Strange Familiars

1

Gwendolynne

The cat reclines on the cold steel table, his skin fizzing slightly, sparks flying off him like a shower of falling stars.

"Exactly how long has he been like this, Mrs. . . . er . . ." I glance down at my chart, my cheeks heating. "Mason?"

Damn it! I should've checked her name before entering the room. Now that we're almost fully qualified, we're not just assessed academically. We're evaluated on our client communication skills, too. Tonight, when Mrs. Mason leaves, she'll be asked to give her feedback.

Will I be marked down for forgetting something so, well . . . basic?

The urge to check the strap on my wrist rises, and I fight it down with difficulty. It's an action that's become so reflexive I often do it without thinking. But I shouldn't. Not in front of a client. If I annoy her, it'll make it even more likely she'll give me a poor review.

Later. I'll check my marks later. Right now, I need to focus on the current problem: the once-fluffy black cat who, quite obviously, is brimming with too much magic.

The client, Mrs. Mason, shifts in her hard plastic chair and waves a hand sporting five manicured fingernails. "Oh, maybe one or two days." As she speaks, she flips open the top of her burgundy leather handbag and digs through it, producing a small silver compact mirror, which she uses to check her perfectly coiffed blond hairdo.

I'm suddenly self-conscious about my own appearance. My hair, which is black and frizzy, is scraped into a messy bun, tendrils of it stuck to my sweaty forehead. My nails are chewed. My robes are rumpled. Mrs. Mason, on the other hand, is the epitome of understated luxury: from the soft cream jumper casually knotted around her shoulders, to the pink-tipped toes peeking from her sandals, to the expensive designer handbag she has perched upon her lap. The bag's flap is still open and I squint at the small logo printed on the inside. De-something? DeCar-something? I can't read it; it's upside down.

With some effort, I tear my gaze from Mrs. Mason's handbag and eye the cat dubiously. Percy, the name on the chart says. That detail I did check. I never forget to check the animals' names. Memorize their signalments. My attention always zeroes in on what I'm most interested in . . . the patient.

It's only ever the humans whose names I forget; who I tend to see as an unfortunate, unavoidable side effect of a career working with animals.

He's fourteen years old, according to the notes, but to be honest he looks much older. His hair has fallen out in patchy clumps. His tail has a kink in it from a poorly healed break. And he's missing one eye, the sunken divot in his skull covered with fuzzy black fur. I know from reading his history that he hasn't visited a hospital since he was a kitten-when all witches' familiars receive their inoculations against magical diseases-but even without reading his chart I can trace the resonant echoes of previous injuries. The lingering aura of magic, so dulled with age it tells me he was forced to heal over a very long period of time.

What happened to him? Had he been kicked by a horse? Hit by a car? Stomped by a dragon as it landed from flight? With my magical senses, I can see the ghostly outline of an eyeball popped out of its socket, the optic nerve stretched, frayed, blood collecting in the anterior chamber and obscuring the yellow iris. The eye itself would've been unsalvageable. It probably died, withered, and dropped off instead of being properly enucleated in hospital, under anesthesia . . .

Bile churns in my belly. This poor cat suffered injuries that would've caused him unimaginable pain and yet . . . his family just left him?

Swallowing down my revulsion, I raise an eyebrow. "One or two days, you say?"

She narrows her heavily mascaraed eyes at me. "That's right," she confirms, though we both know she's lying. Even without the extensive hair loss, the sheer amount of excess magic coming from this cat indicates that he's been sick for weeks, at least. This level of magic would need to gradually accrue, the animal's body acclimatizing to it in slowly increasing increments. If he'd had a sudden spike over just a few days, it would be incompatible with life. If that had happened, he'd have come into the hospital dead, and I wouldn't be locked in this room trying to decipher the upside-down brand name on Mrs. Mason's bag.

I lean over the cat, but he swipes at me with one bedraggled paw, then jumps off the table. He approaches his owner, who by now is absorbed reading something on her strap, but she just frowns and pushes him away with her foot. Instead, he leaps onto one of the other chairs and turns to stare at me, his back arched, his ears flattened, the hairs on his tail puffed up.

"It's okay, Percy," I murmur, drawing closer and slowing my movements until they're barely detectable. "I'm Gwen. Your doctor. I'm here to help." People sometimes look at me strangely for talking to my patients like they're human. But whatever. They're magical. They're familiars. Clearly, they understand more than they let on.

He gives a soft hiss but allows me to put my hands on him-gently, so gently-as I begin to catalog his vital signs and carefully palpate his abdomen.

The excess magic feels like tiny electric shocks every time I touch him, but I grit my teeth and continue. I don't just want to do a good job. I have to do a good job. We're nearing graduation, which is when we receive our final marks, and I really need to beat Harrisford-fucking-Briggs.

My mind whirs as I poke and prod, tracing the source of Percy's magic. The low pulse of it thrums through my body. Vital signs normal, I think. Evidence of old healed injuries. Patchy alopecia, but no skin excoriations or obvious inflammation.

While I'm examining, I try to remember if I've read anything relevant in one of the textbooks I pore over on a nightly-and daily-basis. For some students, magical medicine is an art form, like listening to a piece of music and then knowing instantly how to play it. But for me? For me it involves grueling study. Hours spent shackled to my desk, memorizing complex passages of text and drinking obscene amounts of tea. For me, medicine is like building the entire orchestra, one painstaking instrument at a time, only able to construct music from it once I've figured out all the parts.

I've read through hundreds, possibly thousands of textbooks by now. Was there ever anything about magiphilia, the term for when one is suffering from elevated levels of magic? This, here, is like nothing I've ever seen before. And granted, I'm just a student in her final year of training . . . But after seven years at vet school, four of them spent in and out of Saint Gertrude's Hospital for Magical Familiars, I've seen enough to know that magiphilia is extremely rare. And magiphilia to this degree? Even rarer.

"Can you hurry up?" Mrs. Mason's voice cuts through my thoughts. "I have a dinner reservation in fifteen minutes."

Pressing my lips together, I do my best to speed up. I really don't like to be rushed during consultations, especially ones this complex, but I'm well aware that the hospital has already closed for the night.

The cat gives me a halfhearted swipe when I'm finished, the movement so apathetic it could almost be a friendly gesture. Still, I straighten and step away, since the tiny burns from embers of his wayward magic are starting to sting a little.

"Mrs. Mason-" I start.

"Mrs. Mason-Price," she says, smug, and it hits me: I've seen this woman before. She's the wife of Nathaniel Price, head honcho at Magecorp, and a committed socialite. I've seen her on my tiny strap screen-that's how I watch all my news, since I can't afford my own television-standing next to her CEO husband as he delivers speeches, flashing her dazzlingly white teeth at the many cameras pointed in her direction.

I don't really have time to process this information, since I still have to outline my findings, explain my recommendations, perform diagnostic tests, send them to the laboratory, record everything in the magical database, and then type up a report. But it's a relief to know that she's well-heeled enough to be able to afford this. If there's one part of magical vetting that I absolutely loathe (apart from my nemesis, Harrisford Briggs), it's this: talking about money. It always feels vaguely distasteful, like biting into a peanut cluster but finding it full of cockroach bits. I have to tell myself I'm not selling things, I'm recommending things, and always in the animal's best interest, and always always because I care. I hate the moment the owner's face falls, when they've heard how many magecredits the treatments will cost and they realize they can't afford it; they can't afford the best option for their beloved familiar, their closest friend.

But the Prices have money, so at least this time that won't happen.

"Mrs. Mason-Price," I say, correcting my error. "Percy here seems to be suffering from magiphilia-that's too much magic. It's quite an unusual presentation and I'm going to have to run some tests-"

"No."

I pull up short and gape at her for a moment. "N . . . No?" I hadn't expected her to be so abrupt.

She stares at me, her eyes hard. "Just, no. No tests."

Flustered, I shuffle through some scrolls that contain price lists, trying to find one that itemizes the tests I want to perform. "If it's about the money, I can try to modify the diagnostic plan to find the least expensive way of-"

"It's not the money," Mrs. Mason-Price snaps, obviously affronted. "It's the hassle of it. I don't want this cat continuing to soil my furniture. Ruining my best clothes with magic. Setting fire to my antique rugs."

My mouth is open; I shut it. "He-he can't help it . . ."

"I don't care. I want him gone."

"But he's your familiar!" I can't help the note of outrage that creeps into my tone. Witches' familiars-which help magical folk tap into magic from the atmosphere-are usually closely connected with their owners. The human-familiar relationship is supposed to be one of the strongest bonds there is.

"He's not mine," she says icily. "He's my husband's. And Nathaniel can afford to buy another."

Percy, the cat in question, glares at the woman, his one yellow eye slitted. He's now settled himself into the curved seat of the chair, his crooked tail thumping against the plastic.

I'm lost for words. This has never happened before. Sure, people decline treatments all the time, because they can't afford it. But here is an owner who can afford it, and she's declining because of what? Convenience?

Slowly I restack the scrolls and glance at Percy. He's lolling again, leisurely licking one paw. But his feigned indifference doesn't fool me-his tail is still twitching. He's heard, and understood, what his owner has said.

"Well," I venture, trying to think through my options. "We have a no-adoption policy here. You'll need to take him to the shelter-"

She scoffs. "I need to take him? I don't have time for that!"

My irritation is rising; I try to tamp it down. Instead, I smile, my teeth together, my words edging out through the cracks. "Like I said, Saint Gertrude's has a no-adoption policy."

She gives a hard, bitter laugh. "Then put him down."

There's a long pause. The only sound is of Percy's spiny tongue dragging through his shabby coat. He's enthusiastically licking at his belly now, which is almost entirely hairless-soft, pink, and wrinkled.

"Put. Him. Down?" I repeat, not sure I heard correctly.

"Yes, you heard me. Put him down."

"Like, to sleep? Put him to sleep? Not . . . down on the floor?"

"Do you not understand English?" she says, enunciating each word, as though my East Asian appearance suggests I'm fresh off the boat and not a BBC-British-born Chinese-who was literally born and raised in England. "Put him down. To death. With your toxic potions, or whatever it is you magical quacks do."

My throat tightens; my mouth runs dry. I drop my gaze to Percy, watching as he begins to lick his crotch. Even by usual cat standards he'd only be middle-aged: far too young to contemplate putting him to sleep for a potentially treatable condition. And since he's a witch's familiar, it's even worse. Some familiars can live for centuries. By magical standards, he's practically a baby.

"Please," I say, my voice coming out small. "Won't you reconsider? I know I don't have the answers yet, but if you'll just let me run some tests I'm sure we can get to the bottom of it . . ."

Mrs. Mason-Price leans forward, gripping her designer handbag. Her voice has turned acerbic, her pink-painted lips twisted in a sneer. "I'd advise you to do as I say, little quack, or it may be that my husband has a little . . . word . . .with the hospital board. And you might find yourself unexpectedly expelled." She sits back, satisfied.

My swallow is painful, my throat thick. "Yes, of course."

Just minutes later, I watch through the window as Percy's owner speeds off in her red sports car. She skids around the corner, tires squealing, spraying mud all over my rattly old bike in the process.

As soon as she's out of sight, I turn to face Percy again. He stops grooming and regards me with one bright yellow eye.

My heart pounds. I don't want to do it. I can't do it. The glow of his life force, his qì, envelops him, bright as a polished penny, and I know that apart from the magiphilia problem he's in fine, robust health. But it's the rules, and the piece of parchment Mrs. Mason-Price signed to consent to his euthanasia lies on the table behind me. Effectively, it's Percy's death warrant. So noxious it could well be burning a hole right through the steel-topped surface.

He looks at me. I look at him. I clench my fists, my palms sweaty, a pulse hammering in my inner wrists. The euthanasia potion bubbles, bright green, in the stoppered flask that I've already taken out of the usually locked safe.

I push up the sleeves of my robe, grab a needle and syringe, attach the two components, and uncap it. Slowly, and with shaking hands, I unstopper the flask of venenmort and draw up a measure of the poisonous fluorescence.