power, soothing and cleansing and absolutely reconstructive. Bela wasn’t even sure Andy knew she was doing that. It just flowed out of her, in perfect rhythm and measure.
Whenever Andy gave the nod, Dio flicked her fingers and sent a rush of air to dry a section of the cast. Even with the bursts of wind, Dio’s wispy golden hair remained in position, every strand, pulled tight against her head and fixed at her neck by a single leather tie. Very neat. Far too neat for an air Sibyl. Unlike Andy, Dio wasn’t making eye contact with Bela at all, but that was nothing new, and nothing Bela could deal with right now.
Duncan Sharp’s bouts of pain were just about all she could handle, though they were becoming less and less intense. He seemed to be sleeping now, and the wounds still weren’t expanding. Another minute or so, and the cast was finished. As well done as any hospital could have managed—maybe even a little better—but that broken arm was the least of the detective’s problems.
Mother Keara was still resting and muttering and meditating as Andy and Dio turned to the treatment room’s shiny medical sink and washed their hands. That dark, chilly energy oozed toward them out of Duncan Sharp’s slash wounds, but it shattered against the elemental protections on Mother Keara’s robes and Andy and Dio’s leather battle suits.
Dio glanced at the remnant energy as it dissipated, and pointed it out to Andy.
“Bad shit,” Andy diagnosed. “Do we need to reinforce anything to hold that energy, Bela?”
Bela shook her head, not wanting to break her concentration enough to speak.
The metal frame of Duncan Sharp’s hospital bed, the cuffs on his wrists and ankles, and the walls of the treatment room were already completely encased in elemental locks—fire, air, earth, and water energy stacked like tightly fitted bars built to contain supernatural forces.
Well, exactly like bars, because once upon a time, the treatment room had been an actual jail cell intended to contain paranormal creatures. When she took over the brownstone, Bela had expanded the area into a reasonable-sized infirmary, put up drywall, improved the plumbing, laid tile, and painted the whole room a festive yellow.
Well, it had seemed festive at the time. Now it seemed like lemons exploding all over neon bananas.
“This place is too flippin’ bright, by the way.” Andy shook her hands off, not bothering to reach for a towel to dry them. Dry never lasted long for Andy, anyway. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Whatever,” Bela mumbled, keeping her focus on the places where her fingers connected with Duncan Sharp’s face.
“Blue might have been a better choice for a sickroom,” Andy continued, straightening up the sink area. “Or brown.”
“All earth Sibyls love brown,” Dio said to Andy, keeping her face turned away from Bela. “And of course we don’t have enough of that color around here.”
Bela managed not to sigh. Dio was referring to the fact that Bela had reworked the whole outer laboratory surrounding the treatment room in soft sands and browns, to modernize it. She had kind of gotten carried away and painted the whole brownstone in the same shades while she was at it. She hadn’t gotten around to replacing the furniture yet, but she was planning on that, too.
“Dry up!” Mother Keara’s sharp Irish command to be quiet was punctuated by a flicker of flame from both of her shoulders, followed by a jet of smoke that covered both Andy and Dio, muting the yellow of the wall behind them with a thin layer of soot. “Upstairs with the both of you. Help Camille get ready to call a few more Mothers.”
Andy and Dio finished cleaning up from the casting and took off like two scolded kids. Mothers—especially fire Sibyl Mothers—tended to have that effect on people.
Mother Keara’s sharp eyes followed Dio’s retreat until the outer lab door slammed. She lifted one tired, trembling hand and pointed a knotty finger at
Whenever Andy gave the nod, Dio flicked her fingers and sent a rush of air to dry a section of the cast. Even with the bursts of wind, Dio’s wispy golden hair remained in position, every strand, pulled tight against her head and fixed at her neck by a single leather tie. Very neat. Far too neat for an air Sibyl. Unlike Andy, Dio wasn’t making eye contact with Bela at all, but that was nothing new, and nothing Bela could deal with right now.
Duncan Sharp’s bouts of pain were just about all she could handle, though they were becoming less and less intense. He seemed to be sleeping now, and the wounds still weren’t expanding. Another minute or so, and the cast was finished. As well done as any hospital could have managed—maybe even a little better—but that broken arm was the least of the detective’s problems.
Mother Keara was still resting and muttering and meditating as Andy and Dio turned to the treatment room’s shiny medical sink and washed their hands. That dark, chilly energy oozed toward them out of Duncan Sharp’s slash wounds, but it shattered against the elemental protections on Mother Keara’s robes and Andy and Dio’s leather battle suits.
Dio glanced at the remnant energy as it dissipated, and pointed it out to Andy.
“Bad shit,” Andy diagnosed. “Do we need to reinforce anything to hold that energy, Bela?”
Bela shook her head, not wanting to break her concentration enough to speak.
The metal frame of Duncan Sharp’s hospital bed, the cuffs on his wrists and ankles, and the walls of the treatment room were already completely encased in elemental locks—fire, air, earth, and water energy stacked like tightly fitted bars built to contain supernatural forces.
Well, exactly like bars, because once upon a time, the treatment room had been an actual jail cell intended to contain paranormal creatures. When she took over the brownstone, Bela had expanded the area into a reasonable-sized infirmary, put up drywall, improved the plumbing, laid tile, and painted the whole room a festive yellow.
Well, it had seemed festive at the time. Now it seemed like lemons exploding all over neon bananas.
“This place is too flippin’ bright, by the way.” Andy shook her hands off, not bothering to reach for a towel to dry them. Dry never lasted long for Andy, anyway. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Whatever,” Bela mumbled, keeping her focus on the places where her fingers connected with Duncan Sharp’s face.
“Blue might have been a better choice for a sickroom,” Andy continued, straightening up the sink area. “Or brown.”
“All earth Sibyls love brown,” Dio said to Andy, keeping her face turned away from Bela. “And of course we don’t have enough of that color around here.”
Bela managed not to sigh. Dio was referring to the fact that Bela had reworked the whole outer laboratory surrounding the treatment room in soft sands and browns, to modernize it. She had kind of gotten carried away and painted the whole brownstone in the same shades while she was at it. She hadn’t gotten around to replacing the furniture yet, but she was planning on that, too.
“Dry up!” Mother Keara’s sharp Irish command to be quiet was punctuated by a flicker of flame from both of her shoulders, followed by a jet of smoke that covered both Andy and Dio, muting the yellow of the wall behind them with a thin layer of soot. “Upstairs with the both of you. Help Camille get ready to call a few more Mothers.”
Andy and Dio finished cleaning up from the casting and took off like two scolded kids. Mothers—especially fire Sibyl Mothers—tended to have that effect on people.
Mother Keara’s sharp eyes followed Dio’s retreat until the outer lab door slammed. She lifted one tired, trembling hand and pointed a knotty finger at
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