Madhouse by Rob Thurman Page A

didn't have to lift my shirt. I guessed the hole in it matched the one in me. Straight-shot viewing. For him … I didn't bother to look, not yet. Nik's face, calm, became even more so. It wasn't a good sign. "I suppose I get to be the pretty one now," he said lightly. Minutes later, I had a thick bulk of gauze taped to my upper chest. There wasn't much blood soaking through and that didn't necessarily seem a positive. And when Niko's hand fastened onto the back of my jacket to urge me into a walk, that didn't seem like one either.
    "I'm okay," I insisted. I was. It hurt like hell, but I was all right. I certainly could walk. One foot in front of the other—it's not that difficult.
    "I know," he said agreeably. Far too agreeably, and he didn't let go as we walked outside and hailed a cab.
    "You lost your sword." He'd lost it only once before … to Hob. Hob the kidnapper. Hob the megalomaniac. Hob the shit-head. It wasn't a good memory. The homicidal puck had nearly killed Nik, and I'd used Nik's sword to return the favor. "You lost your sword," I said again, oddly shook-up over it. More than I should've been. After all, Sawney wasn't Hob and Niko was right here.
    "I'll get it back or I'll get a new one. It doesn't matter." His grip on me tightened as my legs went a little rubbery…developed a mind of their own. Yet one more thing to add to the "not good" list.
    "You know," I said with a sudden dawning of truth, "Mr. Goldstein would've kicked Lancelot's ass."
    "The butcher?" He gave it the solemn consideration it deserved. "I believe you're right." Damn straight I was, but there was no denying I had a new empathy for the cows that Mr. Goldstein chopped into steaks and rump roasts.
    Being the cow wasn't much fun.

8
    We made it home in record time for New York traffic, which was nice. I liked home. Home was good. Sawney wasn't there and massive painkillers were. It was a win-win.
    "We need a healer. Now."
    "Yes, I
know
we need a healer, Niko," Goodfellow said with a strained patience. "But we don't have one."
    We'd had a healer. Rafferty Jeftichew. He'd saved my life once upon a time. Twice upon a time actually. But he'd disappeared in the past month. Closed up his house and vanished. When your healer took off, it was bad news, especially if you didn't know if your insides matched your human outsides. And a hospital would know, Rafferty had told us, either from imaging or blood work.
    "A doctor, then." It was said with determination although Niko knew better…knew it wasn't possible.
    "And what?" Robin shot back. "Tell them Caliban was attacked by a small bear in the park or perhaps a large homeless man with a voracious appetite and a taste for the other white meat?"
    I opened my eyes. "It's not that bad."
    Goodfellow stared at me incredulously while Niko pointed out, "You haven't looked at it yet, Cal." His mouth tightened. "Reserve judgment."
    "Ignorance is bliss." I closed my eyes again and let the fuzz of codeine carry me along as the discussion went on without me. After the cab had dropped us off, we still had to get up to the apartment. I almost hadn't made it. Once he'd half carried me upstairs, Niko had called in reinforcements and then turned to cleaning my wound. Or attempting to. It didn't sound as if it had gone well. When Robin had arrived, there had been talk of possible muscle damage, surgery, skin grafts. All impossible for me. While the discussion went on, I lay in bed and drifted; there wasn't much else to do. I suggested once that Robin and Nik help themselves to a few pain pills too. It really took the urgency out of things. They didn't take me up on it. Their loss.
    "He can't heal like this," Niko declared emphatically. "Infection alone would kill him. We'll get a doctor, a surgeon if necessary."
    "And by 'get' you mean…?" Robin asked dubiously.
    "You know what I mean," Niko said flatly.
    That cut through the happy-pill hoedown. "Jesus, Nik." This time I struggled to sit up. The pain swelled for