Kashmir handed Blake over to Slate, wincing through his own pain, but he shrugged me off when I reached for the big powder burn on his stomach. “Yes, yes, my shirt will never recover,” he said, pushing my hands away and holding his side like he had a stitch. “Come, we’ve got to get him to the ship. See if we’ve got something to help him. Where’s the gold?”
I glanced back at the ground—the hollow where I’d huddled beside Mr. Hart—but the bag had disappeared too.
Slate propped Blake up with his shoulder, and I wadded his jacket and held it to his wound as we stumbled and slid down the mountain. I kept an eye out for torchlight along the way, half afraid the Night Marchers would return, but they had disappeared completely. We moved as quickly as possible, but by the time we reached the waterfall, Blake was pale as bone in the white moonlight, and despite my efforts to staunch the blood, his shirtfront was soaked with a slick like black ink. He wouldn’t make it to the ship; he wouldn’t make it down the hill. And even if he could, I had no idea if the mercury would kill him or save him.
Why had I let the caladrius go? I couldn’t take my eyes off Blake’s face, and I remembered how he’d blushed, his cheeks bright pink, when he’d first shown me this spot, this sacred place he loved so well. My heart pounded above the sound of the waterfall, roaring in my ears.
“Wait,” I said. “Stop. We have to stop.” Slate stumbled to a halt, and Blake fell to the ground. I gazed up through the pearly clouds of silver spray drifting down to the round mirror of the pool. The healing pool. “Here,” I said, desperate for hope. It had to work. There was no other option. “Bring him here. Lay him in the water.”
Slate lifted Blake and staggered to the bank. He didn’t ask the questions that were in his eyes—he was breathing too hard to speak—as he knelt down to lower Blake gently into the pond.
The white of Blake’s shirt seemed to glow in the reflected moonlight, but soon his blood clouded the pool. My heart sank. I reached in—the pond was frigid, and I pawed at the water, at his shirt, at the blood as it drifted like mist. I found the ragged hole in the cloth and reached in, gingerly, fearfully, but the skin beneath was smooth and whole.
I started laughing, crying—joyful, hysterical—and I pulled Blake from the water and clutched him close, soaking the front of my shirt. Then Kashmir’s hand, warm on my shoulder; I reached up to grab his fingers. “Come, amira. We have to go.”
We met our warriors back at the clearing, and they fell in line behind us. Blake was still unconscious, but with Slate and me supporting him, we managed to make our way through the city to the boat. We were joined halfway back by Billie, who nipped at my ankles hard enough to draw blood before Kashmir picked her up, whining and wriggling, and carried her clamped under his arm.
A few brave souls were peering out their windows as we passed through town, so I pulled Blake’s gun from his jacket pocket and fired it into the air; shutters and doors slammed as the sound of the shot echoed in the street. As we boarded the junk, I heard shouted commands from the vicinity of the palace. Had the Royal Hawaiian Guard managed to escape their barracks? We cast off as quick as we could, dumping Colonel Iaukea unceremoniously on the pier—but even under full sail, we seemed to inch toward Hana’uma as dawn began to paint the sky pink. Still there was no pursuit from the American warships in the harbor, and I wasn’t surprised. Mr. D and his friends were well connected.
I clenched my fists as I watched the city grow smaller and smaller behind us. The league had won, though they hadn’t gotten the money. Of course the annexation of Hawaii had never been in doubt—but now I was complicit in the monarchy’s downfall. I would be reminded of that every time I had to bail the bilge.
Blake was still so pale. I checked his breathing, although Billie, who lay pressed against his body, growled when I came close. His chest rose and fell, the motion shallow but steady. Beneath the rags of his shirt, there wasn’t even a bruise.
Kashmir approached, walking gingerly. He’d stripped bare to the waist, and he was still holding his side. Peeking out beneath his fingers was an ugly weal, red and purple.
“Oh, Kashmir—” I reached toward him; I couldn’t help it.
“Ah ah ah!” He shied away from my hands, but then he smiled wryly. “I’ll be fine. My worthless carcass will recover.”
“Don’t, please.” I put my hand to my mouth, then down to the pendant at my throat. “Don’t joke about that. Not right now.”
His smile softened. “Of course, amira. I’ll be fine,” he said again. Then he turned his gaze to Blake and raised an eyebrow. “Damn. He looks better off than me.”
“Yes, you were both very brave,” I said, suddenly angry at the memory of my fear. “And very stupid!”
“Not as stupid as he was. I had a vest on.”
“It’s not a competition!”
“What’s not a competition?” Blake said, his voice soft and slurred. I swallowed the bitter taste on my tongue. Billie half stood, then sat again, then stood, her tail vibrating.