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“We’re here,” she said to Wrath. Even though he would already know that by the shifting sounds.
Opening the heavy panel and revealing the supply closet, she propped the weight with her whole body and tried to get herself out of the way.
Wrath was big under any circumstances. Carrying his beloved golden in his arms, he required even more space—but just like the announcement of their arrival, any commentary on how he was going to have to duck and curl around the dog to squeeze past the reams of papers and the stacks of folders, pen boxes, and printer cartridges was unnecessary. Though his eyes did not function anymore, his senses always fired on all cylinders, and sure enough, he navigated through the jambs with no problem, turning to the side, lowering his stance, shuffling George into the cramped space.
Now it was Wrath’s turn to play wallflower, and he was less successful than she’d been at shrinking. As he pressed back against the shelving, she wedged by with L.W. and opened the way into the office.
On the far side of Tohr’s administrative space, she did her duty for the last time with a glass panel, and the second they stepped into the concrete tunnel that ran the length of the facility, Doc Jane leaned out of one of the clinic’s doorways.
“Down here,” V’s mate urged.
Wrath led the way now, and Beth checked on how their son was doing because there was nothing she could do about any of this and sometimes you needed to feel like you could help something, someone. Her son was rock-solid. Even though they’d woken L.W. up and disturbed his sleep, he wasn’t crying and cranky. He was staring forward at his father and the dog with those grave, now-green eyes of his, his expression that of an adult who recognized that something was very wrong with the dog—and if anything happened to George, his father, the King, was never going to get over—
Stop it, she told herself.
George was fine. The animal was young, only what, five years old? Six, tops? It just felt like he and Wrath had been a pair for a lifetime, the two of them so symbiotic in their movements and silent communication it was as if they were one person.
Grath. Weorge.
Whatever.
The golden was probably just suffering from an upset stomach. No doubt he’d been slipped something at Last Meal by Fritz. The household’s elderly butler had a thing for him, but who didn’t? Heck, maybe Rhage had given him a gallon of ice cream under the table.
“Thanks for this,” Wrath said in a grave voice as he came up to Doc Jane.
“No problem. I just hope I can help.”
Wrath did another duck and shuffle, and then they were all in the exam room together. To locate the table, he moved more slowly now, shifting his hold on the blond-furred bundle of paws and tail, putting one arm out, his hand at waist level. When his fingertips came in contact with the examination bed, he explored the contours, got a bead on its dimensions, and gently laid the dog on the padded cushion.
“So what have we got,” Jane said as she unlooped her stethoscope and went to stroke George’s head. “We’re not feeling so hot?”
The golden offered her a lackadaisical nudge with his muzzle and a half-hearted wag.
“There’s something wrong with him, but I don’t know what it is,” Wrath said. “He sleeps next to us on his bed. About twenty minutes ago, I woke up because I heard him whimper and I found him sitting in this really weird position, all braced forward, his mouth open though he wasn’t panting. He kept whimpering, like… he was trying to tell me something was wrong.”
Beth went over and sat in one of the chairs against the long wall. Settling L.W. on her lap, she made sure he was facing outward so he could see what was happening. He’d never been a kid to cuddle into a chest, seek comfort on a shoulder, nuzzle into the neck. He wanted to be confronting whatever was before him.
Not exploring. Confronting.
“Well, I’m not a vet,” Jane murmured as she plugged her ears with her instrument. “But let’s take a look at our breathing and our heart rate.”
As Wrath went to stand at his head, George licked his master’s hand, as if he were trying to be brave—and when Wrath murmured to him, the golden laid his head back down, his mouth going slack, his breathing slow and irregular.
“He’s going to be okay,” Beth murmured in her son’s ear.
L.W. didn’t pay any attention to her. He just stared at his father as Wrath stayed right by his dog, his dagger hand on George’s head.
“I’m just going to take a listen, good boy,” Jane murmured as she pressed the metal disk around the area right behind George’s elbow.
