Page 39 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)
Sébastien
O ne moment I was sitting in the kitchen of the log cabin with Loulu, feeding her Osso Bucco and filling her cup with cheap red wine as I heard her laugh—full and deep for the first time since I don’t remember when—the next I'm crawling like a worm, wads of pine needles and dirt sinking painfully into the knife wound at my side as I pull myself through the woods toward my fated mates.
Well, the ones who managed to escape the cabin, at least.
I'm lightheaded and very close to giving up when I see Caz's blonde head flash through the underbrush.
He feels my relief at the mere sight of him, unharmed—as it travels down the bond he quickly makes his way toward me.
It's not long after Caz gets to me that I pass out.
I wake, feverish and disoriented, in the back of a charter bus bound for Alberta. When we stop at a rest station, Caz, Tin-tin and Dennis bring me some ibuprofen, water, and fresh bandages so that I can change the filthy things in the cramped phone booth-sized bathroom at the back of the bus.
I slip in and out of sleep—fever dreams plague me in my sleeping and waking hours.
I console what’s left of my logical brain that once we've reached the next flop, we can go about getting me some antibiotics—maybe even some off-the-books medical attention—but for now, we just have to survive the next few legs of the bus trip without blowing our cover.
Things are hazy with fever and travel transfers until I return to consciousness in the back seat of a nondescript black sedan.
As usual, Caz is behind the wheel—his bug-eyed sunglasses reflecting the road.
Dennis sits in the front passenger seat, and Quentin sits next to me. I’ve been gently leaning against him the entire time I’ve been asleep.
“Where are we?” I groan, my mouth sour and dry.
“Revised plan—we're on our way to Montreal to meet Doctor Perla,” Quentin informs me before continuing. “In light of our recent misfortunes, darling Azura has decided to come most of the way to us instead.”
I want to say something useful, but it seems the momentary exchange is all I can handle before I’m pulled down into the mire of exhaustion once again.
Things go dark for a long time after that. I'm not sure how long I've slept when I finally surface into the world of the waking, Caz sitting on the floor next to my trusty hammock, strung between two metal pillars in a basement apartment that Tin-tin has managed to swing for us.
I can tell almost immediately that my fever has broken, and when I touch my side gingerly, it's no longer hot to the touch. Before I can get up and lift the edges of my bandages to get her to get a better look, Caz shuffles into wakefulness.
“Hey, good to see you, sleepyhead.” He yawns, stretching up onto his knees so that he kneels beside my gently swaying hammock.
“How long have I been out?” I ask as he reaches to brush my toss of curls from my forehead.
“Almost 13 hours, but the Doc really loaded you up on meds, and she struggled pretty hard through the stitches…” he trails off, his eyes wandering down to the bandages at my side.
“Stitches?” I repeat, unable to place the memory .
“Yeah, your fever was pretty bad at that point. The infection had gotten ugly—Doc Perla tried to give you some night-night juice—but you kept on coming out from under.”
I let out a loud groan of pain as I nearly topple Caz over, swinging my legs up and out of the hammock without thinking.
“Doctor Perla? She's here?” I gasp, holding my side.
“Yes, she's here. Well, not here, here. Not anymore. She went back to her hotel,” Caz sputters, struggling to his feet as he does his best to help me to stand before I flip backward out of my hammock.
“I need to start working with her immediately!” I drape my arm over Caz's shoulders, allowing him to support my weight like a human crutch.
“Seb, I know you want to help, but it's about 3:00 in the morning and the doctor needs her rest. For that matter, so do you.” He lays a hand over my chest. “I could use the rest too,” he offers, knowing that even if I won't rest for my own sake, I will for his.
“Fine,” I grumble, my side still throbbing with the dull ache of my wound. “But as soon as the sun is up, we call the Dottore.”
I agree to meet Azura Perla at the Saint Joseph's Oratory the very next day. I don't go alone; the other Saints follow me—each keeping their own safe distance.
I step from the bright sunshine of midday into the cool dark of the nave. The large building is filled with the hazy colors from the stained glass—the cavernous space redolent with scented incense.
Slowly I stutter to a stop in the votive chapel and turn my face up to look at the dancing candles in tubes of glowing red glass; hundreds upon hundreds of canes and crutches line the chapel walls as a testament to how many people had been “healed” by brother Andre’s ‘saintly powers.’
I stand looking at the worn, curved pieces of wood, wondering if our Saints will have the power to heal this world—to save it from the Zeitnot virus in all of its iterations.
Even though my side throbs with searing pain, I shuffle up to the line of unlit candles with its small wooden box for donations.
I stuff a folded dollar bill into the slot at the top of the box and reach for one of the long, skinny wax wicks stored alongside the snuffers for visitors to light their own votive.
Silently, I dip the long thin candle into one of the lit votives, gently carrying the small flame from one red glass tube to another.
Though it's not my god, not my house of faith—I close my eyes and make a silent prayer for Louise's safety—for the happiness and longevity of our pack against all odds.
Even though my eyes are closed, I catch Doctor Pearla’s scent; muscat and tuberose along with the sweet undertone of smoke from her expensive cigarillos.
“An interesting choice of place to meet,” I say almost under my breath.
“Dramatic, yes, but I thought it was appropriate,” she scoffs a laugh.
“It’s dramatic, I’ll give you that.” I open my eyes, allowing them to slide toward her.
“I've made a breakthrough,” she says so quietly that I almost don't hear her. “I will need space, and a laboratory, but as long as you've got those new samples from Louise, we should be able to see how viable our solution is.”
I swallow down the tears that prickle at my eyes.
Though I don’t speak the words aloud, I hope silently to myself, please don't let this be in vain.
Then, I slip the strap of my backpack off of my shoulder, unzipping the main compartment to remove a soft-sided insulated lunch box from within .
I see Doctor Perla's eyes widen at the edge of my peripheral vision.
She opens her designer bag and quickly spirits the lunch box inside.
“It's too dangerous for me to bring you. I'm so sorry, Sébastien. I know how important making this discovery is.”
I shake my head, watching Tin-tin slowly orbiting one of the side chapels with his camera and his touristy, teal windbreaker.
“I care not to be the one who charts this discovery. My only care is to get my fated mate back—to ensure that the plague that her parents architected, and that the Windmill perfected, doesn't destroy the world.”
“I'm understanding more and more why you've never found success as a scientist,” Doctor Perla laughs.
“Too altruistic, too kind-hearted. Not vain enough.
Well, maybe vain isn't the right word.” She clucks her tongue before sparing me an approving glance—the saucy old bird.
“But not obsessed with accolades or fame, for certain,” she sighs, clearly standing in judgment of herself.
“Thank you, Dottore, for all of your help.” I reach for her hand and lean down to press a kiss onto her worn, leathery knuckles. “When all of this is over, I hope to take you out for a lovely dinner to celebrate the largest discovery of your career.”
“It’s a date!” Doctor Perla gives me a genuine smile, patting her buttery soft leather bag knowingly. “Well, Poverino —this is where we part ways once again. You'll hear from me as soon as I've made any developments,” she assures me, already starting her steps in the opposite direction.
“Gratzi Dottore, ciao .” I give her a small bow, the hunch of Caz's shoulders with his McGill sweatshirt and matching baseball cap just visible through the open doors of the basilica in the distance.