Hold Me Closer, Necromancer - Lish McBride [26]
“So what are we doing, anyway?”
Douglas pulled on latex gloves. “We aren’t doing anything.” He pulled out a sterile needle, a syringe, and a few vacuum-sealed tubes. “What I am doing is trying to make the best out of your mess.” He held the capped needle in his teeth as he settled a tourniquet around Bridin’s arm. He felt for the vein. Once he found the soft bump of it, he inserted the needle. The tubes made small popping noises as he slid each in turn into the syringe. Blood spurted, quickly filling up several tubes. Douglas held a cotton swab over the puncture as he removed the needle and tourniquet. Unhampered by the all-around dampening effect of the cage, the wound quickly closed. He put the blood vials into the small fridge under the stairs. He’d study those later.
He went to his bookcase, passing several older notebooks on his way to a fresh one. New subject, new book. Organization, Douglas felt, was a virtue.
With a fountain pen, he filled in the date on the first page, how much blood taken, how much aconite given. Then he drew a small chart for results. Admiring his work, he was amazed at how much fountain pens had improved since his youth. Even more elegant now in their maintenance and execution. He handed the notebook and pen to Michael, tempted for a moment to purchase a few ballpoints for the were. Between the were and the pen, he was more concerned about replacing the pen.
Douglas rolled up his sleeves carefully once his hands were free. He pulled out his old athame, the double-edged dagger he’d taken from his aunt, and tested its edges with his own thumb. There were few things he liked more in this world than that knife. Everything about it was so delightfully familiar, from a dried spot of his blood on the blade to the way the groove on the handle bit into his palm. He smiled at it, using a thumbnail to chip off the speck of blood.
Then he got his ruler and stopwatch. “Please write ‘athame’ in the far left column.” Douglas placed the ruler close to Bridin’s spine. “We will be starting with a six-inch incision, shallow.” His eyes never left his work. He sliced along the side of the ruler, making sure it went the full six inches, neither more nor less. He clicked the stopwatch and leaned back slightly. Though no doubt slowed by the aconite, Bridin’s wound still healed at a remarkable rate. Once the skin had fully repaired itself, Douglas stopped the watch. He read off the numbers to Michael, who dutifully wrote them in the journal.
“Impressive,” he whispered.
Michael grunted, not looking up from the paper.
Douglas ignored Michael’s lack of scientific interest and placed the ruler on Bridin’s back once more. “Seven inches.” He waited to hear the scratch of the pen.
Then he brought the knife down.
7
I’m Gonna Keep My Sheep Suit On
Douglas ignored the closed sign on the newly painted door of the Tongue & Buckle and knocked, knowing full well the door would open for him. He waited politely, hand clasping his wrist, as though he could stand there forever.
The door opened a sliver. “Can you not read, sir?”
If he hadn’t known to listen for the slight Irish lilt in the voice, he might not have caught it. He adjusted his cuffs and waited for Aengus to get on with it.
“Was your mother neglectful,” Aengus asked, “or just too busy with the milkman to be bothered?”
“They don’t have milkmen anymore, Aengus. Not commonly, anyway.”
A muffled curse came from behind the thick oak door before it was hastily opened. “My apologies, Douglas,” he said. “Didn’t realize it was you.” He sounded more annoyed than contrite.
Douglas nodded at him anyway and stepped into the dimly lit pub. The Tongue & Buckle looked like it had been around longer than Seattle. The tables and chairs were finely carved, without padding, and stained with age. Worn in the way only well-used and well-cared-for furniture could be. Most people thought the bar was a quality