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"Guy's a miso--what do they call it? Doesn't like women? Not gay, I mean, but..."
"Misogynist."
"Yeah, that's it." Adam perched on my bed. "So I was thinking, maybe I should talk to him instead. What do you want me to do?"
Advice flew to my lips, but I bit it back. "What do you think?"
"Maybe if he's ignoring us, we should ignore him. Just get a replacement and let him find out about it whenever he bothers showing up at a meeting. How's that?"
I stifled the urge to give my opinion. Difficult bordering on painful. "We--you could do that. Maybe ask your dad if he has any suggestions for a replacement."
I noticed Lucas walk past the door--for the second time. God forbid he should interrupt a conversation. When I called out to him, he popped his head in.
"Ready if you are," I said.
He disappeared, then returned, pushing a wheelchair.
"That better not be for me," I said.
"You're quite welcome to attempt walking. However, if you pass out halfway to the front door, you may wake up back in this bed, recuperating, while I interview Weber in Miami."
I glared at him and waved the chair over. Adam laughed.
"Oh, hey," Adam said. "Before I forget, what do you want to do about that motorcycle?"
Lucas helped me into the wheelchair. "I should wait. It's hardly a necessary expenditure--"
"Tell your friend yes," I said to Adam. I looked up at Lucas. "You want it. I know you do. Take the bike and if you don't want to use your insurance money, consider it an early Christmas gift from me. I know you don't have a place to work on it yet, but you will sooner or later."
"Probably sooner," Adam said, grinning. Then he looked over my shoulder at Lucas and the grin vanished. "The, uh, housing market's good right now, I mean. It's always slow in fall, so maybe you'll find a place."
"No rush," I said. "We're still settling in."
Adam looked at Lucas again and I craned my neck, trying to intercept the look that passed between them, but it vanished before I could catch it. Lucas reached for his satchel.
"Here, let me take that," Adam said. "You get the girl, I'll carry the bags." A quick grin. "Not exactly fair, but I won't be doing the grunt work forever. You just wait." He looked at me. "As soon as I get home, I'm asking Dad about those necro replacements for Arthur. I'll have that all set up by the next meeting."
I smiled. "Great. I'll leave you to it, then."
Adam accompanied us to the airport, where we thanked him for all his help, and I promised to keep him updated on the case. Then we said our good-byes and boarded the plane.
Highly Inappropriate
WE TOOK THE CORTEZ JET BACK TO MIAMI. LIKE STAYING in their hospital, using their jet was a question of safety versus, well, safety. Was I in greater danger on their plane or on a commercial flight? I'd have been happy taking my chances on a regular plane. Not that I expected to be attacked in mid-flight by Cortez hitmen, but because it was in my nature not to make a fuss where my own health was concerned. Lucas disagreed and, considering I couldn't yet sit upright for longer than a few minutes, he was probably right.
Back in Miami, Benicio was scrambling to make peace with Lucas in the only way he could--by arranging for us to see Weber. Although Weber was being held in Cortez custody, each Cabal had assigned a guard. Such cooperation would be heartwarming, if they hadn't done so only to safeguard their own interests in the prisoner. No one, not even the son of a CEO, was getting near Weber without approval from every Cabal.
I thought our request was simple enough. We'd promised to comply with any security precautions. We were on the same side. Moreover, without us, they wouldn't have Weber. Yet, as quickly became obvious, that was probably more a deterrent than an asset. The Cortez Cabal had scored a major coup when we found Weber, and the other Cabals seemed to be refusing our request out of pure spite.
We spent the next day at the clinic, working through the case details while Benicio lobbied the Cabals on our behalf. Lucas had managed to track down the ingredients for a healing poultice and a healing tea. I prepared them myself, and he didn't argue--both were witch magic, requiring witch incantations, and although he knew the procedures, I was better at them. That's not ego talking--witches are better at witch magic, just as sorcerers are better at sorcerer magic. This was also my first field test of a stronger healing spell that I'd learned from the tertiary-level grimoires I'd found that spring. I cast it on the poultice, where it was supposed to not only speed healing, but act as a moderate-strength topical analgesic. To my delight, it worked even better than I expected. By the end of the second day, I was out of bed, dressed in my normal clothes, and feeling more like someone under house arrest than a patient.
Dana's father hadn't yet arrived. Getting word to Randy MacArthur was proving nearly impossible. As for Dana's mother, well, the less I thought about her, the better, or I'd pop stitches. While I was at the clinic, I assumed the role of surrogate visitor. Dana was beyond knowing or caring, but I did it anyway.
That night I persuaded Lucas that I was well enough to go out for dinner. To stretch the excursion out as long as possible, I'd ordered dessert. Afterward, we lingered over coffee.
"Your dad seems to be really pushing for us on this," I said. "You don't still think he had something to do with the raid, do you?"
Lucas sipped his coffee. "Let's just say that, while I don't discount the possibility of his involvement, I admit I overreacted. You were hurt, I was frightened, and I lashed out at the most convenient target. It's just...I have some serious trust issues with my father."
