Chapter 12Staring almost unblinkingly, Vilmos brought back to his lips the fever-warm, limp hand he held. He sat hunched in a small, uncomfortable plastic chair at Matteo’s bedside. His gaze was fixed on the scar at his boy’s throat.
As irrational as it was, Vilmos actually felt Ciaran was mocking him when he looked at the disfigured skin, as if it was his fault in some way. His gaze flickered briefly to the equipment that monitored Matteo’s heartbeat, respiration, and temperature; steady, rhythmic, he felt some tension ease from his taut-as-a-bow frame.
To everyone’s relief, Matteo had tolerated Vilmos’s blood and the antitoxin was already hard at work in Matteo’s system. Just a thin dressing covered his chest, intended to avoid secondary bacterial infection while his body was vulnerabl
