Green-Eyed Envy (20 page)

I shot her a pointed glance. “Notice how the MCU went from Trin and me to number five full-time members, two part-time members, and arcane consultants as we need them? They didn’t just hand that to me—I had to fight for them. Same as I’ll fight for what
you
need.”

“Gods, Riss, I can’t say how much it would mean to me to have some lab techs I don’t have to worry about—about—”

“Breaking?”

“Well, yeah.”

I patted her on the shoulder. “You don’t need to tell me what it would mean because I’ve felt the exact same thing myself. Buying me a few cocktails when we go out to paint the town red next month will do nicely.”

Laughter burst from her lips. “Can’t remember the last time I went out with friends.”

“Which is
precisely
why Trin and I will be dragging your ass out, whether you like it or not.”

“Oh, I’ll like it just fine, don’t worry.” Her expression sobered. “Speaking of Trinity, I assume you’re here for an update on the Rockefeller case.”

I simply nodded.

Sahana pushed away from the sink and led the way across the hall. After exchanging greetings with the other two, she unlocked her office door and ushered us inside. She wasted no time in pulling out a manila folder overflowing with papers and setting it down on the desk between us. “Ward Rockefeller was definitely drugged with the same hybrid form of catnip as the previous Cat victims. However, unlike those victims, there was a high enough concentration flowing through his veins before death that he would have died with or without the beating that followed his being drugged.”

I tilted my head thoughtfully. “Well, that confirms our theory that something pissed the killer off enough to change his MO. He attacked Rockefeller in the same place he dumped the body and then placed a call to 911 to make sure the corpse would be found.”

Trinity took up my theme. “He shot Rockefeller up with enough of the drug to completely incapacitate him in seconds, rather than more slowly. And he didn’t play with Rockefeller the way he did the others. Just systematically and brutally beat the hell out of him.”

My gaze focused on Sahana again. “You were going to test the drug on the blood samples Harper gave you?”

She tapped the folder on her desk. “The tests I ran confirm my suspicions that this hybrid catnip neutralizes the Cat’s innate ability to self-regenerate. Smaller doses of it seem to weaken those abilities without permanently wiping them out, but at higher or sustained concentrations . . . complete cessation of regeneration is inevitable.”

Scott let out a low whistle, one I was tempted to echo. If word of
this
got out . . . anyone with a grudge against Cats would be granted a shortcut to rubbing the cause of that grudge out in an instant. I shifted uncomfortably at the logical next step in that equation. A rival group who had been at war with the Bastai for countless years could poison their enemies with this drug and then easily wipe out the entire race. Genocide on a horrible and horribly simple scale.

Something I would go to
any
lengths to prevent. I leveled a grim stare on Sahana. “Have you shared these results with anyone else?”

She gave me an insulted look. “Do I
look
insane to you, Riss? Bhairavi Raga I may be, but that doesn’t mean I like to
cause
death. Leaking word that there’s a handy-dandy drug that negates the Bastai ability for self-resurrection would be like signing a death warrant for them as a species.
One
arcane race driven to extinction is quite enough in any generation.”

My breath rushed out in relief. Good to see she had reached the same realization I had—and shared my feelings on the matter. While Bastai fought like the wildcats they resembled in shifted form, what gave them a true edge against other arcane races was their ability to recuperate from fatal wounds, especially considering they couldn’t take damage nearly as well as races like Warhounds, Giants, or Furies. Too bad I couldn’t yet share the news with her that the Sidhe were no longer quite as extinct as we all once believed. For the next little while, the public had to believe the Sidhe who’d been rescued were half-breeds. They couldn’t afford the truth getting out until their numbers grew great enough to grant them a measure of protection.

We discussed her results for another half hour, along with how they impacted the criminal investigation. She handed the overflowing folder to me and told me I now held the only evidence of what her test results had proven about the hybrid catnip—basically washing her hands of the headache and leaving it up to me to decide what to do with that evidence. Whether to risk it falling into the wrong hands or destroy it to make damned sure that would never happen; one of which would be betraying a fellow arcane race and the other of which would be betraying the mortal laws I was sworn to uphold.

No pressure or anything.

The beauty of my partnership with Trinity was that she would respect whatever decision I made and neither rat me out to other mortals nor guilt-trip me if I made the decision to destroy the test results. She trusted me as much as I trusted her, and she was just as invested in keeping the peace between mortals and arcanes as I was. Still, it was a ridiculously huge decision to make on my own. For now, I wanted to lock the documents under spell and key, deal with the immediate task of finding the killer, and consult with those I trusted before deciding one way or the other.

In the meantime, I had
more
than enough trouble to keep me occupied.

 

 

BRIGHT AND EARLY MONDAY MORNING, I CONFRONTED one of those troubles head-on: finding a specialist to help me with the agony that was my knee. On the plus side, I didn’t have to book my arcane doctor’s appointment under an assumed identity, since Marissa Holloway
could
be the “friend” Sierra had mentioned to Victor. Add the referral from Victor to my status as Chief Magical Investigator and wonders were worked. Not only did the third physician on Victor’s list specialize in arcane orthopedics; his receptionist also recognized my name and rearranged his schedule to get me in that very day.

Not that I’d ever be willing to throw over Scott in favor of his high-and-mighty cousin’s clout. I scowled at the thought. The teens sitting across from me on the T gave me weird looks before scrambling to another seat farther down the subway car. For a moment I wondered how scary elegant Sierra Nieves could manage to look, weird face or no, but then I remembered that I was actually out in public as myself today. Well, as one of the average-faced mortal disguises I wore when I wanted to travel under the radar. No sense taking undue risks when the Megaera Prime might have other sisters on the warpath and out for my blood. Scott was tending to a Shadowhound emergency and may have
somehow
been under the impression I was sticking around the PD. Guilt stirred but I stubbornly choked it down. If all went well during my appointment with Dr. Silvina, I could finally come clean to Scott about the true extent of my knee injury and the steps I was taking to overcome it. No,
really
.

A half hour later I squirmed atop a paper-covered examining table and stared down at my bare legs. My hands kept tugging my cotton blouse lower, but nothing helped the sensation of being exposed. The nurse had left behind a paper gown she actually thought I was going to slip into. Ha. I donned those flimsy scraps of “fabric” exactly once a year when forced atop that feminine torture device undoubtedly invented by some man, and my yearly physical wasn’t due for another few months. All Dr. Silvina needed to see was my freaking knee so he could live with me in my T-shirt and panties. Or not live—the choice was his.

Anxiety rode me relentlessly by the time Examining Room 3’s door swung open. A wizened old man who stood maybe half my height strode into the room, skin an odd shade somewhere between asparagus and olive green, and head glaringly bald in the room’s harsh lighting. A closer look showed that he was neither old nor human, facts that the color of his skin had me placing a few seconds later. Dr. Silvina was a
Goblin
. And unlike my old “pal” Allazzar, purveyor of illegal, hybrid, magically enhanced weapons (also known as “weps” ) , a full-blooded Goblin.

He was also used to his patients’ initial shock that he worked in such a non-self-serving career field, apparently, because he wagged a finger in my direction and made a clucking sound. “Now, now, Inspector Holloway, you of all people should know not to judge a book—or doctor—by its cover.” His gaze flicked from me to the paper gown I’d thrown on the floor in a fit of pique, and a smile tugged his lips upward. “Although perhaps in your case, what I’ve heard about Furies isn’t too far off the mark.”

Something in his voice reminded me of my father’s father, who I hadn’t seen since I was eight or nine. I’d worshipped the ground Gramps walked upon for those brief years, so no surprise that the resemblance had me relaxing slightly. “You’ll have to forgive my lack of manners in staring, Dr. Silvina, and I’m sure you’ve heard this more times than you care to remember, but . . . I’ve never seen a Goblin Healer, much less a Goblin doctor.”

“And here I am both. More than enough to shock you, I’m sure.” He crossed the room to a wheeled metal stool parked next to a large wedge of wood I now identified as a step stool, which he used to climb and perch atop the other. Wheels squeaked as he spun his body to face the counter and take up a miniature laptop that didn’t seem very miniature at all in his hands.

“All righty then.” His fingers tapped across the digital notebook, and he glanced my way again. “The medical records your primary care physician sent over seem in order. Her last notation mentions that you sustained an injury via magical means that has responded poorly to all her efforts to treat it. Tell me more about that, Inspector.”

My fingers clenched, and I took a deep breath, expecting to have as much trouble telling this story to Dr. Silvina as to the others I’d consulted over the past few months. Whether due to the fact he was so obviously arcane or his voice’s similarity to Gramps, the story came spilling from my lips so quickly I barely paused for breath. It helped that he just sat there, listening intently, with no judgment upon his face, while I described my stupid decision to magically cut myself off from the pain and the consequences I’d been dealing with since that day.
Big
improvement over Gianna’s lecturing.

When I mentioned her name, Dr. Silvina shook his head with a fond smile. “Oracle Gianna is indisputably a genius when it comes to Healing, but she is—like many of her peers—remarkably shortsighted when it comes to modern-day medicine and how it can be used to enhance rather than hinder or replace time-honored arcane Healing. I’ve had remarkable success in treating patients in similar circumstances to your own by utilizing magic to augment more mundane courses of rehabilitation, physical therapy, and where appropriate, orthopedic surgery. It really only makes sense, considering that the arcane body
is
both arcane and mundane at the same time.” He rolled his eyes. “Although convincing some of my arcane counterparts is easier said than done.”

My breath whooshed out, making me realize I’d been holding it in the first place. “So you’re saying there’s hope for my knee? Hope I can break my add—my need for arcane spells and mundane painkillers?” If copious amounts of alcohol counted as painkillers.

Dr. Silvina raised another admonishing finger. “Hope yes, Inspector, but this will be a long, frustrating, and agonizingly painful process. Even then, you may not break completely free of your dependence upon painkilling measures.”

“But—but I won’t become—won’t become crippled?”

He wrinkled his long, pointed nose in distaste. “Absolutely not. Whoever gave you that pessimistic impression ”—his indisputable genius colleague, Oracle Gianna—“ was being unduly cautious to advise you of that fact. Although I suppose if they
only
tried arcane treatments rather than mixing them with the more mundane, they might have been right.” His expression grew matter-of-fact. “I can’t promise a complete cure, Inspector Holloway, but know this: We
will
improve the condition of your knee with time and effort. You will
not
become a cripple.”

I’m not a bit ashamed to admit I hopped off the examining table, wrapped my arms around him, and placed an enthusiastic kiss right in the middle of his shiny, bald head.

Dr. Silvina did something else I didn’t even known Goblins could do—blushed bright red. He mumbled something I couldn’t quite make out, but I just grinned like an idiot and perched atop the table once more. No matter how much work was involved, no matter how long it took, no matter
how badly
it hurt, I would do whatever the good doctor told me if it meant avoiding the fate I’d come to dread so much. And take great pleasure in rubbing my success right in Gianna’s supercilious face. Sure, other Furies wanted me dead and a serial killer was terrorizing
my
city’s streets. All of that aside, I
would not
become a cripple. For now, that was all I needed to know.

THE REST OF THE DAY PASSED IN A BUSY but blessedly boring blur of going back over background info we’d gathered on the various victims over the past few weeks. Their activities leading up to the time of each murder. The names of any potential enemies who may have wanted to harm them. Lists of ex-lovers since that seemed to be an emerging theme in this investigation. And of course, any threats made against them in the past, whether overt or otherwise. Unfortunately, no common thread jumped out other than the fact that all had been romantically involved with Harper.

By the time I neared the safe house’s front stoop that evening, I wanted nothing but to curl up on the sofa with Jack and Scott—in that order, since Scott had texted earlier that he’d meet me at our temporary home sweet home with carryout in an hour or two. I rubbed my knee irritably as it throbbed, and I dug into my jeans pocket for my keys, only to have the front door swing unexpectedly open.