His armful wasn’t screaming energetically, just wailing, a thin and miserable thread of sound. She looked from Ruthven to Kree-akh, who sighed and said something to the mother, prompting a flood of ghoulish that Greta couldn’t even begin to follow. When it subsided, Kree-akh nodded. “Akha says you may examine him.”
Apparently Ruthven had already been preapproved for ghoullet-holding duty, Greta thought, hooking her stethoscope around her neck and reaching into her bag for the thermometer. It made sense, of course. He was well-known as one of the protectors of the city, old and powerful supernaturals to whom one might appeal in dire need. Still, it made her smile a little. She’d never seen the vampire look quite like that before. It was also convenient to have someone else hold the baby while she did her examination.
Greta went through digital thermometer probes quite quickly; they simply didn’t stand up to her patients’ peculiarities of dentition. The one she had with her was relatively new and didn’t take long to give her a reading. “Mm,” she said, resetting it. “How long has he been feverish?”
More ghoulish from the baby’s mother, this time a little slower; she could make out a few words. Kree-akh translated nonetheless: He’d had a cold for several days but it had seemed to be going away, before the blue monks had come, before the tribe had had to flee its home, and now he wouldn’t stop crying and wouldn’t eat his nice rat.
Greta nodded. She already knew what the trouble was likely to be, but just then the ghoullet let go of his grip on Ruthven’s shirt to pull at one pointy green ear, removing all remaining doubt. She had a look in the ear nonetheless, and nodded again, turning off the otoscope. Absolutely classic acute otitis media, even if the eardrum looked a little different from the ones she had first encountered in med school.
“He’s got an ear infection,” she said, straightening up, “and given the general conditions, I want to start him on antibiotics right away. Has he ever been given them before?”
Again Kree-akh translated. “He’s never been given any human medicine.”
“Well, we’ll start with amoxicillin and keep a close eye on him to see how it goes,” she said. “I’ve got some with me. Poor little guy,” she added, gently touching the baby’s warm cheek. “I know, it’s no fun at all, but you’ll feel better soon. I promise.”
She was a little surprised when the ghoullet blinked at her and let go of Ruthven again in order to reach out a small hand in her direction, still sniffling but apparently done with active crying for the moment. There were grubby handprints on the pearl-grey cloth of Ruthven’s shirt, which the vampire either did not mind or had not yet noticed.
“He’s curious,” Ruthven said, amused. Greta looked at him, and he nodded. Not entirely sure of herself, she reached out and lifted the ghoullet into her arms, surprised at how heavy he was, dense-boned for his size. She cradled him against her shoulder, swaying gently in an instinctive rhythm, and was a little amazed that he didn’t start crying again at once—she must be doing something right, if only by blind chance.
Looking up from her armful, she was aware of both Kree-akh and the child’s mother—Akha, she thought, her name is Akha—watching her, and felt her face go hot. He’s curious, Ruthven had opined, and Greta shot him a look before returning her attention to the ghoullet. “He’s lovely,” she said.
One small starfish hand patted at the pale fall of her hair, and then the baby pressed his face against her neck and hung on tight.
A little while later, in the kitchen, Greta put on a kettle and watched Ruthven dab at the small greyish greasy handprints on his shirt. Most of the grime appeared to have come off on him; her own sweatshirt was in better shape.
“I think they may be indelible,” she said. “Although you made a most touching scene, standing there with an infant in your arms.”
Ruthven looked up, making a face at her. “You should have seen yourself. You came over all pink and breathless for a moment, cuddling him. He is going to be all right, isn’t he?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Barring any nasty reaction to the antibiotics, he’ll be fine. Kids get ear infections all the time, no matter what species they happen to be. Kree-akh will make sure his mother understands how often he’s to be given his medicine and painkillers.”
“That’s a very fetching garment he has on,” Ruthven said. “Kree-akh, I mean. The, ah. The rats’ tails really make a statement, don’t they.”
Greta had to laugh. “Yes, they say what a lot of rats went into making up this cloak. I didn’t know you were interested in ghoul fashion, Ruthven. You’re full of surprises.”
“I am,” he said. “More things in Heaven and Earth, et cetera. I’m still a little shocked that you got Sir Francis to do the shopping for us. There’s a surprise, if you like.”
“I didn’t get him to do anything,” Greta said. “He volunteered. Nobly, I might add. I think he rather wanted an excuse to get out of the house, to be honest, even if it meant driving your Volvo.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my Volvo,” he said. “Except the synchro on third is a bit temperamental.”
“And it’s hell to park. That reminds me,” said Greta, snapping her fingers, thinking of the neatly arranged surgical instrument tray he’d prepared for her. “Did you really drive ambulances in the Blitz?”
“I really did.” The kettle boiled, and he got up to make the tea. “And I can speak four languages fluently and a fifth and sixth extremely badly, darn socks, and dance the tango, not to mention all the excitingly dangerous neck biting—and the bat thing. Do not ask me about the bat thing. I cannot, however, fly a helicopter, play the piano, or compose lyric poetry, and don’t ask me to keep houseplants alive. Ah, here’s Sir Francis back from Sainsbury’s, in fact.”
Keys rattled in the lock, and Greta abandoned her attempt to picture Ruthven darning socks and went to help carry in the groceries.
CHAPTER 12
As it turned out, nobody had offered Sir Francis violence, religiously motivated or otherwise, and he’d apparently managed the Volvo’s intransigent gearbox without difficulty—Greta was quietly impressed—but the level of tension in the city had been very evident indeed from the attitudes of his fellow shoppers. Eleven murders and no end in sight, and the police could apparently do nothing.
“It’s getting worse,” he said, handing Greta a box of tea bags. “In the checkout line people were talking about getting out of London entirely, at least for now, going to stay with friends or relatives outside the city. Or sending their children away, if they could not go themselves, the way people did during the war.”
Greta blinked at him. The thought of Ruthven driving ambulances in wartime was still near the surface of her mind. She wondered briefly what Varney had been doing in the 1940s. “It’s that bad?” she said.