“There is a type of necrosis in my wounds,” Warden stated, “but it only affects Rephaim. The human body is able to fight it.” I waited for the point. “Rephaite necrosis can be destroyed by human blood. Provided their bloodstream is not compromised, a human can survive a bite.” He indicated my wrist. “Around a pint of your blood would save my life.”

My throat tightened. “You want to drink my blood.”

“Yes.”

“What are you, a vampire?”

“I would never have thought a Scion denizen would have read about vampires.”

I tensed. Shoot. Only a high-up syndicate member would have access to literature that included vampires, or any other supernatural creature. In my case it was a penny dreadful, The Vamps of Vauxhall, written by an anonymous medium from Grub Street. He spun all sorts of stories to make up for the lack of interesting literature available from Scion, using folk tales from the world beyond. His tales had such titles as Tea with a Tasser and The Fay Fiasco. The same writer had knocked out a few decent potboilers about voyants, like The Mysteries of Jacob’s Island. Now I wished I’d never read them.

Warden seemed to take my silence as a symptom of disquiet. “I am not a vampire, nor anything else you might have read about,” he said. “I do not feed on flesh or blood. It gives me no pleasure to ask for it. But I am dying, and it so happens that your blood—on this occasion, given the nature of my wounds—can restore me.”

“You don’t look or sound like you’re dying.”

“Trust me. I am.”

I didn’t want to know how they’d found out that human blood could combat this infection. I didn’t even know if it was true.

“Why should I trust you?” I said.

“Because I saved you the humiliation of having to perform in the Overseer’s troupe of fools. If you require one reason.”

“What if I need two?”

“I will owe you a favor.”

“Any favor?”

“Anything but your freedom.”

The word died on my lips. He’d anticipated my request. I should have known freedom was too much to ask—but a favor from him might be invaluable.

I picked up a shard of glass from the floor, part of a vial, and I sliced across my wrist. When I offered it, he narrowed his eyes.

“Take it,” I said. “Before I change my mind.”

Warden looked at me for a long time, assessing my face. Then he took my wrist and pulled it against his mouth.

His tongue skimmed over the open wound. There was a slight pressure as his lips closed over it, as he squeezed my arm to force out blood. His throat throbbed as he drank. He settled into a steady cadence. There was no sudden bloodlust, no frenzy. He was treating this as a medical procedure: clinical, detached, nothing more or less.