“You’re more a porcupine than a bunny, lass,” one of the two men in the cell on the right of the one holding the bikers commented with a thick Scottish accent. Sarita scowled at the blond man for his trouble.
“Quinn,” Biker #2 growled in reprimand.
“What?” the Scot asked innocently. “Ye have to admit she is, Victor.”
Sarita stiffened at the name Quinn used to address Biker #2. She was pretty sure the uncle Domitian had mentioned being taken was named Victor. Could this be him?
“Bunnies are soft and fluffy,” Quinn continued. “This woman’s thoughts are sharp and pointy.” Turning to Sarita, then, the Scot smiled charmingly and added, “It’s no’ an insult. I like sharp and pointy. A lot.”
“Dial it down, Quinn,” Victor suggested dryly. “Try to romance this woman like you do every other mortal female and Domitian will kill you. She is his.”
“I am not!” Sarita protested at once, resenting the way they made her sound like a possession.
“Really?” Quinn asked, waggling his eyebrows.
“Oh, stuff it, Romeo. I’m not interested,” she growled, and then glanced down at the boy at her feet when he moaned in pain.
Frowning, Sarita dropped to her haunches to get a better look at his face. While Asherah had turned on bright lights when they’d entered, she’d also turned them off on leaving. The only illumination in the room now came from weak bare bulbs overhead that cast a dim glow. It was enough to see by, though, and she peered at the child’s pale face with concern and then felt his cool forehead.
“He doesn’t have a fever,” she mumbled to herself as she looked him over. The boy was panting slightly, and there was a bluish tint to his lips and ears. Intending to check his fingernails to see if his nail beds were blue too, she tugged his blanket away and then froze.
“Madre de Dios,” she breathed, staring at what she’d revealed. The boy had the head, arms, and chest of a little boy, but from the waist down he was all pony, right up to the tail.
Another one of Dressler’s experiments, she thought grimly, brushing the tips of her fingers lightly over one of his legs to feel the coarse horse hair. The boy moaned and shifted restlessly, and Sarita glanced back to his face and frowned. He didn’t look well at all.
Sighing, she covered him again, and then brushed the human hair back from his face and peered at him sadly as she asked, “What’s the matter with him?”
“He is dying,” Victor said solemnly.
“What from?” Sarita asked, glancing around at the man and noting the compassion on his face as he looked at the boy.
“I cannot be sure, but judging by the rapid heartbeat, his shortness of breath, and the blue of his lips and ears, I would guess that he is not taking in enough oxygen to support his body so it is failing.”
Sarita glanced back to the boy and thought that was a pretty good assessment of the situation. At least it did match the symptoms. “Do you think it’s pneumonia or something? Shouldn’t Dressler be giving him antibiotics or other meds?”
“I suspect if that were the case he would,” Victor said solemnly. “Since he is not, I would guess the problem has more to do with the boy’s physiology than illness.”
“His physiology?” she asked, with a frown, lifting the blanket again, a horse’s body to the neck where a human upper body began. A whole human torso, head, and arms rather than just a horse head.
“It could be anything,” Victor said sounding weary. “Perhaps he was born with only human lungs. They would not be able to supply enough oxygen for the body he has. Or perhaps it has something to do with the fact that he has a human nose and sinuses. Horses have much bigger nostrils and their sinuses run the length of their head. Human sinuses may not be large enough to accommodate his body’s needs.” He shrugged. “I do not know.”
“But if it was physiological rather than an illness, wouldn’t he have died shortly after being born?” Sarita asked, not wanting to believe the boy couldn’t be saved.
“Perhaps,” Victor said. “But from the boy’s memories it would seem he has always been weak and gasping for breath. He could manage a sprint for a brief distance, but had no endurance so was unable to run and play with the others. And then as he aged he could no longer sprint or even walk far, and then not at all without losing his breath. He has apparently grown weaker over time as his body grew.”
“You can read him?” Sarita asked glancing over with surprise.
“Yes.”
“Domitian couldn’t read the gilled man we encountered. I thought perhaps they were all unreadable.”
“Most of them are,” Victor said with a shrug. “I haven’t been able to read or control any of the other hybrids we’ve encountered. Just this boy, which is what made me wonder if from the waist up he is not completely human.”
Sarita turned to look back at the boy. He was lying on hard concrete with just the thin blanket beneath him. It didn’t look comfortable, she thought. Sitting down, she drew his head into her lap and brushed the hair back from the boy’s face as she silently cursed Dr. Dressler to hell.
Knowing that was a waste of time, Sarita glanced to Victor and the other two men in the cell across from her, noting that they’d all moved to the front of the cage and were now leaning against it, watching her. This time when she looked them over, she noted that they not only looked similar to each other, but that many of their features, especially their eyes, were very similar to Domitian’s.
“So?” she asked, zeroing in on the larger man in the middle. “You’re Victor Argenis? Domitian’s uncle?”
“I am Domitian’s uncle Victor,” he acknowledged, but then added, “However, it is Argeneau, not Argenis.”
That made Sarita frown. “But Domitian’s last name is Argenis not Argeneau.”
“Both are just a variation on our ancient name Argentum,” Victor explained. “In old times there were not really last names. It was basically Bob the baker or Jim the smithy. For us it was a first name plus silver, because of the silver in our eyes. As the family grew and spread, different variations of Argentum occurred, Argenis in Spain, Argeneau in France, and so on.”
“I see,” Sarita murmured, but wasn’t sure she did. Whoever heard of someone changing their name to match the country they lived in or moved to? And just what kind of person did that?
“Someone who wishes to not draw attention to themselves,” Victor said quietly, obviously reading her thoughts.
Sarita bit her tongue to keep from snapping at him for obviously piddling about in her thoughts again. Though, judging by the amusement that suddenly curved Victor’s lips, she suspected he knew she was peeved. Sighing, she shifted her gaze to Biker #1.
“My nephew, Nicholas Argeneau,” Victor announced, gesturing to the man she was looking at. Turning next to Biker #3, he added, “And another nephew, Decker Argeneau-Pimms.”
Sarita nodded in greeting, recognizing the names of Domitian’s cousins. She then glanced to the men in the third cage on the opposite side. Eyes settling on the Scot, she said, “And I know you’re Quinn . . . also Argeneau?”
“Sadly no. We are no’ all Argeneaus, lass,” the man said in a tone that suggested he was glad to have avoided that fate. “Fortunately, I’m a MacDonald through and true. And pleased I am to meet ye, m’lady.”
He gave a gallant bow, waving his hand around as if doffing a hat, and then straightened and pointed to the second man in the cell with him and announced, “And me cellmate is one Ochoa Moreno, the most recalcitrant Latino I’ve ever had the pleasure o’ meeting. We suspect he and his partner are both hunters for the South American Council, because they did no’ come with us. But he’ll no’ tell us a damned thing about how he and his partner landed here. His partner by the by is Enrique Aurelios, the dark-haired fellow lying unconscious on the floor over there.”
Sarita turned to glance toward the slumped fellow in the front cell next to hers.
“No, not him. That fellow is bald, and his name is Santo Notte,” he said dryly. “I said the dark-haired—Oh, you recognize the name Santo,” Quinn interrupted himself to say. “Ah yes, Domitian told you about his disappearing from the boat he was on with the fair Drina.”