"It's no big deal. Every couple of months I run a fever, and then it goes away." He seemed totally unconcerned. "Did they find the plane yet?"

"No. John, we need to talk about this." She sat down on the bed. "Do you know how many people in the world die of malaria every year? A million, minimum. It wipes out whole villages in Africa."

He averted his gaze. "So, I'm lucky."

"No, you're stupid. You're not being treated, and when complications from malaria kick in, as they so often do, they can affect your liver, brain, and kidney function," she informed him sweetly. "When that happens, you drop dead, just like the other nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine other people who die of it every year."

He looked up at the light fixture over his bed. "Alex, as you've so often said, I'm an idiot. Don't worry about it."

"You've been hiding this since I was in high school." She sniffed. "Kissing my ass now will not make it go away."

"You really are overjoyed with me." He sounded tired. "I mean, don't worry about the malaria. If it kills me, it kills me."

"You don't want to say that to me right now," she said through her teeth. "Not after I've been staring at your abnormal blood smears for twelve hours."

Michael came in. "I thought I heard voices." He looked down at John. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." John sat up. "I remembered something on the flight to Chicago, and I wanted to tell you before I forget it again."

"He is not fine." Alex told Michael. "He's got malaria, and maybe something else. His blood's a mess."

John made a dismissive gesture before saying to Michael. "When Child Services turned me and Alex over to the church, they took us to a place named for one of the saints. I think it was the St. Benedict Home for Children."

"We will talk about it when you are feeling better," Michael told him.

"It can't wait. Cyprien. It was north of the city, near some factories with orange smokestacks. Do you think your people could locate it from those details?" When Michael said nothing, John tried to get up. "I'll look for it myself."

"Oh, no." Alex pushed him back. "You're staying in this bed."

"There's no point," her brother said.

Alex stared at him in disbelief. "You're having a serious health crisis. John. Whatever happened to us when we were kids was thirty years ago. It can wait another week or two."

"No, it can't." He pulled back the sheets. "I can't."

"You can if I break your legs—"

"If the orphanage is still operating," Michael said, interrupting her, "Phillipe will locate it. When he does, you can advise me on how to proceed."

She turned to her lover. "Did I suddenly acquire Jema Shaw's talent and become invisible here?"

"Excuse us, John." Michael said, and led Alex out into the hall. "Your brother is becoming very agitated. It is best that we keep him calm."

"No, it is best that I find out what type of malaria he has, so I can keep it from killing him," she said. "Stay out of this."

Michael glanced at the door. "Haven't you noticed what's happened to his scent?"

"Yeah, and I made him take a shower," she snapped. "So he was a little grungy. Who cares?"

"And did you notice his scent after he bathed?"

"He didn't smell like anything. Just fresh and clean and…" She trailed off and stared at the concern in her lover's expression. "And like nothing. I couldn't smell him. His scent is gone. What does that mean when we can't smell them?" She grabbed his arm. "God damn it. Michael, tell me."

"It means either your brother is dead," Michael said slowly, "or he has gone mad."

* * *

Chapter 15

Valentin brought Liling's carry-on and the blood into the cabin. He stocked the refrigerator with the blood, covering the bags with some hand towels and stacking some cans of soda in front of it. He intended to tell Liling what he was, once she felt better, but until then it was better to keep certain facts of his existence from her.

He looked at the dripping carry-on. They both had significant secrets they were hiding from each other. He wanted her to know his—he needed her to know—but would she trust him enough to tell him hers?

He went out to the front room, but the quilt lay empty, and Liling was nowhere in sight. He went to the bathroom, and then the bedroom, but he couldn't find her. "Liling?"

Valentin breathed in, ignoring the smell of the propane from the fireplace to find her scent. It was very light, the slightest trace of warmed peaches, but she was here in the cabin. He followed it back out of the bedroom and to the couch. He thought for a moment that the scent came from the quilt he had wrapped around her, until he heard the beat of her heart coming from beneath it.

Gently he picked up the end of the couch and lifted it away to reveal her small form. She had crawled under it to hide.

"There you are." He knelt down and pulled her hands away from her face. "Why are you under the couch? I know the cushions are lumpy, but they must be more comfortable than the floor."

"I heard what the pilot said before he shot you," she said, her voice unsteady. "He said, 'The girl must die,' and I was the only girl on the plane. He was going to crash the plane because of me. You almost drowned. None of this would have happened if I'd left Chicago on my own."

Jaus picked her up and sat on the couch with her, holding her on his lap. "Did you hire the pilot? Did you give him the gun? Did you knock me out?"

"No, but—"

"But no." He pressed a finger to her lips. "You did not do any of those things. You are not responsible for this. Geliebte. It simply happened, and we are fortunate to have survived it."

She shook her head. "I should have known. I should have… expected it."

"Is that why you were carrying so much money, and disguises, and false IDs?" Before she could answer, he said. "I found your bag. What are you running from, Liling?"

She paled. "I can't tell you. It's too dangerous."

Jaus considered compelling the truth out of her, but she was shivering and terrified. He took the quilt and bundled it around her. "Very well. When you are ready to trust me, I hope you will."

He sat holding her until her body stilled and her breathing slowed. He thought she was sleeping until her hand touched the scar on his arm. The warming sensation her fingers brought to his flesh eased some of the stiffness he had acquired from using it after long inactivity.

"Does it still hurt?" she asked.

"A little." He kissed the top of her head. "I am very grateful for what you did to heal me."

She stiffened. "I didn't do anything."

He set her back and looked into her downcast face. "My arm has been useless for years. The doctor who reattached it said it would always be so. Despite that, I have tried time and again to exercise it and loosen it and force it to work, to no avail. Then you touch me—you kiss my scar—and a few hours later, I can use it again. It was you."

"I didn't heal you," she insisted. "I can't do anything like that."

"You did something."

She stayed silent for so long that he thought she would not reply. Then, in a voice so low he could barely hear it, she said, "I took away your pain."

Jaus felt puzzled. "I was never in pain," he told her. "I could not feel anything in my arm."

"Paralysis is a kind of pain. It blocks the body from feeling what it should feel," she said. "Sometimes that is better for a person, because it keeps them from suffering. There is a man at the Lighthouse who is paralyzed from the waist down. The wounds to his legs from the car accident he was in compressed his nerves. If his spine worked as it should, he would be in agony for the rest of his life."

"How could you know these things?"

"I feel them when I touch people." She looked up at him. "Like Mr. Lindquist, the man who had the stroke. He must have been aware of what his sister was doing to him. He felt it, and he can see and hear. But he couldn't tell anyone, not even me. He is trapped inside his body and he can't get out. Many of the stroke patients are like that. Aware but imprisoned by their flesh."

"Could you heal him?"

"No. I can't heal. I can only ease their pain." She looked ashamed. "The wounds remain, and the body must heal itself. Sometimes I can only help them for only an hour or a day."

Jaus looked at his arm. "So my arm will not remain like this. It will become paralyzed again."

She stroked his scar. "Not unless you want it to."

"What do you mean?"

She bit her lip. "Your arm was never paralyzed, Valentin. Your heart was."

A surge of anger made him put her aside, and he got up from the couch. "You are mistaken."

"You could always use your arm, but your mind wouldn't allow you to," she insisted. "It happens that way with some people when they feel guilty."

"I am not guilty of anything."

She came to stand in front of him, her hand holding the quilt around her. "I could feel it. Each type of pain is unique, and your heart created this one to control your flesh. Perhaps it came from something terrible that happened just before you were wounded—"

"Willst du wohl gefälligst den mund halten?" He seized her shoulders. "Be silent. You will not speak to me of this. Ever again."

"Very well." She swallowed. "In a few hours, your arm will grow numb again. You won't be able to lift it or use it. And your heart will see to it that you never again do whatever it was that caused it to be severed."

Jaus went still. He walked away from her and went to the large front windows, where he stood with his arm braced against the frame.