Ganymede (The Clockwork Century 3)

“I knew it,” he said unhappily.

“You knew what?” she asked. It was a relief to hear him talk, even to hear him complain. But the bubbling red across his chest was not a relief, and his face was blanched and pale beneath the burnish of his complexion. Every muscle from his forehead to his chin was stretched tight with pain.

“I knew you’d come. Whether or not anyone told you not to. That’s why I told them not to tell you. Josty did it, didn’t he? Damn fool. ”

Ruthie seized Deaderick’s other hand and held it up to her cheek. “Bien sûr she came, you ridiculous oaf!”

“Christ Almighty, not you, too. ”

“Oui, moi aussi. Now, hush and let us take care of you. ”

“I don’t need you to take care of me. ”

Josephine released his hand so she could explore the injuries with her fingers. Gently, thoroughly, and trembling, she unpicked his buttons and revealed the sad, masculine attempts at bandaging. An ash-colored rag that might once have dried dishes was balled up and compressed against the largest of two holes, or so she learned upon lifting it. It stuck, blood drying to chest hair, and Deaderick grimaced.

“Woman, let it alone! If you leave it be, it’ll stop bleeding. ”

Fletcher Josty hovered into the scene and contradicted him. “It hasn’t stopped yet, not for good. Not like the other one. Rick, I’m starting to worry. ”

“Save your worry for yourself, because when I’m up again, I’m going to tan your hide for getting Josie involved. ”

“Oh, shut your mouth. You’ve met your sister, haven’t you? Like we could keep her away. ”

Just then, someone shouted from the far end of the cellarlike nook. “All right, you goddamn pirates have gotten your way. I’m here, and you won’t do any better—not for trying. Who needs attention?”

“Are you a doctor?” Josephine asked like lightning.

“Used to be. I’m starting down here and working my way up like the free men of the air have demanded. So tell me,” said the man. “who’s in the most danger? Has no one sorted them out, grouped them by seriousness of condition?”

Fletcher rolled his eyes and said, “This ain’t no hospital, mister. It’s been all we could do to get ’em out from underfoot!”

Josephine stood and shoved Fletcher Josty aside. “Never mind him. Get yourself over here, Doctor, if that’s what you are. My brother has two bullets in him, and he needs your assistance now. ”

“Only two? He’s one of the better cases. ”

“I’ll pay you. Whatever you think you’re worth. I … I own a boarding house, in the Quarter. Get over here and fix my brother, and I’ll see to it that you have a week you’ll never forget, do you understand me?”

“No, but I’m open to the explaining,” he said, coming toward her. He was an older man and, by the look of him, a lifelong alcoholic. The skin across his nose was the color of blisters and streaked with broken blood vessels; his eyes were likewise shot through with red, and his face hung off his skull with a droop like a hound dog’s.

“Get over here, then. Fix this man. ”

“No,” croaked Deaderick. “There’s worse up there, men who need the attention more. ”

“Shut up, if your woman’s willing to pay. I was dragged out of bed for this, and I’ll help who I like—and who I’m paid to patch. I said I’d start in the cellar and work my way up, and you’re as likely a patient as the next man, aren’t you?”

“What kind of doctor are you?” Josephine thought to ask, feeling suddenly uncertain about this.

“A genius or a quack. Either way, I’m Leonidas Polk, and I’ll patch this fellow up if I can, but you need to get out of my way. Good Lord, they’ve just been letting you bleed?”

Deaderick replied, “No. But the one bullet hole, it don’t want to plug up right. ”

“You can stitch it, can’t you?” Ruthie asked, still squeezing Deaderick’s left hand as if she could lend him some of her own life force.

“Stitching won’t do any good on something like this,” he said, whipping out a pince-nez and examining the bloodiest spot on Deaderick’s chest, where the blood had sensed an opening and was beginning to flush afresh. “Do you have any other conditions? You’re not a dust sniffer or an absinthe drinker, are you?”

“No…”

“Is the bullet still inside?” he asked.