Page 278 of Vasmora

The god faded to black smoke.

Zevander frowned, drawing back the flame.

Had he struck him?

“Zevander?” Gavroche collapsed, and Zevander rushed forward, falling to his knees beside him.

The boy coughed, spewing black blood onto his cheek, his body shaking, eyes rolled back.

“Get to the vein!” he ordered Lothare, who gave a sharp nod and swiped up Rho as he strode toward the tunnel.

Zevander turned his attention back to Gavroche, lifting him into his arms. “You hold on. I’m going to get you out of here. We’re going home.”

Gavroche opened his eyes. Black veins already crawled over his sclera, as the entirety of a god unleashed infection inside his small frame. “Home?” he asked in a weakened voice.

“Yes. You’ll stay with me. In Eidolon.”

“Stay.” He coughed up more blood, the black in his eyes swallowing the pink irises.

“Lothare is going to find the vein. Pestilios will die. You need to hang on, okay? The infection … it’ll die in the vein.”

Through Zevander’s staring, the boy’s face blurred at the edges, and Zevander squinted, shaking his head.

The blur intensified, distorting Gavroche’s face, until the lines sharpened into view and he was staring down at Branimir. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head again. When he opened them, it was Gavroche lying in his arms, eyes shuttered.

Zevander gave him a light shake. “Hey, don’t close your eyes. Stay with me. Stay right here.”

In Gavroche, Pestilios had no power. No means to defend himself. But the moment the boy died, the god would be free to take Zevander as a vessel, and in him, he’d possess the power of the godsflame and protection against the amulet’s curse.

Gavroche winced and wheezed a breath. “It hurts …” His lips quivered. “Burns like fire.”

Just a little longer.

“It’ll be over soon.” Zevander cleared his throat to banish the cold and clinical tone of his voice. The boy. A young, powerless spindling, was the only thing keeping the god contained, so long as he kept breathing. He deserved Zevander’s calm and empathy. “Think of something good, Gavroche. Tell me the best day you’ve ever had.”

“Best … day?”

“Yes.”

Tears gathered at the corner of his eye, his face growing paler by the second, black veins crawling over his throat like a rotted frost. “When I was … eight. I pickpocketed … a highblood. And came home … with three … keltzig. My mother … told me … I did good.”

Zevander waited for the rest of the story, but when Gavroche said nothing more, he turned away, the brevity and emptiness of that moment like a knife to the chest as it reminded him of his own brother’s yearning for praise as a child. He cleared his throat and nodded. “That’s a fine memory.”

“Zevander … are you … my friend?”

Zevander’s jaw tightened. “I’m your friend.”

“Then, today … is the … best.” The boy’s tears broke free, his trembling lips turning blue. His life growing weaker.

C’mon, Lothare!

“Tell … Miss Maevyth … I’m sorry. The pup … got … away.”

“Don’t worry about that. Keep breathing.”

Gavroche wove his cold, bony fingers around Zevander’s. “Friend.” The tension in his face slackened. His eyelids drooped, then closed, and he exhaled a long sigh.

Frowning, Zevander gave him a light shake, the boy’s body jostling lifeless in his arms. “Gavroche, wake up.”