I shrugged it on and buckled it. The lining was thick and warm. Warden held out a hand. In his palm were the three pills. I didn’t take them. “What’s the green one for?”

“That is not your concern.”

“I want to know what it’s for. Nobody else gets it.”

“That is because you are different from them.” He didn’t retract his hand. “I know you have not been taking your pills. I have no qualms about force-feeding you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

His eyes searched my face. My skin prickled. “I do not want it to come to that,” he said.

I was going to lose this fight. Call it criminal instinct. This was Didion and Anne Naylor all over again—another day at the black market. There were some things on which Warden would relent; this was not one of them. I told myself I’d take tomorrow’s green pill to Duckett.

I washed down the pills with a glass of water. Warden took my chin in his gloved hand.

“There are reasons.”

I pulled my chin away. He looked at me for a moment, then opened the door. I followed him down the winding steps, into the cloisters. Grotesque stone figures watched over the courtyard. The temperature had fallen, coating them in a fine layer of frost. I crossed my arms to preserve some warmth. Warden led me out of the residence—but not onto the street. Instead he led me to the other side of Magdalen, through a wroughtiron gate and across a footbridge, which passed over a viridian river. The sharp glint of the moon shone on its surface. The hail had stopped, leaving the ground covered in ice.

As we walked down a dirt path, Warden rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. The wound from the first time was weeping. It was beginning to form a scar, but it still hadn’t fully healed.

“Are they poisonous?” I said. “Buzzers.”

“The Emim carry an infection called the half-urge, which causes madness and death if left untreated. They eat any kind of flesh, fresh or rotted.”

Even as I watched, the wound was starting to heal. “How are you doing that?” I asked, forgetting myself in my curiosity. “It’s healing.”

“I am using your aura.”

I stiffened. “What?”

“You must know by now that Rephaim feed on aura. It is easier for me to feed when my host is unaware of it.”

“You just fed on me?”

“Yes.” He studied my face. “You seem angry.”

“It’s not yours to take.” I moved away from him, disgusted. “You already took my freedom. You have no right to my aura.”

“I did not take enough to damage your gift. I feed on humans in small doses, allowing time for regeneration. Others are not so courteous. And mark my words”—he pulled down his sleeve—“you do not want me to contract half-urge in your presence.”