Page 174 of Where the Snakes Sleep

The gunman nearest me grabs the back of my shirt and hauls me upright.

Camille shouts, “Get your hands off him!”

Henri is still just staring at me. Eventually, his voice, tight and wavering, rings out. “What did you inject me with?”

I smile. “Mireille.”

Camille gapes. He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, then opens them. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he bellows.

One of the guys asks another, “What is Mireille?”

I answer matter-of-factly, “Actually, it’s ‘who is Mireille?’”

Henri pales. He knows. Well, kinda. He won’t understand how fucked he is until I tell him.

“Mireille is an inland taipan,” Camille breaths.

Henri looks like he’s going to vomit, then rushes toward Camille and fixes him with a glare. “Fix it.”

Camille’s laughter is hollow, brittle. “My hands are tied.”

Henri whirls on the nearest mercenary. “Cut him loose.”

The man shrugs, uncaring. “That isn’t happening.”

Henri’s cane clatters loudly as he throws it to the ground. “Now!”

At last, a knife flashes, and the plastic zip ties drop to the floor. Camille rubs his wrists, then pushes to his feet, swaying on unsteady legs. I lurch forward to help, but the guard who’s still holding me yanks me back.

Camille levels with the man. “The inland taipan produces the most toxic venom of any land snake ever measured. Without antivenom, a bite can become fatal in as little of 30 to 45 minutes. Do you truly wish to find out if he’s carrying any more syringes?”

The man holding me goes completely still, then pushes me away from him.

I stumble forward with the sudden absence of resistance and catch myself against the arm of the sofa, my shoulder screaming in protest. Camille moves instinctively toward me, then has to grab the back of a chair when the room tilts beneath him.

“Sit down,” I tell him.

“You do not get to give me instructions right now.”

“You’re bleeding out of your head.”

“And you stole venom from my laboratory.”

“Borrowed.”

“You put it in a syringe.”

“Borrowed that too.”

“How the fuck did you even come up with that? No, never mind that. Did you get any on yourself? Did you at least put gloves on when handling—”

Henri cuts through us with a voice that no longer resembles the smooth, paternal thing he used on me minutes ago. “Enough.”

We both turn.

He stands several paces away, one hand pressed against the place where I jabbed him and the other hanging empty at his side because his cane remains on the floor. His face has gone grey, and although nothing dramatic has happened yet, he looks suddenly aware of his body in a way he wasn’t before.

Every breath.