The waiting room of the new Blackthorn Springs Veterinary Clinic was empty save for a cranky-looking receptionist—Maureen, according to the nameplate in front of her—and a young guy holding a shoe box with holes poked through the lid and something scratching around inside. I sat, my knees bouncing, my fingers twisting over one another.
Hemlock lay in the cat crate at my feet, looking at me with one eye open and panting quick, shallow breaths. I knew what that glare meant. A vet. How degrading. Hemlock might have liked to think he was a person, and he had even told me on more than one occasion of his elaborate theory of being a Plantagenet reincarnate, but there was little choice to take him anywhere else. I couldn’t exactly carry him into the hospital emergency room, even if that’s what he would have thought he deserved.
Guilt knotted my insides. How had I not noticed he was so sick? I knew he hadn’t been his old self in a while, but he was an old cat, and with everything that had happened, it was little wonder he was out of sorts. But dying? I hoped this was him being his usual melodramatic self, or maybe Lila hadn’t understood him correctly.
The door of the vet’s consulting room burst open, and a large woman rushed out, red in the face and snorting like an angry bull. She held an obese pug dog under her arm. “I cannot believe a professional, a man who is supposed to be in the business of caring for life, could be so cruel, so callous,” the woman blustered.
I recognized the man that followed her out. He was the chestnut-haired man with the intense eyes I had seen in front of Kenny’s cafe the day before. His white coat and the stethoscope around his neck suggested this was Blackthorn Springs’s new vet. He looked equally agitated and furious.
“I’m sorry you feel this way, Mrs. Calloway, I really am,” he said. His tone didn’t make him sound sorry at all. “But like I said, if you continue to feed a dog red velvet cake, or for that matter any cake, or any kind of food you can’t imagine a wolf in the wild might eat, then I stand by what I said—you are not responsible or probably even smart enough to own a dog. Even a useless one like Mr. Chubby here.”
“How dare you!” she said. “I am going to report you to the proper authorities. And if you think I’m going to pay for this so-called consultation, you’re sorely mistaken. Come on, Mr. Chubby. We’re going to a different vet.”
“Enjoy the three-hour drive to the closest vet that isn’t me,” he yelled. “And I can only hope they’re a decent enough veterinarian to tell you the same thing I did. Maybe when Chubby kicks the bucket, you’ll learn your lesson.”
Mrs. Calloway marched out of the office, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, her enormous bosom heaving in stress.
“Idiot woman!” the vet spat. He spun on his heel and swiped out at a display of pamphlets on the countertop, knocking them to the floor. He stormed off into the consulting room, slamming the door behind him.
I exchanged a surprised glance with the shoe box guy.
“Ms. Drake?” the receptionist intoned in a monotonous drawl. “Doctor O’Farrell will see you now.”
Conri O’Farrell paced the length of the small consulting room as I brought Hemlock through. I was nervous, now not only for the health of my cat. I understood anyone wanting to stand up for animal well-being, but yelling like that, lashing out like he had done? That was seriously over the top.
“What is it? And what’s wrong with it?” he said as I set Hemlock’s crate on the bench. From what I had seen, I shouldn’t be surprised he would be so rude, but even so, I was taken aback. I had never felt such a strong instant dislike for anyone in my life.
“My cat, Hemlock. He’s twelve and hasn’t been himself for a while, and he seems really sick today,” I said.
Conri opened the crate and slowly reached inside. Hemlock hissed and retreated as far as he could. The vet lifted him out and laid him down with a gentleness I would never have expected from a man who had acted the way he just had. He smoothed his large calloused hands across the cat’s fur, and Hemlock visibly relaxed. He was such a sucker for the right kinds of pats. Some cats have no standards.
The vet listened to the cat’s heart and, for the sake of Hemlock’s dignity, I looked away while he took his temperature. When the examination was done, he hung his stethoscope around his neck.
“He’s sick. Could be a lot of things,” he said.
Gee, that was helpful.
“Anything in particular stand out to you?” I said, really trying not to snap.
“Without blood work, it’s impossible to narrow it down, but my first guess would be his kidneys. What do you feed him?”
“Cat food,” I said. He wouldn’t be able to attack me for feeding my cat anything like what Mrs. Calloway and Mr. Chubby had been ejected for.
“Canned stuff. Figures,” he snorted.
“Well, I used to feed him fish and scraps of meat, but…” I trailed off. How could I tell a vet, especially this vet, that my cat had given me a long diatribe on why he preferred the cheapest generic canned cat food from the supermarket and refused to suffer one more bite of chopped liver. He said it was a texture thing. “But he only ever eats canned food.”
“He’s probably addicted to the additives,” the vet said.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, well, when we get home, I’ll be sure to fillet a halibut and watch the flies swarm all over it since he won’t touch anything that doesn’t come out of a Mr. Snappy can.”
“If he’s hungry enough, he’ll eat it. Serve it raw and leave the skin on. There’s a lot of good oil in it,” Conri said. I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
The vet stopped, stood up straight and took a deep breath, his eyes closed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude,” he said. His voice was a lot calmer now. “It’s been one of those days. A couple of those days, actually.”
“Okay,” I said. I knew the vet had seen Kenny—a dead body in the street was enough to rattle anyone—so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“I’ll keep him overnight, run blood tests. You can come back tomorrow afternoon.”
Conri glanced at the door. After a few seconds, I realized it was his way of telling me to leave.
I stroked Hemlock’s back and gave him one of his favorite ear scratches. “It will be okay, my love,” I cooed and kissed his head. I wanted to add, “And don’t take any crap from this guy,” but I hoped it was implied.
As I moved away, Hemlock leaped off the bench to follow me. Conri dove just as fast to catch him in mid-leap. As he wrestled to get the cat back in the crate, his stethoscope slid from his neck, and the collar of his shirt pulled open.
The vet wore a brown amulet tied with a worn leather thong. It was a twist of smoky quartz, marked with runes. I didn’t do a very good job of pretending not to look at it sitting against his muscular chest. Even with my little magic education, I knew this was a talisman.
Conri shoved the yowling Hemlock back into his crate and hurried to rebutton the top of his shirt, trying too late to hide the necklace.
“You can go now,” he barked, the calm he had forced himself into moments before dissolving.
So, Conri O’Farrell was not only a rude, angry jerk, but he was also connected to magic. Did he have a connection to Kenny Langdel too?