She shouldn’t feel Mortem in a living man, not one who wasn’t at death’s door. Her shock was quick and sharp, and chased with something else—the scent of foxglove.

Her fingers closed around his wrist, twisted, forced him to his knees at the edge of the doorframe. It happened quick, quick enough for him to slip on a stray pebble and send one leg out at an awkward angle, for a strangled “Shit!” to echo through the silent morning streets of Dellaire’s Harbor District.

Lore crouched so they were level. Now that she knew what to look for, it was clear in his eyes. All poisons worked differently, and foxglove was one of the riskier ones. Pierre’s gaze was bloodshot and glassy; his heartbeat under her hand, slow and irregular. He’d gone to one of the cheap deathdealers, then. One who didn’t know how to properly dose their patrons, one who only gave them enough to make them sick, not bring them to death’s threshold. Stupid.

The Mortem under Pierre’s skin throbbed against her grip, thumping and meaty, a second, diseased pulse. Mortem was in everyone—the essence of death, the darkness born of entropy—but the only way to use it, to bend it to your will, was to nearly die. To touch oblivion, and for oblivion to touch you back, then let you go.

Most died before they got there. More never got close enough, earning only a sour stomach or blindness or a scattered mind for their efforts. And some didn’t actually want the power at all, just the euphoria, a poison high that skated you near death, but not near enough to wield it. It took a closer brush with eternity to use Mortem than most were willing to try.

The Bleeding God and Buried Goddess knew Lore wouldn’t have, if she’d had the choice.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she murmured to Pierre. “You are going to tell Nicolas that we’ve paid up for the next six months, or I am going to tell him you’ve been visiting deathdealers.”

That was enough to make his eyes widen, glassy and poison-heavy or not. “How—”

“You stink of foxglove and your eyes look more like windows.” Not exactly true, since she hadn’t noticed until she’d sensed the Mortem, but by the time he could examine himself, the effect would’ve worn off anyway. “Anyone can take one look at you and know, Pierre, even though your deathdealer barely gave you enough to make you tingle.” She cocked her head. “You weren’t after it to use it, I hope, or you were completely swindled. Even if you only wanted the high, you didn’t get your money’s worth.”