it be.”

He braced himself. “Open them, catch all that comes in the bowl. Quick and sharp.”