| |
Devon wouldn’t have thought there was anything worse than the psychic’s accident.
But his recovery came close.
“Damnit,” Julian cursed under his breath, tangling himself yet again. He’d spent the morning pleading with the nursing staff for them to be removed, but each tube and cable was apparently required. “How do they expect me to escape this place if they’re literally chaining me to the bed?”
The fox lifted out of his chair, gently untangling the wires. When he was finished, he moved the chair discreetly closer. It made more sense than to continue getting up.
“And this,” Julian continued furiously, gesturing to the lunch tray. A dozen IV lines shook like ribbons from his wrists. “What passive-aggressive sorcery is this?!”
Devon bowed his head, fighting back a smile.
He’d overheard someone just the other week talking about the psychic. Serene, they had called him. The fox had grinned to himself, the word lodging in his mind.
People never see him like this.
“How is the lunch tray passive-aggressive?” he asked.
“They keep commanding me to eat things, then putting them over there. I told them I can’t reach with the cast, but it keeps happening.” Julian pursed his lips. “Maybe it’s a kind of rehab.”
“That’s weird,” Devon said with a prick of annoyance. “Why would—” His face cleared in sudden understanding. “That’s probably because I told them you’re left-handed. It’s in your chart.”
Julian nodded, then looked at him. “I’m not,” he said bluntly. “Why did you tell them I’m left-handed?”
A slight pause, then the fox shrugged. “To give them an edge.”
The psychic seemed to accept this.
“They hate me, I’m sure of it,” he continued in a furtive undertone, casting a manic look towards the shuttered windows. “They can sense weakness, like horses and sharks.”
Like horses and sharks.
The fox nodded to himself, scribbling the words down on a receipt in his pocket. He was keeping a record of the psychic’s bedside revelations to be presented as a gift at Christmas.
He’d already accumulated quite a list.
“These people,” Julian concluded with a disapproving huff, shaking out his blanket like a Southern matriarch. “You slight them once, and they remember it forever. Nancy told me that.”
The fox started reaching again, then caught himself.
“Jules, you’ve been here about ten hours—and just one of them was conscious. How have you possibly slighted these people? And who is Nancy?” he added. “Your nurse is Lorraine.”
“One of them told me she was having an affair, and then swore me to secrecy,” the psychic whispered conspiratorially, casting another look at the door. “Another wanted to cut my hair.”
Devon stared in utter bewilderment, wondering if it was the drugs.
“Can they do that?” he finally stammered. “Can they ask you that?”
“I refused. It’s how I slighted them.”
“That’s not—” The fox twisted to face him, wondering again about the drugs. Maybe he needed some himself. “You didn’t slight them, Julian. It’s your hair. How many times must we—”
The psychic shook his head helplessly. “I panicked, said I was growing it out for a play.”
There was a moment of silence.
Shizza, you’re not kidding.
Devon’s teeth caught his lower lip, as he gestured again to the tray. “Let’s get some food into you.”
It was the same thing his mother used to say when he was a kid. The same thing he’d found himself looping since the psychic had woken up. No sooner had he managed a sitting position, than the fox was accosting him with ice-chips. Angel had threatened to shoot him if he said it again.
It was a lofty offering of applesauce and gruel. The same offering that had been made a few hours earlier, when the tray had first appeared. Julian considered a moment, then shook his head with a little grimace. Ironically it wasn’t the food that dissuaded him, just the idea of eating.
The humor faded from the fox’s eyes.
“Are you feeling sick?” he asked quietly, half-reaching for a bag.
Julian shook his head, trying to shift himself on the pillow. It was a difficult ask, considering how many how many things were working against him. After only a few seconds, he grimaced again.
“No, it’s just my leg—”
“How bad is it?” Devon asked softly, kneeling beside him. “Be honest with me.”
“It’s not bad,” the psychic answered tightly, curling his fingers around the blankets. “Just a little—” His breath caught suddenly, as his eyes squeezed shut in pain. “Okay...it’s a little bad.”
The fox nodded swiftly, pushing a button for the nurse.
Of course, it was. The man had been nearly crushed to death in a London intersection. And his partner didn’t believe for one second, he’d been properly medicated in the aftermath.
The psychic glanced up as the light flashed on, cringing against the pillow.
“Don’t be mean about it,” he panted, trying to compose himself. “Seriously, Devon. There could be repercussions. Don’t make a fuss.”
The fox shook his head dismissively, squeezing his fingers.
A fuss? He wouldn’t dream of it.
“Nice of you to take your time.”
The door had scarcely opened before the words flew like arrows from his mouth—striking the unfortunate woman who’d just stepped inside. Before she could rally, he struck again.
“We need to up his morphine. He’s in a lot of pain.”
Arrows tipped with venom.
He’d also started using the collective ‘we.’
She startled reflexively, clutching at her chest—then she realized who was speaking, and stalked forward with a murderous glare. In spite of his sometimes distressing paranoias, she’d grown terribly fond of the handsome man who’d been wheeled in that morning—the one whose dark eyes followed each of the nursing staff with the same curious expression, muttering under his breath.
His loud-mouthed friend, she could do without.
“They need to up his morphine,” she spat in reply, pacing forward to read over the psychic’s chart. “I thought we’d gotten you locked in the bathroom.”
Devon sneered in the dim light. “I escaped.”
Julian bowed his head, letting out the quietest of sighs. “This isn’t helping—”
“See, now you’ve upset him.” Devon leaned territorially over the bedside, gripping the psychic’s hand. “The man has nine compound fractures. Can we please figure out his meds?”
She muttered something under her breath.
“I hope that wasn’t a joke, Lorraine. Because I will sue this place so fast—”
“He’s already passed the limit,” she interrupted, scrolling through the pages. Her eyes lifted to the patient, softening at the sight. “Is it a sharp pain, Julian? Or more of a throb?”
Julian winced in spite of himself, gathering the breath to speak. “It’s kind of a stabbing—”
“Just give him the damn drugs!”
The woman vanished a second later, crossing the hall to the nurse’s station. She returned a moment later with a syringe, emptying it into one of the tubes coming out of the psychic’s arm.
“How’s that?” she cooed, rubbing the skin. “A little better?”
Julian closed his eyes with a sigh, relaxing into the pillows. “So much better. Thank you, Nancy.”
She patted his head with a chuckle. “You keep calling me that.”
“He said that name earlier, too,” Devon added with a distracted grin, relieved enough to have forgotten their feud. He remembered a moment later. “You can leave now.”
The woman lifted her eyes slowly, still gripping the empty syringe.
“You want to help him?” she countered. “You want to help all of us? Maybe take a sedative, Wardell. You know, I’d heard about you before,” she added. “There’s a picture in the breakroom.”
“You take too many breaks, Lorraine.”
She hurled the needle into a bin. “Bite me.”
With that, she stalked back outside—slamming the door behind her. But not before the men caught a glimpse of something strange happening in the hallway. A cluster of men in black suits was gathering outside the psychic’s door. Men with dark glasses and tiny wires spiraling out of their ears.
They stared in silence for a moment, then Julian bit nervously at his lip.
“You see them, too?”
* * *
SOME CALLS WERE MEANT to be taken at a bedside.
Others were better suited for the hall.
“—what do you mean?” Devon asked for the third time, pressing a phone to his ear. “I can hardly hear you, Philip. What do you mean: you’ve secured the floor?”
Despite who was on the other line, it was hard to have the conversation in private. He could only put so much distance between one security guard, before another would pop up in its place.
The king raised his voice, practically shouting into the receiver.
“I mean, the monarchy has the right to commandeer wings of certain medical facilities and claim national security. It’s a tricky business, but what it boils down to is: you and your friends don’t have to worry about a thing while you’re stuck at the hospital. Julian can just focus on his recovery.”
Devon looked from one guard to the next, tapping his finger on the phone.
“You didn’t have to do that, Philip.”
You really didn’t have to do it.
Having discovered in a broom cupboard that they had been the target of a supernatural attack, he didn’t want the king’s bodyguards anywhere near the hospital. He wanted his own people there instead.
And his people didn’t play nicely in the common world.
“Don’t be absurd, it’s the least we could do. Lily was over for tea when it happened. I’ve never seen her so upset. Besides, the Deckers are practically—” The king caught himself and stared out the window in his study, pulling in a deep breath. “Does he hate me, Devon? Please be honest.”
Yeah, kind of.
“He doesn’t hate you,” the fox answered evasively. “I mean, he’d like you a lot better if you’d issue an edict—commanding your son to stop dating his daughter.”
There was a crackle of static.
“...is it just that?”
Devon pulled in a quiet breath, considering his answer.
The truth was, it didn’t really matter whether Julian liked the man or not. A supernatural intelligence agent dating the Crown Prince of England was going to have consequences.
“It’s complicated, Phil,” he said softly. “You know that.”
There was a little pause. A quiet sigh. “Yes, I do.”
Devon bit his lip, lifting his eyes to the window.
By now, the psychic had pieced together what was happening. He wasn’t happy about it. His eyes kept flickering from person to person, like he was imagining how to incapacitate each one.
He caught the fox watching, and flashed a pained look through the glass.
“I should get back in there,” Devon said quietly, “before he remembers his training.”
And tears your security detail apart.
“All right, well—keep us updated. And give him my best,” the king added sincerely. “Please, Devon—don’t hesitate to call. Let me know if there’s anything else we can do.”
“I will,” the fox replied. “Thanks, Philip.”
The line went dead, and he looked slowly across the hall.
You’ve done enough already.
* * *
“HOW’S HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS?” Julian demanded the second he stepped inside. He’d said the words quietly, but it was probably because he wasn’t getting quite enough air. “You think I felt like a captive before?” He threw out an arm, wincing with instant regret. “There are guards at the door.”
“It’s because you’re a person of value,” Devon recited promptly. There was a monarchial terminology to these sorts of things; he delighted in quoting it. “You’re a person of special repute.”
“A person of special repute,” the psychic muttered under his breath. “I chase down cars, I pay my taxes. Must I really suffer the indignity of his babysitters as well?”
Devon hesitated, then reached into his pocket.
I chase down cars, I pay my taxes...
“Why are you always so hard on him?” he asked curiously, wondering why he’d never asked it before. “He’s a genuinely good guy, Jules. You have to know that. Not that I’m taking sides—”
“There are no sides,” Julian interrupted.
“There are no sides,” Devon repeated soothingly, “I’m on your side. That’s the only side that matters.” He paused a moment, catching his gaze. “But you have to know that.”
It was quiet a few seconds, then the psychic let out a sigh.
“You made a joke a while back,” he said quietly, “about how Lily was going to be part of the royal family. You remember? It was after that thing with the squid.”
It took a second to summon it back.
“That’s what this is about?” Devon asked incredulously. “It was only a joke—”
“She is going to be part of it.”
The fox went blank. “What?”
“The royal family, she is going to be part of it.” Julian drew in a sharp breath, like he’d torn his stitches. “Henry’s going to propose.”
It was quiet a second, then Devon’s jaw dropped to the floor. “When?!”
“I don’t know,” the psychic answered with a hint of frustration. “I mean, I don’t know exactly. I didn’t really feel like it was my place to...”
The words caught in his throat. Julian was a father first. A psychic, second. And a hell of a lot of other things, before he was a loyalist. Devon tucked it aside for later, reeling with the news.
Henry was going to propose.
And Lily’s going to say yes.
That much, he had foreseen.
“I know it happens soon,” Julian muttered treasonously, glancing at the guards.
It’s not like we couldn’t stop it.
He’d almost said the words out loud.
Devon leaned back on his heels, considering the implications for the first time. Beginning to consider them. There were different levels, it wasn’t going to happen overnight.
“That’s going to be a whole...”
“I know.”
“I mean, just the logistics of it....”
“I know.”
“I don’t see how it’s going to...”
I know.
Julian didn’t say it that time. He just stared like a prisoner from the bed.
“We’re going to deal with that later,” Devon said decisively, waving his hand. “We’re going to deal with all of that later. Don’t worry about that now. Now’s not for that.”
It’s for something else.
“Congratulations,” he offered tentatively.
The psychic pressed the button for morphine.
