“You.” His voice was thick and raw. “What are you doing in here?”

“I was—”

“Who saw you come in?”

I held very still. “The night porter.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

Warden pushed his weight onto his elbow. His hand—still gloved—went straight to his shoulder. “Since you are here,” he said, “you may as well stay and watch me die. You will enjoy that.”

He was shaking all over. I tried to think of something spiteful to say, but what came out was quite different: “What happened to you?”

He didn’t answer. Slowly, I reached for his shirt. His grip on my wrist tightened. “You need to air the wounds,” I said.

“I am aware of that.”

“So do it.”

“Do not tell me what to do. I may be dying, but I am not subject to your orders. You are subject to mine.”

“What are your orders?”

“To let me die in peace.”

But the order lacked force. I shoved his gloved hand from his shoulder, revealing a mess of chewed flesh.

Buzzer.

His eyes flared up as if some volatile chemical had reacted inside them. For a moment I thought he would kill me. My spirit strained against my mind, bursting to attack.

Then his fingers loosened around my wrist. I scanned his face. “Get me water.” His voice was barely audible. “And—and salt. Look in the cabinet.”

I didn’t have much choice but to do it. With his eyes on my back, I unlocked the curio cabinet and pulled open the doors. I took out a heartwood salt cellar, a golden bowl, and a flagon of water, along with a stack of linen. Warden tore open the ties at the top of his shirt. His chest was slick with sweat.

“There is a pair of gloves in the drawer,” he said, nodding to the writing table. “Put them on.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

I clenched my jaw, but I did as he said.

In the drawer, beside the gloves, his black-handled blade lay sheathed and clean. The sight of it gave me pause. I turned my back to him and pulled on the gloves. I wouldn’t even leave a fingerprint. I used my thumb to push the blade from its sheath.

“I would not try it.”

The sound of his voice made me stop.

“Rephaim die very hard,” he said softly. “If you buried that blade in my heart, it would not stop beating.”

The silence thickened. “I don’t believe you,” I said. “I could gut you. You’re too weak to run.”

“If you wish to take the risk, then be my guest. But ask yourself this: why do we allow red-jackets to carry weapons? If your weapons could kill us, why would we be so foolish as to arm our prisoners?” His eyes scalded my back. “Many have tried. They are not here now.”