It wasn’t that Honal had brought the boy back with her. Sanctuary was Sanctuary during an outbreak.
It wasn’t even that she hadn’t told anyone that he was her brother, because that was none of anyone else’s damn business.
It was that she’d said she’d racked him at the clinic on Twelfth and she hadn’t. And he’d taken her word for it. And now they were trapped in Sanctuary with a goddamned Immune.
Braw pressed the tumbler against his mouth. Not because he wanted to drink or not to but because the glass-shard stink of the brandy could almost chase away the cloy of blood, and if he tried to focus on the ripples of the liquid as it wallowed back and forth with the huff of his breath he could almost – almost – banish the image of Honal’s body: flayed open down the left side, one eye pulped and the other staring, and her jawbone on a bookcase on the other side of the room.
The boy was nowhere to be found. Braw couldn’t even remember his name.