Ian

I woke up to warmer colours and more comfort than I was expecting. There was a long, cozy, groggy moment of unfocussed awareness. Then I remembered where and how I'd lost consciousness and twitched reflexively to shield my injured side. I caught myself, braced for pain that didn't come.

It took a few seconds to relax enough to take stock and open my eyes. Above me, the ceiling wasn't the plastic squares of hospitals everywhere, but plaster with fancy moulding around a complex crystal light fitting. I could see a pair of IVs standing by whatever bed I was lying on, but the wall beyond them was bookcases, laden with posh-bound hardback books.

Experimentally, I lifted an arm. Still no pain. How long had I been out? I remembered the street outside the vet practice in… not Bromberg, where had it been? And the vet's name was gone too. The fact that I'd panicked waking up, even briefly, told me I'd been injured, fighting, but… who? Must have been a concussion, but that couldn't have been enough by itself to put me in this condition.

And if whatever else there'd been had healed, then I'd been unconscious for a long time in the wake of a pretty serious concussion. That, in turn, meant it must have been really bad. Lucky-to-be-alive bad. Where the fuck was I?

A figure appeared on my left, towering over the bed. White hair framed a murderer's face, his eyes aluminium-grey. He had an eye tattoo, a red line like a jagged stock graph or something, up and down and up again over his eyelid. At first I thought he was wearing a collar, but no, it was metallic, black and red, grafted into his skin like the joint of a machine. His white vest revealed arms of the same red and black metal. A cyborg.

Despite the instinctive terror I felt at the shape of his cheeks and chin, he smiled warmly. When he spoke his voice was incredibly gentle, a bit the same quality as Lachlan's but without the Nordin accent. "Welcome back. You've had a bad time, huh? How are you feeling?"

"Who-?" My throat was too dry to finish the question.

"Don't try to move just yet. You should be fine now, but there's no rush. Let me get Du- Lachlan."

He was gone before I could react, either with surprise at the mention of my employer or by embarrassing myself over the cyborg's tenderness. I didn't miss his near-slip, though. Had he been about to call Lachlan by his surname? They were colleagues of long standing, then, or something like it.

Taking it carefully in case my comfort was sustained by systems I hadn't yet noticed, I turned my head to look at the room. There were more medical instruments around the head of the bed on that side, but this was no hospital. I found myself looking at generous sitting room of some sort, a big leather couch and a couple of armchairs arranged facing away from me, towards a bay window framed by opulent honey-coloured curtains. Morning light was streaming through the lace that still hung across the glass, so I couldn't see clearly what was outside, except for a hint of mostly-leafless trees.

"Spector, you're awake." Lachlan's voice went straight to a spot at the base of my spine that was badly in need of a stretch. The man himself followed it into the room, looking oddly small in his black shirt-sleeves. Behind him, the cyborg leaned on the doorframe.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Lachlan came to my bedside and leant over me, staring deep into my eyes. I felt myself starting to blush, but I could recognise the professionalism in his attitude. He'd had more than basic first aid training somewhere along the line.

Apparently satisfied, he said, "Let me help you up." His hand landed on my arm, which I realised was bare. I looked down at myself in a sudden burst of fear and shame, but someone had put me in a t-shirt. No-one had to see my pathetic, scrawny chest and whatever new scars had been left on it.

Still moving cautiously, I turned to the side and slid my legs off the bed, out from under the lightweight cover. The room was a little chilly. Ike took my shoulder as well, and there was solid strength in the support he leant to my rise.

My legs were concealed by what could only be described as old man pyjama trousers, with green and brown vertical stripes. Still, the fabric was good quality. Where the hell was I?

I looked up into Lachlan's face again. It was the closest I'd ever been to the man. Up close, his eyes weren't quite the simple gold I'd taken them for, there was green in there too. His hair was as fluffy as ever, fluffy in a less deliberate way than usual. His hand was still on my shoulder, which meant he could probably tell how hot my neck was starting to get.

He said, "I'm sorry, I should not have sent you out there with so little cover. We're fortunate you weren't killed."

"How bad was it?" I still couldn't feel anything wrong with me, apart from the memory holes.

"Two broken ribs, ruptured internal organs and severe concussion. You don't remember anything?"

I screwed my eyes closed and tried to claw back the images. "Nothing. The street, I think."

"That tracks."

"How long was I out?"

"Eleven days." He glanced towards the door and the gentle cyborg. "Horace got you to A&E and called me. We had you brought here. You kept our thaumosurgeon very busy."

I turned. There was no mistaking the military standard of the cyborg's – Horace's? – prosthetics. The thought of him intervening in whatever assault I'd suffered sat at odds with his demeanour. Struggling for words, I said, "Thanks."

He nodded. "No problem."

Lachlan said, "I don't know if it's any consolation, but he left your assailants in rather worse condition."

I tried to keep my face straight, but Lachlan's words were chilling in their own way. Horace's manner might be kind but that confirmed my impression of his origins. Looking for a distraction, I said, "Where are we?"

"The Imperial City." Which revealed as little as possible. I was about to press, but he spoke first. "I have one more thing I need you for."

Hopefully the noise I made didn't escape my throat.

Face still maddeningly close to mine, hand still softly on my shoulder, he said, "Forgive me, compartmentalisation is how we work. I can't afford to let you off the op just yet. I need you to take a message to Brynna Hynafol for me."

Compartmentalisation. Op. I'd suspected for a while that Lachlan was a spook, and with the presence of a military cyborg, his choice of words confirmed it. At least that meant the cash would keep flowing. I nodded. "What message?"

At last he let go of me, turning away to face the window. "The situation is dire. Short of drastic interventions I would much rather avoid, I'm out of ideas. The Corvino family will doubtless already be trying to blackmail Phoebe. Ms. Hynafol does have an ace up her sleeve, if she's willing to put it in play. Do not try to persuade her to do so, I very much doubt that will achieve anything."

"Then what?"

"You'll give her contact details for Don Corvino himself. If she is willing to bargain on Phoebe's behalf, she will at least then be able to parley with the Don. If you're willing, I'd have you and Horace go with her to any meeting. I'm… reasonably confident that will send the right message."

"Reasonably?" Confidence wasn't exactly what I was feeling.

"The stakes are high, Specter. This is about a lot more than one racing dragon."

I looked his back up and down. Absurdly, he was wearing fluffy slippers in place of his usual heels. Maybe that was why he looked so much smaller, more dainty, now. What could I say? "I'll do it."