“Been vacant for years,” Jones replied. “Mr. Girard took it over when the fever struck. This is one of his wagons. But these folks aren’t going to the hospital. We’re headed to potter’s field.”

Marcus and Gallowglass sent him on his way. They settled Betsy down on the street, each taking one of her small hands. She skipped between them, crooning a song, a testament to the resilience of children.

The tavern that Marcus had known as German Gerty’s was still on the corner of Front and Spruce Streets. Dock Creek, however, had been paved over and was now a narrow, twisting alleyway that jutted off at an angle across Philadelphia’s regular street plan.

The door was open.

Gallowglass gestured to Marcus to stay where he was and stuck first his oar, then the rest of him, inside the dark interior.

“It’s all right,” Gallowglass reported, sticking his head out a window. “Nobody here but some rats and someone who died long before August.”

To Marcus’s astonishment, the skeleton was still sitting in the front window, though he had lost his left radius and ulna. His left hand was perched rakishly atop his head.

They searched high and low for food, but found none. Betsy’s lips started to quiver. The child was famished.

Marcus heard a snick.

“Stop there.”

He turned, his hands up in the air.

“We’re not here to rob you,” Marcus said. “We just need some food for the girl.”

“Doc?” The man standing before them holding a musket in his trembling hands looked like something out of a cartoon, a caricature of a human being with yellow skin, blackened lips, and red-rimmed eyes.

“Vanderslice?” Marcus lowered his hands. “Christ, man. You should be in bed.”

“You came. Adam said you would.” Vanderslice dropped the gun and began to weep.

* * *

—

THEY GOT VANDERSLICE UPSTAIRS, where they found stale bread that had not yet gone moldy, a bit of cheese, and some beer. They settled Betsy in a corner as far away from Vanderslice’s bed as possible. It was covered with vomit and flies. Marcus stripped the bed and tossed the sheets and blanket out the window.

“He’s better off on the floor,” Marcus said tersely when Gallowglass started to lower Vanderslice onto the mattress.

Gallowglass and Marcus used their coats to make a pallet, and Marcus cleaned up his friend as best he could.

“You look good, Doc,” Vanderslice said, his eyes rolling around with fever. “Death suits you.”

“I’m not dead, nor are you,” Marcus replied. He held some of the beer up to Vanderslice’s lips. “Drink. It will help with the fever.”

Vanderslice turned his head. “Can’t. It burns going down, and it burns worse coming up.”

Gallowglass shook his head at Marcus. This is hopeless, his expression read.

But Vanderslice had been the first to make room for Marcus beside a campfire when he was frozen and starving and on the run from his ghosts. It was Vanderslice had shared food with him, and his blanket, at Trenton. Vanderslice had whistled Christmas songs when he was on patrol duty, no matter the season, and told bawdy jokes when Marcus’s spirits were low. When Marcus had been utterly alone in the world, afraid and without kith or kin, Vanderslice had accepted him like a member of his family.

Marcus might have killed his own father, but he had no intention of losing Vanderslice. He’d lost enough—his home, his mother and sister, countless patients, Dr. Otto, and now Veronique.

Marcus wanted someone to belong to again. Someone who would restore his faith in family after Obadiah and the de Clermonts had made him doubt the bonds of blood and loyalty.

“I can make the burn go away,” Marcus said. He crouched down next to his friend—his brother.

“No, Marcus,” Gallowglass said.

“It will hurt like hell at first, but you won’t feel much pain after that,” Marcus continued, as if his cousin hadn’t spoken. “It takes a bit of getting used to, but you’ll have to drink blood to survive. And you’ll have to learn to hunt. You never could bait a fishhook, never mind bring down a deer, but I’ll teach you.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Gallowglass grabbed Marcus by his collar and hauled him to his feet. “You’re too young to start a family.”

“Let go of me, Gallowglass.” Marcus’s voice was even, but he was prepared to strangle the man if his cousin refused. The more time that passed, the more obvious his choice became and the more resolute he was to save Vanderslice’s life. “I’ve ripened now, you see, and I may not be your equal in size, or strength, or age, but that’s been true my whole life.”

Marcus’s intentions must have been clear in his expression. Gallowglass dropped him with a blistering oath that had Vanderslice wheezing with appreciation.

“He reminds me of that French kakker,” Vanderslice said. “What was his name? Beauclere or du Lac or something like that.”

“De Clermont,” Matthew and Gallowglass said in unison.

“That’s it. De Clermont. Wonder whatever happened to him?” Vanderslice said. “Probably got his head chopped off in France, along with his friend.”

“They’re both still alive, actually,” Marcus said. “The chevalier de Clermont saved me at Yorktown. I had a fever, like you.”

Vanderslice looked at Marcus skeptically. “Not even you can save me, Doc. I’m too far gone.”

“Yes I can,” Marcus said.

“Wanna bet?” Vanderslice was always up for a wager.

“Don’t do it, Marcus,” Gallowglass warned. “For the love of God, listen to me. Matthew was never supposed to make any more children, and you’ve promised not to do it, either. Granddad said—”

“Bugger off, Gallowglass,” Marcus said pleasantly. He was watching Vanderslice closely, and though he was lucid now, his heartbeat was skipping faster than Betsy had on her way to the tavern, and his breath was shallow. “Take Betsy with you.”

“If you break your word to Philippe, you’ll regret it,” Gallowglass said.

“He’ll have to find me first,” Marcus replied. “No man’s reach is indefinite, Gallowglass.”

“I thought that—once. We all believed it, once.” Gallowglass told him. “And we all learned better.”

“Thank you for bringing me to Philadelphia. Please tell Ysabeau where I am.” Marcus knew that so long as his grandmother knew where he was, Matthew would find out. And if Matthew knew, then he would inform Veronique—if she were still alive, that is. Marcus could do nothing to save Veronique, but Vanderslice was another matter.

“And that’s it. Thanks, and don’t let the door hit you on the arse on your way out?” Gallowglass snorted. He beckoned to Betsy, who was listening to their conversation with interest. “Come, lass. Let’s let these two brew up their cup of disaster and drink from it, while we take a walk and look for your mam.”

“Mumma’s sleeping,” Betsy said.

“We shall see if we can rouse her,” Gallowglass said, taking her by the hand. “You best wake up, too, Marcus. You can’t be turning everybody you love into wearhs. It’s not how the world works.”

“Good-bye, Gallowglass.” Marcus looked over his shoulder. “And I meant what I said. Thank you for bringing me to Philadelphia.”

Fever or no fever, this was where Marcus was supposed to be. Here, in this familiar place where he had saved some lives and been saved by Dr. Otto’s faith in him and the Associators’ friendship. Here, in Philadelphia, where he had drunk in the atmosphere of liberty and freedom in that heady summer of 1777.

When the sounds of Gallowglass’s heavy footsteps and Betsy’s piping voice had faded, Marcus looked down to discover that Vanderslice was studying him.

“You look exactly as you did fifteen years ago,” Vanderslice said. “What are you, Marcus?”

“A vampire.” Marcus settled back against the edge of Vanderslice’s filthy bed. “I drink blood. Animal blood. Human blood, too. It keeps me from aging. It keeps me from dying.”