A Burning in the Bones (Waxways #3)

Chapter 5 Mercy Whitaker

5 MERCY WHITAKER

After a grueling night of visits and examinations, Mercy and Devlin were led back to the center of town by Nance—who looked as tired as she felt. They were guided to the back of one of the larger buildings. There was a basement entry that led to an unused apartment. Nance claimed to have hosted “foreign dignitaries” there over the decades, though Mercy could not imagine a proper politician staying in this place for long. The apartment would be theirs as long as they stayed in Running Hills. It was nice to have a proper base of operations, she supposed.

Mercy took two steps inside and stopped dead in her tracks.

“There’s… only one bed?”

Nance craned his neck. “Wonderful. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted Holt with this. Gods, that man has a brain the size of a stunted pea sprout. We have extra mattresses, I promise, but the supply closet is locked at this hour. Can you make do for tonight? I’ll be back here bright and—” He was cut off by his own, stifled yawn. “Early. I’m very sorry. It’s completely unprofessional.”

Mercy was too tired to voice her complaint. Of course they couldn’t just make do with one bed. That was absurd. But their host interpreted her silence as compromise. He departed with a wave over one shoulder. Devlin glanced at Mercy, who had decided that looking anywhere else in the room was preferable. Both of them set to work immediately. Cleansing enchantments, security checks, but with all of the enthusiasm of two people who had been awake for far too long.

Thankfully, there wasn’t a whole lot to check. A small bathroom. An even smaller closet. Aside from the bed, two mismatched tables made up the only other furniture in the space. When their tasks were complete, Mercy realized they were in the same awkward position as they’d been in upon arrival. Devlin broke first.

“You take the bed.”

“Oh. Right. And you’ll take what? The corner?”

He snorted. “I slept on far worse during my training. Take the bed.”

Devlin was the son of a posh merchant in Kathor. She highly doubted they’d been too rough on him during his training. Still, it annoyed her just how classically Devlin this moment was. He always took the high road at the start. A rampant sort of kindness. He would build himself up through good deeds and heartfelt gestures—but she’d also learned that the point of Devlin’s kindness was not how it made others feel. The point was how it positioned him in the relationship. When they’d dated, he would build up a resume that he could later wield against her in crucial moments. During every argument, he’d fall back on his good deeds, leaving her constantly on the lower moral ground. Which meant even when she was right, she somehow felt wrong.

The difference now was that they weren’t dating. When their tasks in Running Hills concluded, they’d go their separate ways. He would report to Brightsword. She would report to Dr. Horn. There was nothing he could possibly gain from his garish sacrifices. Why not let him make them?

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take the bed.”

She saw a flicker of surprise, but then he turned and began preparing his own makeshift sleeping arrangements. Mercy grabbed her travel bag and went to the bathroom. She stripped down to nothing, cleaned her face, and put on the most comfortable clothes she’d brought. Briefly, she debated whether or not to put back on her gloves. It felt so nice to have them off while she slept. Besides, Devlin had seen her fingers when they’d dated. He was one of the few people who knew about the incident that had caused them. But that didn’t completely take away her insecurity. After all, he’d broken up with her. She always wondered if her abnormality had played a part in that.

In the end, she decided to keep the gloves off. Let him be uncomfortable if he actually was that shallow. When she emerged, however, Devlin was already asleep. He’d claimed one of the pillows from the bed and curled up in a pitiful corner. With a sigh, Mercy sunk into her own bed.

For a while, she could not sleep. Her mind kept dredging up the images of each of the farmhands. All covered in bruises. There had been thirty-one patients in total. Consistent symptoms in each case, though one of the older field hands had grown far sicker than the younger patients. That was relatively normal. Stronger bodies tended to fight diseases better. She’d also noted that the newer the case the fresher the bruises looked. One of the girls at the fourth farm had been covered in welts the color of midnight. The newer patients also reported ongoing pain. That “burning on the inside” feeling had been a constant refrain. But there were no other signs of internal damage. No one was coughing up blood. No one had passed out or had a seizure. Not a single report of dyspnea. It seemed, too, that the earliest victims were well on their way to recovery.

The only detail that haunted her was the sound. As she’d listened to each of their hearts, the same echo surfaced, again and again. At first, she thought she was just imagining the noise. But when she’d listened to Devlin’s heart and her own for comparison—they’d been normal. No echo. What could cause something like that? And more worrying: What were the long-term risks for each patient? The disease hadn’t killed anyone—but would there be other lasting symptoms?

She turned restlessly. Sleep proved elusive.

Her eyes eventually flicked over to Devlin. He was no more than a dark mound in the corner. Barely there at all. An image of Holt surfaced in her thoughts. The watchful eyes. The way he looked at her in every spare moment. One fear led to others. What if she contracted this disease? What if she failed to treat the people in this village? Those thoughts were answered by a flash of unexpected light.

She bolted upright in bed, reaching for her gloves on the bedside table, when the hound appeared. Devlin’s divinity spell. In its glow, she could see that her ex was still fast asleep. His conjuring crossed the room all on its own, pacing back and forth like an actual hound might.

Mercy snorted before patting the bed. The creature had been waiting for that. It leapt up and curled into a perfect circle against her side. It was a warm thing. Calm radiated from the creature’s touch. An overwhelming sense of safety. Mercy’s eyes fluttered shut. Sleep tugged at her limbs. Once, twice, and she was swept away.

The hound protected her that night—but it could not protect Running Hills.

Morning brought new cases. Another farm had fallen ill. But the worst news came just as Mercy and Devlin were sitting down to a meager breakfast: the town medic had been found dead. She had seen bodies before. Worked with hundreds of cadavers. This felt different. No matter how many wards were summoned between her and the dead—the air felt thick with potential disease. A disease that she now knew could kill. Mercy performed a routine examination, but her hands moved hastily through the procedure. She didn’t want to be in that room a second longer than was strictly necessary.

Her findings: the woman’s internal damage was far worse. Even more bruises than the other patients. A distinctly concentrated pattern around her upper chest. She was potentially older than any of the other patients, which meant it was possible she was more vulnerable than the rest of them. She also might have had preexisting conditions. It was not a conclusive data point, but Mercy quietly noted her own theories before ordering the body to be moved to the nearest morgue. Holt was the one who arrived to perform the task. His eerie presence was as good a reason as any for her to head back to the town center.

Issuing a quarantine was the next move. The command went out through Nance Forester. She was requesting that the people of Running Hills spend the next two days in their respective homes. Especially the elderly. Anything to reduce the spread of disease.

Nance was an exception to the rule. Their host was permitted to come and go, relaying messages from every corner of the county. Mercy asked him for a map so that they could see everything on a large scale. He was quick to deliver that and more. The map, two buckets full of water, and the most threadbare mattress she had ever seen. In any other circumstance, she would have taken quiet glee in Devlin’s situation, but death had forced her to bury the old grudge. The two of them had quietly transformed into partner detectives instead. A development that Mercy could not bring herself to completely hate.

“Where do you want the map?” Devlin asked.

“On the table, please.”

He set out the partially faded document as Mercy uncapped a pen.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s mark all of the infected farms….”

One by one, she circled the locations. Four of the five farms were clumped in the eastern hills. Apparently, this was a consequence of history. Running Hills had been home to one of the northern farming tribes that opposed Kathor in the past. The Broods had actively raided them—and thus the farms were built close enough that they could come to each other’s defense whenever the city bells rang out sounding an attack.

The last farm—owned by the Locklin family—had been built nearly a century later, well after the Graylantians had made their famous pact with Kathor, and so they had chosen the most fertile ground, rather than concerning themselves with defensibility.

“Here’s our big mystery,” Mercy said, tapping that location on the map. “All of the other farms trade workers. There are friendships and romances and families. A lot of traveling back and forth. It makes sense that the disease spread between those four locations. It’s harder to understand how it spread to the Locklins at the exact same pace.”

Devlin leaned in closer to examine the map. She felt his shoulder briefly brush against hers. He was close enough that she could even feel the vibrations of his voice.

“But one of their workers went into town that night.”

She nodded. “Patient Twenty-Eight. According to his testimony, he didn’t visit the tavern. He just went into town to pick up the post for the Locklin family. Didn’t talk to anyone from the other farms. Minimal physical contact. He’s not exactly an ideal host candidate to spread a disease.”

Devlin reached out and tapped the same spot she had. “What about visitors to the farm?”

“Three new workers arrived this week,” Mercy confirmed. “But all of them were from out of town. From Peck. West of here. Seems unlikely that they’d stop by the other farms.”

She traced a finger inland to the neighboring town of Peck. According to Nance, that was the source of most of their extra workers. If not from there, then seasonal workers from Kathor would travel up to take on harvest work when their occupations in the city slowed.

Devlin made a thoughtful noise. “But all it would take is one moment. If the disease moves as fast as it seems to. Maybe Patient Twenty-Eight downplayed his visit. It’s possible he thought he’d get in trouble for spreading the disease to Locklin.”

Mercy chewed on her lip. “Maybe.”

Maybe was the most scientific answer they could summon at the moment. The disease did appear to move at a rapid rate. Almost too easily, if that was possible. She reached for her notes and started flipping back through everything she’d written down during the interviews.

“I’m confused by the time line,” she said. “Our first patient developed the disease six nights ago. He felt feverish when he went to bed—and then he woke up covered in bruises. That’s also when we have our first report of the ‘burning insides’ symptom.”

Devlin nodded as he followed her thoughts.

“That same night, most of the field hands at Mariner’s develop similar symptoms. Quick fevers. Burning insides. The next morning, every single one of them is covered in bruises. And the progress of the disease is completely uniform across the entire group. Even though some of them have significantly less contact with the others.”

“The baker in the fourth cabin,” Devlin noted. “He had his own room and worked different hours than the others, but he still contracted the disease at the same time.”

That was the exact patient she’d been thinking about. The baker was the most curious case at Mariner’s. His symptoms should have developed after the others. Or at least at a slower rate. Why hadn’t they?

“I’m even more interested in Patient Twelve,” Mercy mused.

“The old man?”

She was impressed Devlin had kept up with all her notes. As they’d made their way from location to location, he had stood watch over the proceedings. A statue in the background. She wouldn’t have blamed him for drifting off—especially given how repetitive the interviews got after a while. It was clear, however, that he’d paid close attention.

“Patient Twelve’s bruising has the most consistency with our first patient. His marks were already fading when we treated him. Which leaves just two possibilities: either he contracted the disease close to the same time or older bodies process the disease at different rates. Based on his interview, his bruises appeared less than five hours after Wells’s did.”

She shook her head in frustration. Every doctor knew it was a mistake to start thinking they were on a first-name basis with their patients. Only misery waited down that road.

“After Patient One,” she corrected.

“Do you think someone from Mariner’s visited the night before?” Devlin asked. “Maybe they didn’t realize they were sick yet?”

“Anything is possible, but that seems unlikely. Most transferable diseases have a clear sequential element to them. Patient A gives the disease to Patient B who spreads it to Patient C and so on. We should have a very clear flow from where the disease began to where it moves next. But these are the two data points that just don’t fit. It’s almost like they’re not sequential at all.”

Devlin was pacing the room. Normally, that was Mercy’s strategy, but she felt it would be weird if both of them were walking around the cramped space. Instead, she busied her hands, flipping back through the details of her journal. Looking for something she hadn’t previously noticed. She saw Devlin cross over to the door and was briefly distracted by his broad shoulders, his muscled back. Who even had a muscular back? What was the point of having that?

He knelt down to lift the two buckets Nance had left them. Mercy watched as he ferried them to the bathroom, trying not to notice the way his triceps stretched beneath his shirt. She was still staring when the answer hit her right in the stomach.

“Water. Devlin. It’s in the water .”

He paused midstride. “Because… all of the patients… were thirsty?”

“Not that.” The theory came tumbling out of her. “I mean, maybe that’s a part of it? But no. Think about it. Drinking water. That’s the only common thread they all share. Everyone would have different diets. Different exposure levels. Different social groupings. Those factors should cause variation. We should be seeing clear sequence. Instead, we have uniformity. The only possible explanation is that every one of our patients is drinking from the same water supply.”

Devlin looked skeptical. “I don’t know, Mercy. These are big farms. They’re all spread out too. Don’t you think they have their own wells built? It doesn’t seem like they’d be able to share the same water source.”

“But what if they do?”

Devlin shrugged. “Let’s ask Nance.”

Lacking any other leads, the two of them thundered up the stairs in search of their host. He wasn’t hard to find. The town was in quarantine. They found Nance seated on the front steps of the same building where they’d met him when they’d arrived in Running Hills.

“Nance,” Mercy called. “A question for you.”

“Fire away, Dr. Whitaker.”

“Do all the farms share a water supply?”

He frowned thoughtfully. “Sure. I mean, there’s just one treatment facility. It’s up north. Right where the town limits brush up against the Straywhite River. There’s a small tributary and the water gets pumped out to all the farms from there. It’s one of those—passive magic facilities? Is that the word for it?”

She nodded. “Meaning no one physically works there.”

“Exactly,” Nance confirmed. “An engineer from Kathor set the place up about ten years ago. All we’re supposed to do is perform an annual check—but this year’s inspection isn’t due for another month or so.”

“Can you take us there?” Devlin asked.

“No. I’m sorry. I can’t. I’d love to, but I just found out there’s a whole crop of folks coming here from Peck. I need to be here to turn them away, what with the quarantine and all. But I could always bring a carriage around for you. Either of you know how to drive horses?”

Mercy glanced immediately at Devlin—who snorted in response.

“Guessing that’s a no,” Nance said. “Holt could take you. Well, as long as you’re fine giving him permission to break quarantine.”

Mercy fought off a shiver. She did not mind him breaking quarantine, but she minded everything else about him. Still, what choice did they have? Her guess had been correct. The entire town shared a water source. This was a proper lead in the investigation. If she could get out to that building and test the water levels—they might make a huge break in fighting this disease.

“Send for Holt. We need to test the water.”