“Grandfather was convicted of using magic to tamper with the human body, which broke his Physician’s Oath.” Mikita walked into the room. “Mother says they had a conversation about it once. He knew they would come after him, but he did whatever it was anyway. He said it was too important to quit.”
“What was the nature of the research?” Richard asked.
“He was trying to find a way to teach the human body to regenerate itself. He said that humans had all of the power to heal themselves and take care of any illness. That they just needed to find the right switch inside their bodies.”
To break an oath and risk everything, his cushy blueblood life, his position, a man had to be driven. A man like that, a man with the purpose, wouldn’t have let the swamp stop him, William thought. No, he’d keep working on whatever it was. Here. In the swamp.
Looking for a way to teach the body to heal itself.
To regenerate.
His memory forced an image of a monster in the moonlight, its wounds knitting together. Pieces clicked together in his head. A self-healing, indestructible monster. In his life William had seen dozens of different animals, but he’d never met anything like the creature. It wasn’t a cat, a wolf, or a bear. It wasn’t even related to any of them.
If it wasn’t natural, it had to be made. And who would be better to make it than a man like Cerise’s grandfather.
If the monster was made, Spider would want to get his hands on it, pull it apart, find out how it came to be.
If Cerise realized that a monster her grandpa made was running around the woods, she’d move heaven and earth to kill it and kill Spider. That’s the way her mind worked: she took care of her responsibilities, and she paid her debts. Spider had twenty agents with him. They had . . . the Mars, and at least seven or eight of Cerise’s relatives were out of commission. Twenty lethal, trained, magically enhanced freaks against maybe thirty-five regular people. Nothing regular about the Mars, but even if the lot of them pulled every magic talent they had out of their asses, it would be a slaughter. Cerise would be in the front line, and she would die.
His mate would die.
William’s hands curled. The skin between his knuckles itched, wanting to release the claws.
They would all die: Richard, Erian, Ignata, Makita, even the idiot Kaldar. None of them would make it. He couldn’t stop them from fighting, and worse, he needed them desperately, because he couldn’t take on twenty agents alone.
He felt trapped, like a dog on a chain.
He could be wrong. There was no link between the monster and Vernard. Not yet.
“Done,” Cerise said.
They looked at her. Her eyes were haunted and wide, as if she’d seen something that wasn’t fit to be seen.
“It’s a simple substitution cipher,” she said, her voice flat. “It’s very difficult to break unless you have the key.”
“What’s the key?” Kaldar asked.
“A Gaulish lullaby. He used to sing it to me when I was little.” She pushed from the table. “I think we better call a family meeting.”
TWENTY minutes later the Mar family assembled in the library, and Cerise read the journal in a flat voice in air thick with human breath.
“ ‘ The art of medicine, as ancient as the human body itself. It began with the first primitive, who, plagued by ache, stuck a handful of grass in his mouth, chewed, and found his pain lessened. For ages, we followed in that primitive’s footsteps, holding fast to the notion that the introduction of a foreign agent into the body was the only path to cure. We invented medicines, ointments, potions, splints, casts, slings, and endless devices to facilitate healing, yet we have never focused on the healing process itself. For what is healing, if not the body’s self-correction of imperfection? What is the role of medicine if not to push the organism onto the path of regeneration?
“ ‘On this day, I, Vernard Dubois, a man and a healer, state that a human body possesses all of the means to heal itself, to cure every malady and every defect without intrusion of a surgeon or a physician. I make this claim, believing that one day I and those like me will become obsolete. It is in the name of that glorious day, I now embark on the path of research and experimentation. It is a path strewn with rocks of self-doubt, mistakes, and persecution. Let it be known that I forgive those who would condemn me, for I comprehend the reasons that drive them to act. Misguided though they may be, they hold the interests of humanity close at heart, and I bear them no ill will.
“‘Of the Gods, I ask forgiveness for my past transgressions. Of my wife and my daughter, I beg forgiveness for my future ones. I pray that one day you may understand the reasons for which I must continue.’ ”
She kept going, reading pages of formulas and equations. Some heads nodded—Aunt Pete, Mikita, Ignata. Most people looked the same way he did: blank. As best he could gather, Vernard had found some kind of microscopic algae that spurred regeneration. The algae emitted magic that changed the body, accelerating the healing. Vernard got it to work on mice, but failed when he tried it on anything larger. Once inside the body, the magic algae died, and he couldn’t get enough of it into his test subjects to make a difference. He’d tried feeding it to them, he’d tried injections and blood transfusions, but none of it was fast enough.
Cerise stopped. “There is a page here with one word: EXILE. The next entry reads: ‘We’ve reached the swamps. In the grove behind our new dwelling I found a peculiar moss, red and similar to fur in appearance. It spread across the grove’s floor, forming an irregular mound in the middle. Upon examination of the mound I found a rabbit’s corpse underneath, partially digested. The moss has an enormous eno concentration. The young man who fancies Gen—I think his name is Gustave—informed me that locals call it the burial shroud and avoid it with superstitious fear.’ ”