One With the Night by Susan Squires

hacked about. He strained against the pain. He could feel the veins standing out in his temples, his neck. He was about to burst. And then the room went slowly red.
    With a kind of silent whoosh, the pain ramped down to manageable. Callan collapsed, barely conscious. The red film drained away from his eyes. Blundell was kneeling over him, saying something. The old man’s figure was blurry, as though seen through water. Blundell pulled up Callan’s eyelids and peered into his eyes. He … he was asking a question. Callan didn’t care. The pain receded further. Or was it Callan who receded? Everything receded until all he could see was a tiny dot of light in the blackness. And then only blackness.
    *   *   *
    Someone was making noise. Clinking. The clinking echoed dreadfully and made his head throb. He wanted the noise to stop. He opened his mouth to shout at whoever was making the noise, but only a faint moan issued forth. That was strange.
    He cracked open his eyelids. Blurry light resolved itself into a lamp. The flame was reflected everywhere. The clinking stopped. A figure blocked out the refracted light.
    “Are you all right, man?” the voice boomed. It made him shut his eyes again.
    Wait! That was Blundell’s voice. And Callan lay on a blanket on the floor with another thrown over him. Glass flasks and tubes were refracting the light.
    “Am I cured?” he croaked, trying to get up on one elbow. Hands pushed him down.
    “I’m afraid not.” The voice sounded more normal.
    With a supreme effort, he made it up on his right elbow. “How d’ye know?” The doctor was wrong. He had to be wrong! All that pain must have killed his Companion, and he was definitely still alive. His aching head told him so.
    “Empirical evidence, my boy.” Blundell took a small knife, grabbed Callan’s left wrist and cut his forearm. A single sear of pain seemed unimportant compared to what he had just endured. A cut. No more. What evidence was that? And then the cut slowly sealed itself.
    Callan’s shoulders sagged.
    Blundell patted his bare shoulder. “That was only the first trial. I never really thought it would work. But studying the reaction of your body was extremely useful. The poison seems to take its normal course. Then the parasite raised its power, and neutralized the poison. Was there still some pain at that point?”
    “Aye,” he muttered. “Though no’ sa bad as at first.”
    “The intestines were still damaged, I expect. It no doubt took some time for the parasite to regenerate the lacerated tissue.”
    “Nae doubt,” Callan said, trying to achieve wry.
    “How do you feel now?”
    “Tired.”
    “Don’t worry, boy. I have some ideas. We’ll keep at it until we find the right formula.”
    Callan found that prospect daunting.
    “Rest now,” Blundell instructed. “We’ll get you back to the house before Jane wakes.”
    Callan fell back onto the blanket.
    God help him.
    But he had no hope of that.
    *   *   *
    Jane woke in the late afternoon to sounds of movement in the house. They came from the kitchen below. She could hear men’s voices. Papa and Mr. Kilkenny.
    “I need some herbs gathered tonight. Are you up to it?” her father was saying.
    “Aye. But I dinnae know much about plants.”
    Jane jumped out of bed and began to dress as quickly as she could.
    “Jane knows her plants,” her father said.
    “Then she can go.”
    “I’ll not have her wandering about alone with those creatures about.” Didn’t he know that she and Kilkenny were “those creatures,” too? “You’ll have to go with her.”
    “Th’ point of me staying was ta protect ye and yer laboratory.”
    Jane pulled on her shoes and dragged a brush ruthlessly through her hair. She had no time to dress it. She would not be talked of as though she were some dreadful obligation.
    “Jane is my only reason for finding a cure.” Her father’s voice was hard. “If anything happens to her, I warn you, I shouldn’t feel