Between her and Rixton, I was far more skin than bones. Living here a week already required me sucking in my gut to fasten my uniform pants. Much longer, and I would have to file requisition paperwork for the next size up.
“Rixton feeds me a steady diet of donuts and iced coffee, and Sherry sneaks me frogurt.” I hadn’t been back to Hannigan’s since the night Cole wrote his hefty check for damages, but she knew what I liked. “I don’t think you have to worry about me withering away.”
“Junk food doesn’t count,” she said, adding extra bacon. “You need to eat real food.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I accepted the plate, bowed my head while she murmured a quick prayer, then shoveled in as much food as possible before the vibration in my pocket guilted me into answering. It was during my second helping of bacon that the knock came at the door. I pushed back my chair. “I’ll get it.”
“Sit yourself down.” Aunt Nancy pointed her tongs at me. “I’ll get it. You finish eating.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice.
“Oh, hello, John. Would you like to join us for breakfast?” Her voice carried down the hall. “We’re just finishing up, but there’s plenty left over.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but no.” He cleared his throat. “I hate to break up a family meal, but I need to speak with Luce.”
“Come on in.” Footsteps preceded them into the kitchen, and Aunt Nancy stepped aside to reveal my guest. “Your partner’s here, tater tot. You can take your conversation to the living room.” She stuffed a paper towel crammed with bacon into his hand. “We’ll stay in here and give you privacy.”
Rixton beamed. “Mrs. Trudeau, if I wasn’t already married —”
“She would still be mine,” Uncle Harold finished for him. “And don’t you forget it.”
Chuckling, I guided my chastised partner into the living room and waited for him to get to the point. “Boris Ivashov is awake.” Four pieces of bacon later, he wiped his fingers clean. “We’ve got a short visitation window if you want to bring him flowers.” He crumpled his napkin into a ball. “I understand if you’d rather I handled this solo.”
All the delicious food Aunt Nancy had spent the last hour coaxing me to eat threatened to spill.
“I have to go back there sometime.” I had managed to avoid stepping inside Madison Memorial since I signed myself out against medical advice and hitched a ride to the swamp on the back of a dragon. Sadly, that streak appeared to be ending today. “It might as well be now.”
Rixton left me to dress and grab my things. Aunt Nancy pressed more bacon into our hands on our way out, and I didn’t blink when I noticed Rixton had already sat a box of a dozen classic glazed donuts in my seat. I moved them aside, climbed in, and passed them over as needed during the ride. I was grateful for the iced coffee he left me in the cup holder since breakfast kept sneaking up the back of my throat.
Paranoia that War had planted more than one of her coterie on the staff at Madison Memorial kept my nape prickling as we crossed the parking lot. Unlike on previous visits to the hospital, I walked right through the sliding glass front doors with Rixton. We both knew our way around, so locating Ivashov’s room only required finessing his number from the receptionist.
I entered the room ahead of Rixton, eager to escape the nurses lingering in the hall, and approached the bed. The patient had seen better days. The combination of blood loss, white bandages, and strain had sapped the color from him. He opened his eyes when we entered the room, identified us as cops, and managed to pale even further. But a nominee for Madame Tussauds, he was not. Despite his wan complexion, this guy was no dripping wax sculpture.
Culberson must have been mistaken about the severity of Ivashov’s injuries.
“Boris Ivashov?” Rixton waited for confirmation, proving he was weighing Culberson’s account against the wan figure reclining in bed too. “We’re here to ask you some questions about the fire.”
“I want to help,” he rasped, “but the last thing I remember was loading the dishwasher.”
Rixton made a few notes. “Have you ever used a drip torch?”
“No.” Wide-eyed, he glanced between us. “Are they saying that’s what started the fire?”
“No.” I shifted my weight forward. “They’re saying you started the fire.”
“I’ve worked for Lacy and Peter Culberson for a decade. Why would I set fire to my livelihood?”
“That’s what we’re here to determine,” Rixton said. “You’re not giving us much to go on.”
“Atonement requires an acknowledgment of wrongdoing. How can a person ignorant of their own guilt not be considered innocent?”
I shot Rixton a look that warned this guy might have a few screws loose.
“You understand the burden of guilt.” Ivashov studied me. “Don’t you, Officer Boudreau?”
A chill skittered up my spine. “We didn’t introduce ourselves.”
“You’re wearing long sleeves to cover the markings on your arms,” he reasoned. “I’ve read enough papers and watched enough TV to recognize you.” He tapped his chest. “You’re also wearing a nametag.”
Reaching up on reflex, I ran my fingers across the bar of brassy metal, feeling the engraved grooves of my name.
“I got this, Boudreau.” The genial warmth usually found in Rixton’s voice cooled. “Wait for me in the hall.”
Liquid syllables poured from Ivashov’s lips, tugging on threads of forgotten memories, and I moved a step closer as though proximity might spark comprehension.
Understanding the charun language was beyond me, but I would recognize it spoken anywhere, and hearing it now tilted the floor beneath my feet. Suspecting War had a hand in this was one thing, but here was proof our arsonist was a charun wearing a skin suit. That made Ivashov a murderer for all that there had been no bodies at the crime scene.
“Out,” Rixton snapped. “Now.”
Over his shoulder, Ivashov held my gaze and switched back to English. “I won’t harm him. I give you my word.”
For some reason, I believed him. That didn’t mean I was going very far. “I’ll be right outside.”
After ducking into the hall, I dialed up Cole and leaned against the wall. The reward for mashing my phone against my ear was a wince as he barked a gruff hello. We hadn’t spoken since the dragon catnapped on Rixton’s roof, not even to brainstorm, but his curt greeting shook me.
“We have a problem. I’m at Madison Memorial with Rixton.” I checked the hall for perked ears. “We came to ask our surviving arsonist a few questions, and he popped off in the language you guys use. What do you call that anyway?”
“Otillian,” he answered. “All conquered worlds are required to learn the fundamentals. It’s a universal language among charun in the same sense as English is for humans.”
I should have expected his answer, but it was a gut-punch all the same.
“Miller is in the lobby,” he continued. “Once you and Rixton leave, he’ll go up and assess the situation.”
“Okay, that works. I’m going to grab Rixton and we’ll —”
A woman’s voice, husky from sleep, murmured in the background. Cole must have covered the receiver with his palm, because I couldn’t make out what he said to her, only that the words were spoken in a gentle tone, more tender than any he’d used with me.
I wondered if I had woken him. I wondered if he was in his room, if she was in his bed. I wondered if War had been wrong about him being faithful to Conquest, to me. And then I wondered if there would ever come a day when I stopped caring what Cole did during the hours and days when he wasn’t with me.