Mayor May Not: The ABCs of Spellcraft Book 11 by Jordan Castillo Price

Author:Jordan Castillo Price
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: JCP Books LLC
Published: 2021-10-21T04:00:00+00:00

***

Bright and early the next morning—closer to noon, actually, since we were distracted by a new dance Meringue had invented—we headed back to the hospital to speak to Glenda.

“Now, let’s get our cover story straight,” Dixon said as we pulled into the lot. “You’re an heir to the Russian throne in exile, and I’m your bodyguard…and while we can’t be certain, it’s possible assassins dusted your light fixtures with a drug that can be absorbed through your fingerprints.”

“Dixon….”

“Not a lethal drug, mind you—we don’t want them to airlift you to St. Louis before we get to talk to Dr. Slaughter—but something with the potential to cause wicked hallucinations.”

“Dixon....”

“And when I give the signal, you can start acting like you see animals popping up in the lobby. What kind of animals do they have in Russia? Ooh, I know, Siberian tigers!”

“Dixon!” I snapped—and he paused, eyes alight with visions of tigers traipsing through the lobby of his mind. “First of all, there has not been a Russian monarch since the Romanov dynasty. Second, they can plainly see our truck from the front desk, and no Russian prince would even deign to spit on such a vehicle. And third…we were just here yesterday. They are bound to recognize us.”

Dixon considered all of this, then said, “So what you’re saying is, they’d totally buy me as your bodyguard.”

“Come,” I said. “We will go in through the front door—as ourselves—and ask to see Glenda.” Dixon gazed wistfully at a small plastic spring he’d been planning to tuck behind his ear as his “bodyguard” disguise—I think it was once part of a keychain—but thankfully, I’d convinced him to leave it in the glove box.

Fortunately, I myself had never needed to make use of Pinyin Bay’s hospital. While it was well-equipped by Russian standards, more like a private hospital than a state institution, I was leery of all the red tape involved in seeking treatment.

We approached the admissions desk under the watchful eye of the nurse we’d spoken to yesterday. What a relief I had not acquiesced to the bodyguard scheme. All we had to do was walk up to the desk, as ourselves, and—

I glanced sideways at Dixon. “Are you limping?”

“I’m not limping! You’re limping.”

“You’re both limping,” the nurse said. She picked up her phone. “I’ll call for some wheelchairs.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Dixon said quickly. “We’re fine. We were just hoping to talk to Dr. Slaughter…in a personal capacity. Not professional. So there’s no need for you to scan my insurance card—which I guarantee is perfectly legitimate.”

The nurse shrugged and checked her computer. “You’re in luck. Dr. Slaughter is on her lunch break, so you can find her in the hospital cafeteria.”

“I was not limping,” I grumbled as we headed for the elevator.

Dixon did not seem to notice. He lived for reconnaissance missions such as these. “The more I think about Dr. Slaughter, the more excited I find myself.”

“Do not get your hopes up.” It was never any use to say this to Dixon, but I did anyhow.

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