Vince was the head of Ethan’s detail? I examined the man with renewed interest.
Once upon a time, the head of my detail had been an old man who hadn’t given a flying fuck about me beyond making certain his protection record remained pristine. I supposed my flight out of New York had trashed his record, which had involved the semi-conscious bodies of the members of my detail and any other RPS agents unfortunate enough to be around when I’d sucked all the air out of the room and waited long enough to disable them before reversing my magic. None of them had died from it, and I’d left with zero intentions of returning.
“Are you all right, Rachel?” Deep lines marred Ethan’s brow.
“Just tired,” I replied, grateful I spoke the truth.
I was so tired of just about everything.
Ethan snagged one of the examination room’s chairs, placed it next to me, and gestured until I sat, careful not to dislodge Snookums or Flamingo.
Dr. Tomastani began examining the kittens, who wanted to play with her hands rather than be examined, creating adorable mayhem on the table. Snookums and Flamingo pulled similar stunts, although they were more methodical about their attempts to distract the vet.
My babies knew vets meant discomfort, but they limited their protests to squeaks and demands for compensation, which I always provided.
It took about thirty minutes longer than necessary, as Ethan had more questions than the average child coupled with a determination to be the best kitten father absolutely possible. Then, during the rat portion of the examination, we lost another entire hour to his curiosity.
The pinkies making an appearance didn’t help, as Dr. Tomastani refused to let her infant charges out of her sight until we both demonstrated we understood how to feed and care for them. I passed with flying colors, as I took my rat mothering duties seriously, but Ethan’s terror of hurting them interfered with his ability to get the job done. I appreciated his care, but I would need to coax him into rat fathering duties should he decide to help—or wait until they were two weeks old to begin involving him with rat parenting.
While I’d thought Snookums and Flamingo had been adorable as infants, the kangaroo rat pinkies reminded me of little beans with tiny toothpick legs partnered with ridiculously long tails.
“I don’t suppose the wild kangaroo rats need population assistance, do they?” I arranged their travel box to my liking, made certain their nest was comfortable for them, and transferred the babies under Dr. Tomastani’s supervision.
“You want a young male you can hand raise so you can breed them, don’t you?” the vet accused.
“Maybe.” Definitely, and if she wasn’t able to figure that out, I’d be okay with that.
“If you wanted to contribute to lab rat breeding programs, arrangements can be made. I have a line on a few young males from fathers with a higher than average ratio of producing female babies. There’s always a need for female lab rats.”
“But they get cancer,” I protested.
“There’s also a need for lines less prone to cancer. I can get you some pinkies from such line if you can help boost the female population. Too many breeders focused on male production for medical research, so the number of female lab rats is severely diminished.”
“And if there are no females, the breed dies out.” I wrinkled my nose. “Maybe after my babies are grown and tamed. I’ll think about it.”
“You’d also be compensated by the medical research labs for your work, as it’s becoming a serious enough concern we might not have enough lab rats for testing purposes.”
“I don’t want my babies to be test subjects,” I complained.
“Have you been tested for animal empathy, Rachel?”
“No.”
“You should be. You’ve a knack with the pinkies, and you’re obsessive like most animal empaths get with their charges. Frankly, I’m impressed I even got you to consider breeding labbies.”
“The breeding out the cancer element helped,” I admitted.
“We can sign a contract where the rats you directly provide would be used as controls, and care requirements would be included. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve done something like that. Should your line prove to become less prone to cancer, however, we’d have to discuss non-controls, as being able to identify cancer-causing agents in non-prone individuals could be invaluable.”
“It would take a lot of generations,” I countered.
“And you could be a proud rat mother every two months. And you wouldn’t have to rebreed the mothers if you don’t want to, although if you do manage to breed a line less prone to getting cancer, you’ll want to establish the populations.”
“I would need males.”
“You could also experiment with crossbreeding lab rats with other species of rats if you find a good pairing.”
“Wild Norways have been used in labs plenty of times,” I countered.
“Wild Norways tend to be horrific in lab settings, and they have stable wild populations as a general rule. It’s usually a disaster. Domesticated lab rats are easier to handle.”
I snorted at that. “Try roof rats.”
“While I’m inclined to agree with you, the female populations are dwindling enough that researchers might consider it if they can be trained to do the tasks after a few generations.”
“Maybe if medical researchers removed male bias from their research, they’d have a strong female population left.”
“While true, there’s not much we can do about it now outside of trying to establish a strong breeding program.”
Ethan sighed. “You’re going to need a bigger house, Rachel. It’s going to be hard to make room for rat palaces with only three bedrooms.”
“This is true.”
“Rat palaces?” Dr. Tomastani asked.
“Did you really think she’d settle for anything less for her babies?” the Californian prince retorted.
“You present a good point. Still, think about it. If you have animal empathy like I believe you do, you’ll also be able to tell when your pets are getting sick before anyone else, and there are very effective cancer treatments for rats that haven’t been evaluated for human research studies yet. It’s a win-win for you and your rats.”
“My rats getting cancer is never a win.”
“But they’d be taken care of, and since you’d be working on a cancer-resistant line, their treatment costs would be covered by the labs hoping for access to some of your new rats.”
“I resent that you have a good sales pitch,” I announced.
“As an added bonus, if you do develop a good line, you can help boost the lab rat populations among other breeders. You can experiment with color strains at the same time you’re weeding out males who produce too many male offspring.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Please do. Give me a call once you’ve made your decision. I have a feeling we’ll be able to make solid strides in helping the breed in the long term should you be willing.”
I wondered if I’d be able to avoid the burden of responsibility long enough to be able to do such a thing. Breeding rats in the right direction appealed, although I hated the necessity of medical experimentations for the sake of humanity.
I didn’t want my rats to suffer.
On the other hand, I didn’t want people to suffer, either.
No-win situations sucked, but I’d learned long ago to deal with the cards in my hand. Hoping for the best hadn’t worked for me yet, so I would resign myself to the inevitability of my return to New York and try to enjoy my good fortune while it lasted.
Eleven
Lucky cats and rats.
During the vet’s examination of my pets, my new boss had somehow arranged for a miracle. With a smug expression, he informed me I’d be moved out of my old apartment by dinner and my new condo would be ready for me to move into it at no later than seven.
New York needed to sit down with California and take some lessons on efficiency.
&
nbsp; Then again, maybe my idea to kidnap a Californian prince was a better one than I had initially thought. Ethan had helped with the efficiency, having stolen my key and handed it off to one of his RPS agents, who’d disappeared long enough to hand it off to someone else, beginning the process.
With the housing issues resolved, my boss herded us back to the archive, ordered me into the research room on the top floor, and gave me a list of things to do to keep me amused while he handled other issues with Ethan.
Somehow, both kittens accompanied me along with my rats. My boss put a litter box in the corner for the felines, showed them where it was, and also took care of feeding and watering them while I settled my rats into their temporary homes when at the archive.
At the top of my list of things to do was to set up a rat palace for all of my beasts, including Snookums and Flamingo, who would become mascots for the top floor. I expected Doomsday and Armageddon would share a similar fate soon enough if Ethan had anything to say about it.
Their new roles at the California Royal Archive entitled them to a small salary, paid out in supplies, feed, and a stipend to me, their caretaker. Then, in a declaration so absurd I burst into laughter, my boss informed me that California did not engage in inappropriate child labor, so the pinkies and kittens would have to wait until they were the equivalent of eighteen before being hired in any official capacity.
Lucky cats and rats.
It took me less than an hour to set up the rat habitats to my satisfaction while the kittens played at my feet, and I released the beasts into their new home, pausing to check on my sickly baby, who didn’t seem all that sickly to me despite Dr. Tomastani’s concerns.
She wanted milk, just like her gluttonous sisters, and all six of them suckered me out of a snack and some pampering.
Then, as I couldn’t afford to be anything other than a hard-working refugee, I fetched my tablet and phone out of my bag, turned on the television to listen to political news, and went to work building a strategy for my assigned project.
It didn’t take me long to determine I’d be pushing my luck condensing the report into three months. In order to build what was needed, I’d have to do extensive research into life and society before magic had changed everything.
While I excelled at modern history, few cared about life before magic, as magic had altered everything from our basic way of life, our politics, and education.
I’d have to start from scratch, and I had no idea where to realistically begin building an example of life from the poorest to the richest.
News reports would help, assuming I could find the least biased reporting venues for the time. With luck, I’d be able to find research studies on the various income brackets prior to magic’s arrival, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.
During the second civil war, some kingdoms, including New York, had gone out of their way to erase the past so it couldn’t interfere with their ability to create their ideal future.
In that, I suspected the past and the present hadn’t changed all that much beyond who held the reins of power. Force and displays of strength had driven civil-war society, with Montana wielding fear like the potent weapon it was.
I found it ironic more feared the loss of free will over an immediate and painful death. New York could bring death and misery in a hurry, choosing to rule through fear of violence.
Everyone with a grain of sense feared Montana’s line for its ability to rule without choice—if its monarch opted to use his power.
He rarely did, although I’d heard rumors he’d wielded his talent during North Dakota’s civil war. As usual, I’d ignored the rumors for the most part.
Had things gone the way I’d wanted, I never would’ve needed to care about royal life ever again.
While I worked, half-listening to the news, I learned upheaval seemed to be the way of life in the Royal States, with Maine taking the current top prize of dealing with internal conflict, although they’d resolved their problems with the help of a ‘respected ally.’
Something about the way the reporter mentioned the so-called respected ally made me think there was something going on there—or Maine had borrowed from New York’s typical political methods.
The enemy of an enemy often became a friend for however long it took to handle the most important of the issues.
Most of the time, I didn’t bother looking at the television, although the few times I caught a peek of the royals in question, it reinforced I didn’t belong among them.
The new consort of Maine’s heir would have a fan club based on his looks alone, and every picture shown of him caught him staring at his wife like he wanted to devour her.
Maine’s heir wasn’t much better, and I wondered how Maine had managed a breeding program to make a pretty princess with a strong talent. Then again, I didn’t want to know. My kingdom would want the secret.
To my amusement, every video clip or picture shown of them included at least one cat, which they doted on as much as I doted on my rats.
The reports drove me crazy, so I checked in on my babies to restore my sanity. They were doing what pinkies were supposed to be doing, sleeping when they weren’t demanding milk.
After the segment featuring Maine, the report glossed over the kingdoms with little activity, which included Florida, North Dakota, South Dakota, Hawaii, Kansas, and Vermont.
Montana took the next segment, which was scheduled to last an intimidating three hours.
Maybe Montana’s royal family needed to be rescued. If their recap took three hours, they couldn’t have time to sleep, especially with their entire herd of children hot on their heels.
While I worked, starting my research for basic subjects on the internet, I discovered the segment took so long because it followed the activities of the entire royal family, including the non-ruling family members who were active in politics.
It didn’t take me long to figure out all of them were active in politics. Princess Olivia, the monarch’s sister, might one day rule the world if allowed, and I wondered if she might want to take over New York for me.
According to the segment dedicated to her, she could do anything. If anyone cared about her appearance, nobody said a thing, something I marveled at.
I loved her crooked nose, her not-quite-symmetrical face, and everything about the way she carried herself, with no care of what people thought about her.
What had her parents been like, to raise her to be so confident on the international stage without even a hint of makeup on her face to cover her flaws?
Well, except for one clip, which showed her rocking glittery eyeshadow and in-your-face pink lipstick.
My parents, assholes they were, would’ve lit my ass on fire if I’d worn anything that drew attention to me.
Then they had wondered why I’d dodged every public event possible, showing up only when they’d threatened to light my ass on fire. Without the threats, I wouldn’t have attended any of the auctions at all.
Montana’s segment led me to believe things were generally calm in the Royal States. I expected the calm would die by the time the New York segment aired.
Long after normal people ate lunch and only partway through the Montana segment, my boss and Ethan invaded the room, and they brought an older woman with them, who wielded a briefcase in one hand and a set of interval suppressors in the other.
California’s heir beelined for the kittens, and he scooped them up, whispering sweet nothings to the purring pair of black fluffballs.
Irrational jealousy, that I wasn’t the one blessed with Ethan’s attention, cut off my protest over so many people invading my workspace. To keep from embarrassing myself, I focused on the woman and her suppressors.
The suppressors would make a mess of my day if she meant to do a talent evaluation, as I hadn’t met a set I couldn’t bust through with a little effort. In New York’s classic way, nobody had felt a need to truly test my limits, and the suppressors they’d foisted on me ‘did a good enough job.’
It wasn’t as if they expected me to amount to anything.
Then, because my day couldn’t possibly get worse, a shame-faced Terry followed them into the room.
I leveled a glare at my RPS agent. “What have you done, Mr. Rat Guy?”
“I haven’t done anything. I was grabbed at the vet clinic.”
“Grabbed?”
Terry pointed at His Royal Highness of California.
I snatched the television remote, turned the damned thing off, and glared at Ethan, who continued to cuddle with his kittens. “Why did you grab my rat guy?”
“He looked useful, and unlike the majority of disgustingly handsome men polluting the Earth, I also happen to be smart, have a reliable memory, and cheat.”
Sometimes, being busted made life a lot simpler and easier. Sometimes, it made a Royal mess of my fucking day. “That doesn’t sound like a good thing.”
“I’m also not blind.” Ethan set his kittens on the floor, strode to me, took the remote out of my hand, and turned the television back on. Then he retrieved his phone and tapped at the screen. Using some technological voodoo, he pulled up a picture of me with Terry taken from the wedding in Illinois. Then, to make it clear Terry had been thoroughly busted, he pulled up Terry’s Montana RPS employment profile.
According to the profile, my RPS agent was forty-six. “What the hell, Mr. Rat Guy? There is no way you’re forty-six, single, and running around the Royal States like an unchecked hooligan.”
My agent sighed. “I’m actually a widower, I am forty-six, and I already told you I’d settle down sometime in the future.”
Terry was a widower? Guilt put a swift end to anything I might’ve said.
“Rachel, it’s been fifteen years. She died in a car accident. We weren’t bonded, in case you were wondering, and the only reason I haven’t settled down again is because I haven’t met anyone I’ve wanted to settle down with. I also happen to like my job, except on days where I’m nabbed by other RPS agents and tossed unceremoniously into the back of an SUV for a brisk questioning.”
Well, then. “Do I need to light any of them on fire? I’m willing to do this for you, especially if any of them injured your person while you were being tossed unceremoniously into the back of an SUV.”
Cold Flame Page 18