Plague Saint

Chapter Twelve: Patron Saint of Killing You Slowly

The next morning, George Gordon came into the hospital complaining of a cough.

"I know you said you'd get us treatment as soon as possible, but I need whatever this is gone now," he said.

"Of course," Winter told him.

She gave him a useless serum and told him to drink half at noon and half at three.

"I wouldn't do this for any ordinary patient," Winter said. "I typically don't have the time. But I can come by your factory tonight with a new batch of medicine I'm prepping this afternoon. If you're still not feeling better, it'll be the most effective thing for you."

Gordon believed her, took the bottle, and left.

Winter left around five, early enough to stop by the factory before meeting Phoebe for dinner. Per Gordon's instructions, she made her way to a door at the back and knocked.

Gordon opened the door. He looked terrible. "Come in," he said, voice hoarse. "And please tell me you brought something better."

"Of course I did." Winter followed him into his office. The door closed behind her, leaving the two of them alone. "How are you feeling?"

"Awful!" Gordon sank into the chair behind his desk. "Just getting up to answer the door felt like enough to kill me."

"I'm sure it did." Winter took a deep breath. No going back. "You make a lot of money running your factory, don't you?"

"Er, yes?" Gordon coughed. "What—?"

"But none of that would have been possible if not for your workers."

"Well, yes, but—"

"They seem to be disposable to you, though."

"It's not exactly a high skill job. As long as there are people who need work, I do fine. Turnover rate doesn't matter." Gordon's eyes narrowed. "Are you going to help me or not?"

Winter held up the staff and pressed the button on the top. The handle popped up, and she pulled the blade free.

"What the hell?"

Winter pointed the blade at him. "So eager to sentence innocent lives to death. The city will be better off with you gone."

Finally, he realized what was happening. His eyes went wide. "You—You're supposed to be a saint!"

"Then consider me the patron saint of killing you slowly." Winter laughed, a cold laugh that took her by surprise. "Besides, a saint? Really? Adams had the Plague Saint killing anyone he considered a political rival, and I know he worked with the mayor. A wolf parading around in sheep's clothing."

"You're—someone else?"

"I'm the saint that's really going to save Devil's Pass."

Gordon lifted a shaking hand. "You're just going to wait here with your blade pointed at me until I die? I'm not gone yet."

Winter should have known she wouldn't be that lucky with timing. Her gaze darted around the office. A phone hung on the wall, and she certainly couldn't let him get to that. She carefully circled around the desk. Gordon's eyes followed the blade.

Winter kicked the chair he sat on, sending it and him toppling to the ground.

Gordon coughed. Blood sprayed from his mouth.

"I don't get it," he hissed. "You could be rich. You're in Atherton's good graces. Why give that all up to kill me?"

"This didn't start with you, and it won't end with you. You're just a name on a list." Winter took a step toward him. Anger burned bright in her chest. "And you almost got my brother killed."