And right on cue, Heloise bursts through the door.
“I’m admitting a cat,” she says, panting slightly, as though she’s actually run from the consult rooms. This hospital is so old, the hallways so convoluted, that it’s honestly extremely impractical. “Matilda. Sixteen years old, female, neutered, Norwegian Forest Cat. Has been flat for three days and started vomiting around twenty-four hours ago. Owner presented her moribund. There’s been two, maybe three months of increased drinking.”
I peek into the carrier at the fluffy cat lying, completely immobile, on one side. Straightaway, we all jump into action.
Pen starts setting up a fluid bag and Conall cuts several small lengths of tape. Meanwhile, I gently lift the cat out, settle her on top of a clean blanket on the treatment room table, and quickly check her over.
“Hey, are you okay?” Heloise moves closer and touches me on the arm.
“Yeah,” I whisper back. Pen and Conall have finished setting up the fluids, so I grab clippers to shave a patch of fur from the cat’s foreleg. “Areyouokay?”
“You wouldn’t even know I got hurt,” she says, grinning. “Except that my left tibia tingles when it’s humid.”
I give her a quick smile back, and Heloise mouthsGood luckbefore heading back out the door.
Like a well-oiled machine, Conall, Pen, and I place a fluid line with no issues and start rehydrating the cat. After the flurry of activity, we still for a moment, catching our breaths and thinking about what to do next.
I glance at Isla. She’s still absorbed with something on her strap, and I scowl. Since we’re all working on the hospital wards together, she’ll get at least baseline credit for whatever we do.
It can’t be helped, though. We need to figure out what’s wrongwith the poor cat so that we can save her life. At least Professor Kaur will know, since she’s still here typing something on the hospital computer.
“What do we do, Gwen?” Pen nervously smooths an escaped curl of red hair back into their ponytail. “She’s really, really sick.”
“Yeah, she is,” I say, and frown. Old cats that come in like this can have any number of issues—kidney problems, diabetes, liver issues, cancer. I recommence my examination, carefully checking Matilda’s mouth for any ulcers, her abdomen for any masses, her gums for any signs of paleness.
Despite his earlier gripes about not letting him eat the frogs, Percy helps me to channel magic via our connection, allowing me to also assess Matilda’s qì. There’s nothing obvious except that her life force is waning. Something on the inside, then.
“We need to do some bloods,” I say. “As well as measure her magic levels.” I pause for a moment to check her bladder, then add, “I’m pretty sure there’s enough urine to collect a sample.” I glance at Professor Kaur, who’s listening avidly to our discussion.
Pen clutches the blood tubes that they’ve gathered tighter. “You do it, Gwen. You’re best at blood draws.”
Pen gets really anxious, something that Conall, Heloise, and I are trying to help them get past. I hand the syringe over to them, instead. “It’s your turn,” I say. I want the dean to see Pen do it. Conall nods his agreement with fervent enthusiasm.
“Are you sure?” Pen chews their lip, uncertain.
“They didn’t hit the vein last time,” Isla says from her corner, finally noticing what’s going on at exactly the worst possible moment. She still hasn’t looked up from her screen.
“Oh, shut up, Isla,” Conall snaps, and Isla flips her blond hair over one shoulder and smirks at him. She must have really riled him up, since he never gets cross at anyone.
Pen takes their position, with me restraining the cat and Conall hovering, ready to hand Pen the tubes. As Pen uncaps the syringe, someone else walks through the door.
I immediately sense his arrival, not only because I can smell his cologne, but also because I’ve become weirdly, annoyingly attuned to the presence of Harrisford Briggs.
He strides into the cat ward like he owns the place, even though he’s a myth.creat student and shouldn’t even be in the mag.fam wards. I straighten, my head whipping around, about to tell him to shove off, when he takes a deep sniff and then exhales.
“Who has ketoacidosis?” he says.
“I…what?” I snap, scrunching up my nose. “What the hell are you doing here, Briggs—”
He takes a step closer, his eyes glittering under the magelights. “Diagnosing your patient, Chan.” He gestures toward the cat. “It’s DKA. Can’t you smell it?”
I curl my hands into fists. Isla’s finally raised her head, a wry smile on her lips, and Conall and Pen are watching us with a mixture of dismay and curiosity. And Harrisford? Harrisford is staring at nothing but me, looking mighty fucking pleased with himself.
“I can’t,” I say, my nostrils flaring. I force myself to take a deep breath. In, then out.
Some people are gifted with the genetic ability to smell ketones on an animal’s breath. In this way, they can diagnose diabetic ketoacidosis, or DKA, with just a single inhale. Not me, though. I cannot smell a single thing right now, except Harrisford’s fucking cologne.
From the corner, Professor Kaur pipes up. “Good pick, Mr.Briggs. You’ve saved us a hell of a lot of time.”
