by Ann Aguirre
“Best behavior. No biting.” Hard to tell if Ded was joking.
“Shall we go, then?”
It wasn’t far to the ministry, and this time, nobody gave him a hard time. The receptionist clearly recognized him and offered a respectful nod as he strode past. Chancellor Quarles didn’t make him deal with her secretary, either; she was waiting in front of her office to guide him down the hall to the conference room where the ministers were waiting. To his surprise, Korin of Pine Ridge, McRae of Burnt Amber, and Gavriel of the Eldritch were present as well. The first two greeted him with “Good to see you” and “Hello” respectively whereas the assassin simply raised his chin.
Which reminded him. Alastor dragged Gavriel into the hall to say, “Back off Rowena. Understand?”
A blank look, then dawning comprehension. “Did she complain about me?”
He knows this is about the night after our first battle.
“That’s not her way. And it’s not your place to judge her. Are we clear?”
After a brief, rancorous pause, Gavriel nodded. “I’ll apologize to her.”
Satisfied, Alastor led the way back into the conference room. There were eleven new faces and he dedicated himself to memorizing their names and titles. Alastor offered a half-bow and a handshake to each, then took his place at the table. Ded sat behind him with Zan and the assortment of aides who would fetch drinks or important documents on demand.
Chancellor Quarles rapped her walking stick on the table “Now that the niceties are attended, let’s get down to business.”
17.
Sheyla worked for six hours without a break, dealing with one emergency after another. This much effort in exchange for Alastor’s care seemed excessive, but she’d already made the deal. Certainly, Dr. Seagram seemed pleased with the exchange, and he hadn’t even examined Alastor yet. Who probably wouldn’t be delighted that she’d made the swap behind his back.
Exhaustion left her sore but it was a familiar feeling, complete with dry eyes and lips that burned from the beginnings of dehydration. Once she fell into hospital routine, she often forgot that she needed to eat and drink.
“Things have calmed down,” she told the ER nurse. “And I’m taking a break. You have my code if I’m needed again.”
“Thank you, Dr. Halek.”
She wanted to call Alastor and see how things were going. His voice would only distract her, so she chose not to. Instead, she asked for directions to the closest market. It was likely shops had opened and closed in the years she’d been gone. The man at the information desk was happy to explain, even drew her a map with a precision that made Sheyla wonder, as she was leaving, if his extreme helpfulness was a sign of interest. In the past, she’d rarely picked up on such cues, unless someone came right out and said they wanted to sleep with her. Like Alastor. In fact, she preferred that approach.
Stepping out of St. Casimir into the bitter chill, she tugged up her coat collar. She didn’t recognize the woman who pushed away from the wall at first, but when she drew closer, Sheyla placed her as Rowena, the Golgoth guard who loved the prince. Oh, he’d used the word ‘fancied’ to qualify the attachment but from the intensity currently facing her, this wasn’t a woman who doubted her own mind.
“Good afternoon.” Courtesy was never a poor choice, even if Rowena intended to challenge her for bed rights. Was that a thing in Golgoth society?
“I was waiting for you.” That much was obvious, so Sheyla nodded and paused for the other woman to continue. “It’s become clear that you share a special connection with our prince, so I thought… well, I’d like to get to know you better. If you’ll allow that.”
There was no point in explaining that their ‘special connection’ had an expiration date. Rather than being combative, Rowena seemed so tentative yet hopeful that even if she’d wanted to be left alone, Sheyla wouldn’t have been able to refuse. As it was, she was happy to offer, “I’m off shopping now. Do you want to come?”
She offered a shy smile. “Thank you. There aren’t many women in the barracks. This will be a nice change.”
Sheyla set off as directed, a walk that carried them away from the plaza and the government buildings into gentrified streets where old tenements had been restored and in some cases connected via demolition of walls. There was no risk of mistaking the market, as it had been a former greenhouse, now with some panels replaced with stained glass. The light was radiant with green and gold, adding everyday magic to running errands. Some of the foliage remained, so when she stepped inside, it smelled lush and fresh, part botanical garden, part marketplace.
“This is lovely,” Rowena exclaimed.
Sheyla turned with a smile; she’d been so wrapped up in navigation that she’d forgotten she had company. Her one-track mind made it challenging to maintain a relationship. Previously, she’d only been so absorbed by research problems, yet Alastor had tapped his way to the center of her brain, lodging there with disarming tenacity.
“I’ve never been here,” she said. “It’s new, or rather, new to me. This was part of an urban farm when I lived here.”
“Did you like it in Hallowell?” Rowena asked. The woman was obviously trying so hard to be friendly that her every question came out a touch awkward.
“I did. Once I completed my residency, I needed to go home, though. My family was waiting.”
They still are, she thought.
A pang of guilt ran through her. I should have called to let them know I’ve arrived safely. Even if there were potential security issues with the Ash Valley equipment, there had to be tech experts who could encrypt. Anyway, enemy forces wouldn’t learn anything of value tapping her family chat.
“I’ve never lived in Golgerra properly,” Rowena said then. “But I understand well the pull of home. It’s why we’re all fighting, isn’t it?”
“No question.” She needed to find the items on her list, necessary to produce a larger run of Alastor’s medicine; the hospital only had enough of certain ingredients for that small test batch. But she couldn’t help asking, “Have you met Tycho?”
Rowena shook her head, her mouth tightening. “I’ve seen him. He would never spare a moment for someone like me.”
No idea what that means.
If the other woman wanted her to know, she’d elaborate. Unexpectedly, Rowena smiled. “I understand better now. You’re a quiet island, and it makes a person want to fill that silence.”
“Excuse me?” What an odd thing to say, on par with Alastor wanting to listen to her breathe.
“I don’t even know you, but I think I could tell you things, someday. Maybe when we’re friends?” Rowena gave such a hopeful look that Sheyla could only nod.
She had the unnerving sensation that if she continued down this path with Alastor, she might be taking on his people, too, and she hadn’t planned for such responsibility. With a resolute shake of her head, Sheyla headed for the herb stalls. She asked in three places before being directed to a stand toward the back of the enclosure. This one was like an apothecary shop, full of glass jars that held interesting dried flora and fauna.
“Word’s already gotten out. You’re searching for rare and expensive components.” The wizened old woman grinned at Sheyla. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to create the elusive Philosopher’s Stone.”
That was a joke, she thought, so she offered a polite chuckle. “Something far more precious, actually.”
“Then let’s have your list. I’ll put together what I can. How much do you want of each?”
“Everything you have and leads on direct purchase, if you’re inclined to offer them.”
The old woman shook her head. “That would be cutting off my own foot. The middleman needs to eat, too.”
“Figured as much, but it doesn’t hurt to try.” Sheyla angled her head in rueful acknowledgment of the failed gambit.
Once she handed the shopping list over, she realized Rowena was staring at her. “This is… you’re making medicine for the p
rince, yes?”
There didn’t seem to be any point in denying it. “It should be as effective as what he had in Golgerra.”
To her astonishment, Rowena clutched one of her hands in both of hers and then touched her forehead to the back in a simple obeisance. “Thank you. Dedrick said you would save him, but we’ve all been so afraid.”
She pulled free, trying to be gentle. “Er, yes, that’s my job.”
He’s your lover, not your patient.
Rowena’s jubilant expression didn’t shift, and it was impassioned enough to make Sheyla uncomfortable. The way Alastor’s people adored him told a story, one that made her wonder whether leaving him would be as easy as he’d made it sound.
“Here.” The herb seller handed over the package and named a price, steeper than Sheyla had hoped, but with what she’d bought here, she could make six months of serum. “You’re only missing one item, and for the right price, I could tell you where to find it.”
“You’re extorting me for information?” she asked, half angry, half amused.
“We all have to make a living, doctor. If money matters to you more than time, feel free to search.”
She ground her teeth. “Fine. How much?”
The sum wasn’t unreasonable, but in principle, it didn’t set well with her to pay up. I’m doing this for Alastor. “If this lead doesn’t pan out, I’ll be back.” She let a touch of the great cat out, fueling the threat in a deep snarl.
The old woman only laughed, as if she was threatened by angry felines every day, so the information must be good. Unfortunately, the merchant didn’t keep a stall here; they needed to take the trolley across town. Sheyla was about to invite Rowena along when her comm buzzed.
CODE ORANGE. Immediate assistance required in the ER.
Reality made no sense.
Alastor smelled blood, everywhere, blood. Stinging wound, but it was distant from the roaring in his head. This, no. It’s impossible. Zan tried to hold him up, but he slid to the floor anyway, smearing red everywhere, the scene on loop in his brain. Burned in, really.
There should have been a sign.
There was no sign.
After a productive meeting, he’d gone to lunch with Gavriel, Zan, Callum, Korin, and Dedrick. Someone had booked a private salon, posh, with silver sconces, dark paneling, and velvet drapes. Their party hadn’t drawn unusual attention and Gavriel was talking about the upcoming appointment with the captain of the militia. The Eldritch would be attending that while Callum meant to meet with the engineering corps to give them a crash course in Burnt Amber war machines, and Korin had demanded to be taught as well.
All good. Delicious food, spiced tea that reminded him of that afternoon in the plaza with Sheyla. Everyone safe and sound.
Before and after.
“The waiter has a knife!” Zan shouted it. Eight invaders, dressed in black, masked, and they all had weapons. Alastor flung himself sideways. The blade sliced across his shoulder, but Dedrick was there, always there. He grabbed the attacker, breaking his arm with a brutal twist.
Like this, I’m a liability, Alastor had thought. His best move was to change. Dedrick guarded him as he transformed, shredding clothes like the brutes the other Numina called their people in secret. As ever, the shift hurt, torn skin and blood and spikes, and the others were staring, assassins and allies alike.
The memory cut out. He didn’t know, he didn’t. The knife. Where did it come from?
Suddenly it was spinning toward him, and Ded shielded him. Took it in the chest. Too busy protecting me, he should have shifted. The aftermath spread in his brain like spilled ink, a scramble of bodies, and he just dropped, cradling the guard against his chest. Zan and Gavriel gave chase, and Korin was calling for help while Callum pounded the last assailant into the floor.
The trip to the hospital was a blur. And now…
Alastor sat on the floor and rocked, his suit in tatters. Zan handed him a lab coat, and as he shrugged into it, red stained the white jacket, Alastor’s blood, Dedrick’s. Nobody had realized he was injured yet. He lacked the wherewithal to mention it when his friend might be dying.
Zan crouched beside him, a hand on one shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”
He closed his eyes, hoping the Noxblade would go away. Instead, Zan stayed nearby, a silent presence whose comfort he didn’t deserve.
“We underestimated them,” Callum was saying. “I never expected Tycho would choose the silent path.”
“Strategically, it’s a smart move,” Korin answered. “If he takes his brother out, the internal resistance collapses and he’s leading a unified people again.”
“Marching to glorious conquest instead of ignominious fratricide.” The bear lord sounded weary.
Alastor wobbled, trying to get to his feet. Zan hauled him upright and he shoved the man back. It didn’t matter how kind the Eldritch lieutenant seemed; he’d only accept solace from one of his own… or Sheyla. Where is she? With a trembling hand, he braced on the wall and left a red print on the pale plaster.
They’d evicted him from the treatment room, but he’d peel off his own skin if they didn’t brief him on Ded’s condition. He stumbled through the swinging doors in time to spot Sheyla and Rowena rushing in from the opposite side. With all his heart, he wanted her beside him, and she did take one step, but a fellow doctor snagged her arm, drawing her to Dedrick’s bedside.
He needs her now. Not me.
Rowena reached his side in an instant. “What happened?”
He couldn’t form the words; the scene was too fresh in his head, but also weirdly jumbled. With his chest so tight, it hurt to breathe and the fire from his slashed shoulder seemed to be spreading. He ate the pain as he moved toward Sheyla, already conferring with the other specialists. From here, he could tell Dedrick didn’t look good. His color was off, slipping from ashen toward gray, and Alastor had been attached to enough medical machines to interpret his vital signs.
“We’ve given him at transfusion and performed laser surgery, but he’s not better.” The doctor handed Sheyla the datapad with all relevant information.
“It sounds like this was an assassination attempt. In that case, there’s a good chance the blade was poisoned,” Sheyla said, once she finished the review.
Fuck no, Alastor thought, or breathed. He might have even wept.
The medical team scattered, one of them shouting about bloodwork. By the time they figured out what was on the knife, it might be too late to administer an antidote. Plus, Ded’s wound went deep, so the venom was already pumping through his body.
No, no, no.
He wheeled and ran for the hallway where Callum and Korin waited, but they weren’t who he needed. Where the fuck is Gavriel? Alastor couldn’t remember if the Noxblade had come with them to the hospital, and his inability to focus made him slam his fist into the wall, until the blaze of pain cut through the fog. His hand was also a mangled wreck, a red smear of clarity.
Zan put a hand on his shoulder, preventing him from taking another swing. “I’ll call him for you. Keep it together.”
As soon as Alastor heard Gavriel’s voice, he grabbed the comm. “Where are you?”
“Still at the detention center. They won’t let me speak to the prisoner yet. Something about fearing for his safety.”
For maybe the first time ever, Alastor was on the same page as the Eldritch. “Did you recognize anything about the attackers? Do you know what kind of poison they might’ve used?”
There were echoing noises, clanging doors and the chatter of passing law enforcement. Each second Gavriel delayed for privacy might cost Ded his life. He paced, waiting for an answer.
Finally, the Noxblade said grimly, “I think they were renegade Eldritch, still loyal to Talfayen. We use a variety of toxins. Give me an hour alone with our prisoner. I’ll find out.”
“Dedrick may not have long,” Alastor said, aware that he was begging.
“I’ll do my best. Wait for my call.”
>
When he disconnected, Zan steadied him on one side, and he lacked the strength to fight. A long shudder escaped him as he bowed his head.
“Sounds urgent,” Korin noted.
He hadn’t even heard the wolf lieutenant approach. Unsurprising, he was a bleeding mess. “It is.”
“He’ll need permission from the local authorities,” she said. “And finesse isn’t Gav’s specialty. I’ll head over, better than cooling my heels here. Plus, I suspect this is outside their usual protocol.”
“Hurry,” he urged. “And take Zan with you. Maybe he can help with the fact-finding.”
With a last look, Korin rushed off with the Noxblade, leaving Alastor with Callum. The war priest clapped a hand on his uninjured shoulder, a touch that was probably meant to be bracing but felt like the weight of death instead. Alastor slid out of his grasp and went back into the treatment room, where Rowena was standing watch from a discreet corner.
“He’ll be all right,” she whispered.
He has to be.
This… no.
Tycho had given Dedrick to him as a subtle insult, for who wanted a bodyguard pulled off the mountainside, from a fallen family, who had never set foot in Golgerra before? He didn’t care about any of that. All that mattered was having someone on his side, who listened and looked after him, and didn’t make him feel like shit for having bad days where breathing was the best he could do. Maybe sensing that he was about to lose it, Rowena drew him out into the hallway again.
She guided him to a row of chairs that were bolted together. Just as well, he felt like flipping them because there was nothing he could do. Rowena was talking but he couldn’t sort the sounds into disparate words. The burn in his shoulder got worse, lighting up all his nerves, to the point that it hurt to move his right arm. That didn’t seem normal. Leaning close, she said something else, eyes wide, and then hurried off.
He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Anything else seemed like too much fucking effort. When she got back, she was towing the giant bear lord. Who peered at him and said more things, words burbled underwater. Callum shook him and swore when he spotted the wound, still lazily oozing blood. The skin around it seethed with strange purple streaks. Poison. Kind of a relief to realize it. The rest of his strength trickled away like blood down a drain. No more pain.