Page 15 of Strange Familiars
“It’s perfectly fair,” he retorts, his whisper getting louder. “Since she has, in fact, broken the rules.” I bristle, but he quickly adds, “Don’t worry, though. I won’t tell. I’m quite certain that Jenna Rutherford scares me more than she does you.”
I almost laugh, but manage to stop myself just in time. Instead, I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing, trying to determine if he’s being genuine. In the end, I decide that he is. I mean, he’s right, really; Jennaisa little scary.
“Thank you,” I say, my shoulders relaxing. “I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome. Though I must point out, Chan, the list ofyourdemands seems to be getting inequitably longer.”
“What’s a little blackmail between friends?” I flash him a small, sarcastic smile and turn to push open the door.
The interior of the building is dark and cool, the mage-powered air-conditioning running on high to keep patients comfortable. Machines and monitors beep and blip, and one of the canine patients huffs out a soft bark.
We slip inside; I stealthily deactivate the alarms just like Jenna showed me.
Percy strolls in as though he owns the place, his crooked tail up and curled around like a question mark. He sniffs at the leg of a table and hisses, puffing up all over like a bottle brush.
Someone’s been here, he spits out.Acat.
I manage—just—to suppress my eye roll. “Percy, we’re in a veterinary hospital. Of course you can smell other cats.” I pause, then add, “Are you sure it’s notyoursmell, from a few hours ago?”
If you could smell this too, Hairless One, he says, clearly offended,then you would understand how insulting that is.
I shake my head and power on the fluorescent magelights. The hospital flickers into visibility, the patients blinking in the sudden brightness.
“Put her on the treatment table,” I instruct Harrisford, grabbing my white robe from its hook and throwing it on over my street clothes.
Carefully, Harrisford places his familiar on the stainless steel surface, then backs away a few steps.
I approach cautiously. Although we treat all types of companion animals at Saint Gertrude’s, reptiles are a less common type of familiar. Therefore I’m not quite as used to handling them. And I don’t want Harrisford to think that I’m, well…incompetent. He’d never let me hear the end of it.
Pushing up the sleeves of my robes, I hover my hands mere millimeters away from the bearded dragon’s skin. She stays stock-still, her black eyes fixed on me, as I lean into my magical senses and start palpating the lizard’s qì.
Like all the other familiars that went a bit feral tonight, I’m immediately hit with the sensation of way too much magic. The magiphilia pulses through the familiar’s life force like an oncoming tide; her skin is scorching, when she should be relatively cool since it’s nighttime and she’s ectothermic. I run my hands along the palpable aura, muttering when my hand catches on something—an injury.
It’s on her underside. There’s a burn there, deep enough to warrant dressing.
“She has a burn,” I say softly, checking the rest of her over. “I can easily heal it. It’ll be a bit uncomfortable, though. I’ll need to lightly anesthetize her. Are you okay with that?”
When I look up, Harrisford’s face is pale, his jaw clenched. “Go ahead. Please.”
Automatically, I reach for the drug safe key, but then hesitate.
“What’s wrong?” It seems impossible, but Harrisford’s grown even paler.
“We might have an issue,” I say. “Someone’s going to realize if there are drugs missing. I could use gas, but—”
“But what?” Harrisford’s shoulders are tensed, his fists clenched.
I grimace. “It won’t work if she holds her breath.”
He looks squarely at his familiar, a stern slant to his eyebrows. “Don’t hold your breath, Pudding.”
A laugh escapes my lips, involuntarily, and Harrisford scowls at me, his expression dark. “What’s so funny?”
I’m still trying to stifle my giggles, but I manage to choke a response out. “Your familiar’s name isPudding? You—Harrisford Briggs, the most intimidating final-year at Seamere—named your lizardPudding?”
“My dragon, Chan,” he snaps, his cheeks going pink. “And I was just a kid when I got her. I was four years old, and friendless, and I really liked pudding, okay? So I named her after what I liked best.”
Immediately, I stop snickering, pondering Harrisford’s words. Imagining him as a small, lonesome child is oddly unsettling. Like peeking behind the curtain of a fancy house and finding that it’s dilapidated, dirty, and deserted. Our gazes meet—his steely, mine flustered—and I quickly look away.
