tent exit, a steel test-tube tray, brimming with stoppered tubes half-filled with yellow-green urine, in both hands. The two stared at one another before Marty turned to one of the other Goblin orderlies and chattered in their own language, passing him the tray. The Goblins surrounding Marty bowed in unison, deeply, backing slightly away, muttering softly in their guttural hissing tongue.
Marty reached out and touched Britton’s face, his rough hands surprisingly gentle. “Come,” he said, taking Britton’s hand and leading him the way he had come. They pushed back into the main hospital tent and out a side entrance over a makeshift wooden boardwalk that kept them out of the mud and into another tent with a sign reading RESEARCH/SPECIAL PROJECTS.
A wave of cold hit Britton as they pushed through the tent’s clear-plastic flaps. Beyond was an entry room with a beat-up but comfortable-looking couch in front of a battered desk, atop which sat a television playing a kung fu video. A doughy, forty-ish captain sprawled on the couch, his fingers bright orange from a bag of Cheese Puffs. He paused at the intrusion, scowling as he wiped his hands on his rumpled uniform and stood. His name tape, stained with food, read HAYES.
His lapel pin showed the Physiomancer’s heart and cross.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” he fumed at Marty, then stopped short at the sight of Britton’s Shadow Coven uniform.
“You fix him,” Marty said evenly, tapping Britton’s elbow. Britton’s heart sank as he realized that Marty was referring to his tooth, not his heart.
“If he needs attention, he can go back to the check-in desk and put his name on the list. He’s hardly sustained a life-threatening injury,” Hayes said, glancing nervously at Britton. “Indig aren’t supposed to be in here! You get the hell out of here right now before I call the MPs! I’m in the middle of important work!”
He followed Britton’s gaze to the kung fu flick and rolled his eyes. “I was taking a break!”
“Fix him,” Marty repeated, not moving.
“I told you to get the hell…” the Healer said, advancing on Marty, reaching out a hand.
Britton grabbed the captain’s forearm. “Don’t,” he said as well as he could through his split lip.
Hayes jerked out of Britton’s grasp with such force that he upset the TV.
“Fix him,” Marty said again, “or Goblins stop work again.”
Hayes steadied the TV and glared at Marty. “We’ll fire you and throw you out! You can try your luck with the Defender tribes! They’ll kill you for working for us.”
Marty pursed his lips and wiggled his ears in what Britton assumed was the equivalent of a human shrug. “You get more Goblins for work. Easy, yes?”
The captain paused, fat cheeks quivering, before rolling his eyes again, reaching forward and placing a thick hand on Britton’s face. The man’s skin stank of sweat and Cheese Puffs. Britton had to force himself to keep from pulling away as the magic did its work. The Healer only kept his hand there for an instant before pulling it away, but the pain was still intense. Britton touched his face. His fingertips told him the lip had been healed only partially, he could feel a notch in the flesh as it slid over the stub of a re-formed tooth.
The captain was already turning and moving behind the partition, throwing it aside as he went. “Now get the hell out of there before I call the MPs!”
He drew the partition shut, but not before Britton saw the room behind it. The cold emanated from a small industrial chiller, cooling the space enough to make the captain’s breath mist. Stretched out before him were more rows of metal hospital cots, covered with Goblin corpses in various states of dissection. A few held other creatures; Britton saw several he couldn’t recognize, but spotted two demon-horses, one missing its hooves and tail. Across from it was a smaller version of the bird he’d gated into the convenience-store lot, nailed upright to some kind of frame. Its throat was tacked open, an empty gray hole. Two tables had been pushed together to support a giant gray snake, a large portion of the scales sliced out of its back, leaving a black patch beneath. The partition fell, cutting off his vision.
He took a step, but Marty gripped his elbow with surprising strength and led him out of the tent. His face was set, but Britton could see the grief there, mingled with resignation. “No anger,” Marty said.
“Christ,” Britton breathed. “What the hell are they doing in there?”
Marty made his Goblin shrug again. “Srreach,” he said. It was a moment before Britton realized he had tried to say “research.”
The silence grated at him. “He didn’t even finish my lip,” Britton finally said, touching the newly uneven surface.
“Fixed okay,” Marty said. “No more trouble.” His narrow shoulders were thrown back, making him look taller, regal. He shrugged the sad look away.
They reentered the phlebotomy and urinalysis tent, and Marty collected his sample tray from one of the orderlies and turned back to Britton. He fixed his mask back over his face with his free hand, small and meek as ever.
“Fixed okay,” he repeated. “Fitzy is asshole. Sorry.”
Now that he had seen the deference with which the other Goblins treated Marty, he could no longer miss it. In tiny ways — the distance they kept from him, how they inclined their heads as they passed, he noted the difference in rank.
“You’re an important guy, aren’t you?” he asked, leaning close.
The surgical mask rose as Marty smiled, then the ear-wiggling shrug yet again.
“So,” he said. “We no work if I say.”
Britton nodded, then placed a hand on the creature’s shoulder. The other Goblin orderlies stiffened at the gesture, but when Marty put his hand on Britton’s, they relaxed.
“Thank you,” Britton said. “You’ve been better to me than any of my own people since I got here, Marty. That means a lot to me.”
“Same,” Marty hiss-whispered. “All water baby. You, me. Doctor Captain. Fitzy.”
“Fitzy is asshole.” Britton chuckled.
“Yes,” Marty said, “but water baby, too.”
Britton nodded reluctantly.
The Goblin smiled. “Follow. I show you.”
Britton followed him out of the urinalysis section toward the entrance, where they turned down another narrow aisle to a smaller attached tent under the sign reading BURN UNIT.
The room was more crowded than the rest of the hospital, with nurses and orderlies squeezing between beds pushed so tightly together that there was little room for the tables piled with equipment. Marty made his way to a bed where a young man lay asleep under a thin blanket, his vital signs pinging faintly on a monitor.
“That’s…Lenko, right?” Britton asked. “The guy who got tagged by indirect the first night we met…”
Marty nodded. “You save him.”
“No, Marty. Come on. You saved him.”
“Soldiers anger. Not want me. You save him.” He pulled back the blanket to show the specialist’s legs and hips, covered with hairless skin, pink and shiny under the light.
“Healer fix burn. But Lenko now sick underneath. Healer not help that.”
“An infection?” Britton thought of Dawes as Lenko moaned in his sleep, twitching.
Marty wiggled his ears. “Sick. Maybe he live. I see every day.”
Britton looked back to Lenko, watching his face, seeming even younger in sleep.
“Marty, you’re the fucking man, you know that? You’re amazing.”
“You fixed. I work. Bye-bye,” Marty said, smiling.
He turned away, one gnarled brown figure among many, carrying his specimen tray out of the tent, around a corner, and out of sight.
CHAPTER XVIII: WORM
