by Ann Denton
I avoid eye contact with Flowers as he continues asking questions of the nurses.
“How’d the patient end up so burnt?”
“Just sun exposure,” the nurse shrugs.
But just then, Luke’s friend George walks out of a nearby patient room, pulling off blue plastic gloves. He sees me with Flowers and raises his eyebrows. “Lyon?”
“George, this is my boss. Officer Diego Flores,” I gesture at Flowers.
The two men shake hands.
I explain why we’re stalking the good doctor. “I couldn’t help overhearing your nurse as you walked away, sir, and I think we may need to speak with your patient.”
George’s eyebrows lift. “Is it something that can wait? He’s in rough shape. We had to put him on a couple heavy animal tranquilizers. His hippo was pretty reluctant to shift.”
Flowers shakes his head. “I wish we could wait, but he’s wanted for questioning in connection with an open case. Can you tell me exactly what happened to him?”
George shakes his head sadly. “I’ve seen it once or twice before. Someone drained his blood sweat. So, when the sun rose, he had no protection.”
I pipe up, “Blood sweat? Isn’t that the stuff you gave Luke?”
George nods. “Yup. Some hippo shifters donate it and wizard labs spell it to enhance it. But Frank doesn’t remember donating. I asked. Stuff goes for a pretty penny, so some hippos give more than they should. There’s a decent black market for it with the vamps.”
I make eye contact with Flowers and then ask the doc, “But, I thought blood sweat was pink.”
“It only turns pink when it’s exposed to sunlight. Before that, it’s just clear, kind of like sweat.”
“Or maybe like urine?” I ask.
George makes a disgusted face. “I suppose.”
“Those jars?” I turn to Flowers and raise my eyebrows. “At the shack?”
Flowers nods his head and tells me, “Lyon, call the lab. Ask them about … see… did they test those jars? Maybe they weren’t urine. I’ll start questioning … the patient.” Flowers gets visibly more upset each time he realizes he has to rephrase to avoid the ‘forbidden’ letter.
George reaches out and holds onto Flowers’ arm. “You should probably know, he still had trace amounts of Nappies in his system when he came in. He’s slipped back into baby talk a couple times. That can happen with long-term addicts. I’m not sure how good he’ll do with the questioning.”
Their voices fade as I walk down the hall to make the call to the ME’s office.
Zoe answers the phone herself and tells me that they don’t even have the urine jars at the lab. Apparently, the BM lab specializes in handling hazardous waste. At my snicker, Zoe clarified, “That’s the Bio-Magical Lab, Lyon. Not the bowel movement lab, come on.”
“Oh please, you know you snicker about it, too,” I said. “Because they basically handle shit.”
“Well, their director, Fabian Dark, is a total prick.”
“Then he’ll be a total expert for our urine jars. You know because he’s a…” My cursing curse won’t let me say prick, “penis-face.” I face palm it. “Never mind.”
“I thought you were looking for blood sweat,” Zoe doesn’t even fake laugh at my stupid joke and then points out my logical inconsistencies. If we were face to face, I’d want to blow a raspberry at her. People like that are the worst! Too mature to be any fun. Ugh. I don’t know what Bennett sees in her. (Don’t say legs. I’ll punch you.)
"Well I gotta get going, my boss just got here," I hang up the phone before Zoe can say anything else.
I look up the BM lab, call, and get told we have to go down there in person and flash our badges in order to get test results. The automated message tells me they’ve had too many prank callers trying to vocally hypnotize staff into stealing samples to allow any over-the-phone discussions. Who would want to steal samples of troll sweat or were-bear hair? Blech.
I come out of the room to find George just walking off and Flowers still in the hall. "Dead-end,” I tell him. “We'll have to go in person to the lab after this."
"Correction," Flowers replies, "you'll have to go. I have another interview with a matchmaking client.”
I furrow my brows. "In the morning?"
Flowers heads down the hall without answering me. Frankly, I'm shocked he even told me he had a matchmaking ‘interview’ aka date he’s unaware he’s having. Flowers is usually super tight-lipped about anything in his personal life. Maybe Sarah and Tabby are right about dating loosening him up.
Flowers strolls into Frank’s hospital room as if he owns the place.
Frank Fortinbraugh lays in a large tub full of sparkling green liquid goop. Two tubes are attached to one of his arms and a glowing blue orb flies slowly up and down his body. He’s skinny as a rail, like most serious addicts are. I can’t remember much about his hippo form other than the giant teeth, but this guy is emaciated, and I wonder if his hippo is, too. Frank’s got greasy black hair and heavy eyelids with long straight lashes. His brown eyes slide back and forth between Flowers and me.
Flowers jerks his head at the patient, indicating I should introduce us.
We get through the formalities, flash the badges, and get down to questions.
"So Frank, how often did you go see Louise?" I ask.
Frank sighs and scratches at one of the IVs in his arm. "I'm not sure, really. Couple times a month? He was always trying to convince me to go ga-ga-goo…" he shakes his head to snap out of the baby talk. “Sorry ‘bout that. I’ve got a stutter.”
Yeah, stutter my ass. This guy takes Nappies way more than a couple times a month.
Flowers isn’t thrown off at all by the baby talk. He’s probably seen it before. "Who tried to get you to go?"
"Hopper. I always thought that dude was just chasing a good time, but," Frank narrows his eyes, "now I wonder… was he just using me? Did he do this to me? Drain and dump? When I get outta here we are going to have words."
I suppress the guilt that stabs my stomach. Frank is blaming his friend for dumping him. Technically, that part was my fault. Of course, I didn’t know he’d been drained of blood sweat at the time. Otherwise, I could have wished him into an abandoned vamp lair or hippo zoo exhibit or something.
I take a deep breath before asking, "Have you felt like this before? Gotten sunburnt like this before after using?"
The little blue orb buzzes around Frank's face and he waves it away. "Honestly, I don't remember.”
“Did you always go to Louise’s nap shack?”
“Yeah. Hopper always insisted on her.” He shakes his head. “Now, I know why. She let him do this. She always was a bitch—poo-poo head—anyway. Never wanted to let me use the tub to nap out. That meanie old lady!” His tone rises a couple octaves and his bottom lip starts to tremble.
Flowers sighs and just presses the button for the nurse.
Frank lets out a wail. “My fwiend was mean to me!”
A nurse pops her head in, and Flowers says calmly, “I think we’re gonna need a bottle in here.”
She gives a brief nod and pops back out.
As I watch Frank throw a toddler-like fit in the tub, I think back to his hippo form, the couple seconds I saw it. He probably would have broken the tub at her place as the Nappies wore off.
“Sounds like Louise was kind of mean to you, too.” I say, trying to get on his good side. But really, can you get on a toddler’s good side?
We have to wait until the nurse brings in a baby bottle of milk and Frank takes a few pulls before he can talk again.
“She was. She really was mean—I no like Louise. I mean, the customer is always right, you know? Not Louise. Nope. I swear, she took that job because she liked bossing people around. She’s not the boss of me. I sit on her. Smash her up.”
He seems like he has some violent tendencies. Hates Louise. Or is that just the unrestrained baby-talk? I’m not sure but I feel like Frank’s too fried to do something sub
tle, like hex a knife. That’s too understated, almost catty. I mean the hex on the knife means Louise technically killed herself. That takes brain power. This dude clearly doesn’t have it.
I tilt my head. “How do you know she didn’t drain you herself?”
Frank’s nostrils flare. “She did this to me? Louise?” He shoves the bottle back in his mouth and starts rapidly sucking.
Flowers steps up, elbowing me in the side as he does. Crap. I shouldn’t have said that. I was just thinking—a woman who doesn’t mind hiding overdosed dragon bodies and collecting pee for crazy unknown reasons might not bat an eye at collecting blood sweat. For all I know, all those jars could be blood sweat. Part of me is itching to go to BM and find out.
Flowers tried to calm Frank down, “We don’t know that. She’s just guessing. It could be Hopper. Why do you think it was him?”
“Hopper’s always looking for his next big win. Always trying to get one over on somebody. He’s so smarty pants." Frank winces as the blue healing orb focuses on a rough-looking burn on his hand. “Owie!”
"What's Hopper's real name?"
"Francis Dogle. But he won't answer if you call him that. Hates his name."
"Thank goodness," I mutter. Why the hell does every male on this case have to have a damned letter ‘f’ in his name? “Where’s he work?”
“He doesn’t. Usually just hangs ‘round his house.”
“If he doesn’t work, how does he afford a house?” (Wish I could do that.)
“Girlfriend’s house. He usually goes through a couple a year once they figure out he’s not just down on his luck but a lazy-ass leech,” Frank says.
“Why d’you like him?” Shit. That wasn’t a good cop kind of question. But I can’t help myself.
“He’s funny.”
“You always get high together?”
“Nah.” After a beat, he said, “Yeah.”
"You happen to have his current address?"
Frank gestures toward his phone, which is charging on the nightstand. "You all going to charge him for this? I think he needs—timeout!!! You put him in a timeout!" Frank shakes his head trying to shake off the baby talk. But he winces, then hisses, as if the movement makes something hurt.
Flowers nods, “We’ll check into it. We see enough evidence to prove he took your blood sweat, then we’ll charge him.”
“Good.” Frank shoves his thumb into his mouth and starts sucking. His eyelids start to droop.
Flowers gently pries the bottle out of Frank’s hand as Frank drifts off. I watch in admiration/confusion. It’s almost like Flowers has done this kind of thing before. He was really patient with the whole baby talk thing. Which is not normal for Flowers. I start to wonder who he knew that was addicted to Nappies. But I don’t ask. I know better.
I go to Frank’s phone, grab the number and the address for Hopper and follow Flowers into the hall.
“Thoughts?” I ask.
Flowers waits until we’re alone on the elevator before he says, “Maybe Louise and Hopper were consistently draining -rank. Maybe they were partners. Maybe Hopper didn’t want to split the gold anymore. Maybe he killed Louise so he could sell the blood sweat himsel-.”
It’s a good theory.
“You think that’s more likely than Freddie wanting to inherit the nap shack?”
Flowers shrugs. “We don’t have evidence o- either yet. I don’t think either one is smart enouth—Dammit! Even enouth?” Flowers grinds his lips together and takes a moment before he continues, “smart to hire out a hex. Definitely not to complete a hex themselves on this case.”
“Yeah, hexes are complicated … right?” I have no idea. I’ve never looked into them.
“Yup. There’s almost a science to them. They’re magical writing that’s kinda like an equation. Have to have all the little bits just right. Right order or it’ll blow up in your … ass.”
I decide to move onto another question that’s been nagging me.
“Any news on the dragon?”
Flowers sighs and says, “William Henson. Age twenty-two. Originally -rom Wisconsin. He was a rogue.”
My heart drops. “Fluck.” Bennett’s not gonna take that well. There’s no one out there to avenge William’s death. No one to take care of burial. “Commander French know?”
Flowers looks over at me and raises an eyebrow.
“What?” I ask defensively. “It’s gotta hit close to home, right? I’m just … concerned.”
Flowers chews on his lip instead of answering me. The silence and his judgment grow really uncomfortable. “Not yet. I know it’s gonna hit him hard.”
I nod.
We get to the bottom floor and Flowers grins. “Enjoy your visit to the lab. I’m about to go to Wanda’s Brews to interview a smoking hot twenty-six-year-old.”
I narrow my eyes and flip him the bird.
As he strolls off, I group text Seena and Becca.
Emergency spymasters needed. Flowers is about to go on date 2. Who can film it?
My phone pings the second I’ve sent the text.
Becca’s response is two words. Hell yes!
Chapter 13
The lab is as shiny as a newly-scrubbed toilet. White and gleaming.
I flash my badge and get magically scanned by a wizard. When he’s satisfied that I'm not there to steal any of their "shit" he lets me in. A squeaky-voiced little dude with buck teeth leads me to his office, which is just a sterile and boring as everything else, except for a Deadpool bobblehead. He types into the computer while clicking his tongue against his teeth and confirms that some of the jars from the nap shack were blood sweat.
"Some? What you mean some?"
Squeaky bites his lower lip, a bad habit for a guy with buck teeth. "Only nine jars were blood sweat."
"Nine jars out of how many?"
"Twenty-seven."
I furrow my brow. "What the heck was in the rest of the jars then?"
Squeaky’s breath hisses out between his teeth. (I'm temporarily super-glad I do not work with Squeaky. Like everything about him is annoying.) “Shifter pee. I thought you all already knew that.”
I refrain from sticking my tongue out at Squeaky. But just barely. I’m tired, I'm hungry, I want to go home. Actually, I want to go spy on Flowers then go home. But I know my furry-butt boss is gonna give me a hard time if I don't come back with a zillion details. So, I ask, "Any particular kind of shifter pee?"
He clicks through a few screens and his brow furrows. He clicks again and says, “Interesting.”
(See—annoying. He’s saying something and nothing at once.)
I ignore personal space and walk around his desk to peer over his shoulder, “What’s interesting?”
“It looks like all the pee comes from mixed breed shifters.”
“What do you mean? What’s so special about mixed shifter pee?” (My life is so strange. I’m having a serious conversation about urine with a stranger.)
“It’s not what’s special. It’s … mixed magic does weird things. Depending on the two types of shifters, the magic can interact oddly.”
I circle my hand in the universal ‘keep going’ gesture.
Squeaky clicks through a couple more screens and stops on one. “See here, chicken-dogs?”
“Chickie pups,” I correct him. Chickie pups sounds way better.
Squeaky points at the screen. “See the magic levels?” He points to a chart with a jagged line that goes up and down like some heart monitor line.
“Yup. What about it?” I have no idea what magic is supposed to look like on a chart.
“The two magics are fighting each other.”
“But … why?” I ask, even though this conversation is starting to resemble the conversation I had with Bennett earlier. What had he said? Thank God he wasn’t a dragon deer?
Squeaky shrugs and says, “Why the magic fights is heavily debated. No one knows for sure why. I side with predator-prey theorists that basic instinct causes the magic to b
e at odds. Honestly, I think it causes some mental instability, too. Had a cousin who was an eagle mouse. It was kind of like he had split-personalities or something. I’m telling you … odd. The magic levels in the urine are volatile.”
I squint at the screen. I get that Louise was collecting blood sweat for cash. She could get good money for that. But what about pee? Who would want crazy shifter pee? Why collect it? It doesn’t make sense.
“Can you print out the info for every jar for me? Including the shifter combos for all the urine samples, please?”
Squeaky does and I ask more about mixed shifter theories. Because, suddenly, I’m wondering if all this applies to me. I mean fae sweet heart and demon dark heart magic? Those are pretty opposite, right? I am a little eccentric … not crazy. (Don’t even.) But, like, is my chicken leg some kind of weird reaction? Like my magic is fighting inside? Is that why I didn’t know I had any magic forever? My magic fought itself?
I have a moment in the middle of the BM Lab.
My magic fighting itself would explain a lot. Suddenly, I’m somewhat eager to find out the results of the lab test.
I turn to Squeaky, who’s been answering my question with long-winded, science-y words. And I bite my lip and say, “I don’t understand any of that.” (It’s better than saying I wasn’t listening.)
Squeaky sighs and dumbs it down for me. “Other people theorize that the opposite magics have a nullifying effect on each other, decreasing or washing out the power. That simple enough?”
I nod and take the sheets of paper he hands me. That would definitely explain my current theory about my own magic.
“Anything else?” he asks me.
“Just one question. Fae blood work the same?”
Squeaky laughs. “You think we get a lotta that in here? Those fae kings quash everything they can. Want all the control beyond the Veil.” He shakes his head. “Inconclusive. We haven’t been able to do enough studies to show they’re the same.”
That stinks. So, I still have no idea how my magic operates. “Got it,” I tell Squeaky as I shuffle through the papers, looking at the urine samples Louise-the-weirdo-drug-dealing-blood-sweat-and-urine-collecting … her insulting name needs work. Louise the asshole. Except I’ll never be able to say that out loud. Louise the doo-doo head. That seems childishly appropriate for a Nappie dealer. Louise the doo-doo head it is.