Gunmetal Magic(119)

“And the hip,” Doolittle said. “And the knee.”

There you go. Don’t expect mercy from a honeybadger.

“How long do you need to keep her?” Curran looked to Doolittle.

“She can go to her quarters, provided she doesn’t leave them,” Doolittle said. “I can’t do anything else with the magic down. She must stay down until I can patch her up.”

“She will.” Curran reached for Kate. “Hey, baby. Ready?”

She nodded. Curran slid his hands under her and picked her up, gently, as if she weighed nothing.

“Good?” he asked.

She put her arm around him. “Never better.”

And he took her away.

“So young lady, how did you break your arm?” Doolittle asked me.

“She was trying to keep Kate from being crushed,” Raphael said.

“A worthy cause.” Dolittle peered at me. I waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Did you know your arm was broken?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And did you, by any chance, put said arm into a sling or make an effort to keep it still?”

Oh Christ. “No. I was busy.”

“What did you do with said arm?” Doolittle asked.

“I dug.” And it hurt like hell, but at that point killing the draugr was more important.

“Were you under stress?” Doolittle asked.

“I was trying to bury pieces of an undead giant to prevent it from rampaging through the countryside and eating any random humans he encountered. This would go a lot easier if you would just tell me where you are heading with this instead of taking the long way around.”

Doolittle nodded to one of his assistants. The short, slight woman approached Roman’s cot. “We’re going to put you in your own private room.”

“Is this a code for killing me?” Roman asked. “Because I won’t be easy to take down.”

She giggled and wheeled his bed out with him on it.

The medmage looked at Ascanio. “You may go, too.”

The boy jumped off the bed and took off like he was on fire.

Doolittle pulled up the chair and sat next to me. His face was so gentle. “I once treated a boy,” he said. “He was a wererat, abused by his family. His father beat him repeatedly. He was a hateful waste of a human being and the boy’s shapeshifting gave him an excuse to rage.”

A lump formed in my throat. “Mhm.”

“Lyc-V is a very adaptive virus,” Doolittle said. “If the body is injured the same way repeatedly, it responds. Shapeshifters in colder climates grow denser fur. Shapeshifters in climates with frequent sun exposure develop melanin at accelerated rate.”

“Yes.” I knew all this.

Doolittle leaned a little toward me. “The boy I mentioned developed his own coping mechanism: his bones healed extremely quickly. His body kept trying to give him tools to run away from the next beating.”

“What happened to the boy?” I asked.

“We’re not going to worry about it right now,” Doolittle said. “I’m going to ask some private questions. Would you like Raphael to stay or to go? Say the word and I will throw him out.”

Raphael bared his teeth.

“He can stay,” I said.

“Was there physical abuse in your childhood, Andrea?” Doolittle asked gently.

I swallowed. “Yes.”

“Over some period of some time?”

“Eleven years.”

Doolittle took my hand and squeezed a little. “Your bones heal very rapidly under stress. The body joins them as fast as it can without any regard for whether or not they are aligned. It’s simply trying to make you operational again.”

I looked at my shoulder. It didn’t feel quite right. “You have to rebreak my arm.”

“I’m so sorry,” Doolittle said. “The arm is crooked. Try raising it all the way.”

I lifted my arm. Sharp pain shot through my shoulder right in the center of the bone.

“The longer we delay, the harder it will be to set it right,” Doolittle said.

A female shapeshifter wheeled in a cart filled with instruments.

“You’re going to use a mallet?” I asked. In my head Doolittle put a crowbar over my shoulder and hit it with a hammer.

“No. I’ll use a narrow power saw. You will have to be sedated. I promise you’ll feel nothing.”

“Okay.” What else was there to say?





* * *


The waters of the Nile lapped at my ankles. I strode out of the tepid water onto the shore. The wind brought the razor-sharp stench of blood. A fresh kill waited somewhere nearby.

The dark green bushes rustled. The Jackal walked out, dragging a dead bull by its neck. The Jackal had grown larger since we had last met. It was taller than a horse now, with a massive head and amber eyes the size of dessert plates.