“When he gets here, you might want to let me do the chatting. He likes me more than he does you.” I thought of something and chuckled. “I wonder if he’s come out of his freezer yet.”
“If not, the agents are taking a blowtorch with them, just in case. Either he comes out on his own, or the boys go to work on his cube.”
A door opened down the hall in the hospital wing and Dr. Stephens gestured for us to come down there.
Our patient was awake.
* * *
“I’ll let you do the talking,” I told Ian.
He gave me a bemused glance. “Really. You’re sure about that.” Neither was a question, at least not real ones.
“Hey, I’ve never questioned a shooting victim fresh out of surgery. I take it you have.”
“I have.”
“Then this one’s all yours.”
“I’ll believe it when I don’t hear it.”
We went into the recovery room.
Jesin Nadisu looked like hell.
Though he didn’t look nearly as bad as Sar Gedeon had. Thanks to the skill of our surgical team, Jesin at least had all his pieces and parts. Most of them probably hurt right now, but at least he still had them. Considering all that he’d been through in the past few hours, I thought I should keep that comparison to myself. The young goblin had gotten off lucky. For the sake of his continued emotional well-being, I’d keep that to myself, too.
SPI’s chief trauma surgeon had told us not to stay for longer than five minutes. The only reason she wasn’t in the room with us was that she didn’t need to be. There was a two-way mirror next to the door that would let her see and hear everything that went on. At the first sign of fatigue or distress from her patient, I was certain she’d be in here with us a split second later, telling us to leave. Nicely the first time, then not so nice. SPI agent, suspect, or caught-red-handed clawed criminal, her patients were her top priority. One of the things we learned in new-agent training was not to argue with Dr. Barbara Carey.
“Mr. Nadisu?” Ian said quietly, but loud enough to be heard. “Mr. Nadisu, I need to ask you just a few questions, and then you can continue to rest.”
The goblin’s eyes fluttered open. Large, dark, and long lashed, he looked even younger than he had when he’d met us in the lobby of the Murwood. If he’d been human, he wouldn’t have looked old enough to buy a beer, let alone manage an exclusive apartment building.
“Agent Byrne.” His voice was rough from the breathing tube we’d been told they’d had to use during surgery. Apparently the bullet had nicked the bottom of his lung and a not-so-minor blood vessel or two. He blinked a few times and focused on me. “And Agent Fraser.” He tried a weak smile that didn’t quite make it. “I can explain about the Brimstone.”
At least we had confirmation that what the lab was analyzing was Brimstone. Though right now, a plastic-wrapped, brick-shaped block of glowing orange powder taken from a demonic murder scene couldn’t be much else.
“Do you know who shot you?” Ian asked.
Nadisu didn’t answer.
“If you’re worried about them getting to you, don’t,” I told him. “You’re safe here.”
Ian cleared his throat.
Oops. So much for letting him do the talking.
“Do you know where you are?” Ian asked.
“No.”
My partner was silent for a moment. “How long have you been in our dimension?”
I refrained from doing a double take. Ian’s voice was actually gentle. He clearly knew something that I didn’t.
“If you’re here illegally, we won’t send you back,” he continued.
Oh, okay, now I got it.
Both goblins and elves were very selective over who they let come through the permanent dimensional portal between our world and theirs. Though like humans, if you wanted to get here badly enough, you’d find a way. For supernaturals, that meant paying a small fortune in bribes to mercenaries with access to an illegal portal.
Both races operated under a controlling monarchy supported by a powerful aristocracy. Unless you were related to an influential family or had a magical talent that the nobility were interested in, you might as well not exist. No rights, no hope of a better life, and if you pissed off the wrong noble or mage—no life at all.
Humans weren’t the only species who came to New York looking for a better life.
Unless they could afford papers to let them pass as a legal citizen of the good ol’ U S of A, and could afford to have a mage fit them with a glamour to let them pass as human, they were just like the thousands of undocumented human immigrants in the city, but with goblins and elves, the term “alien” was literal.
In such an environment, it wasn’t a surprise to anyone that organizations emerged to “govern” their people, to resolve differences without human interference, to serve up justice when it was needed, and to execute whoever they decided should be.
Police, judge, jury, and executioner.
Any attempt by SPI to intervene was called interference in a “goblin matter” or “elven business.”
We saw them as the criminal families they were.
And Jesin Nadisu was apparently scared to death of one of them.
“You’re at SPI headquarters,” Ian told him. “So whoever it is that you’re afraid of can’t get to you here.”
The goblin sighed. “Would you like to bet on that?”