a familiar manila folder on the table in front of him. As I walked over, I couldn’t help but grimace again. He was even younger than I’d imagined—if he’d graduated from OCS, it must have been that year—and kept glancing at his phone.
“Where’s Colonel Willard?” I sat down facing him, glancing at his small black mug with a pattern in the frothy milk mingling with the coffee.
Annoyance flashed across his face, but he tamped it down. “In the hospital.”
I forgot my own annoyance. “What hospital? What happened?”
He gave me the name of a local hospital, not the army medical center on Fort Lewis I would have expected, then grimly said, “Cancer.”
“Cancer?” I struggled to imagine the forty-five-year-old, tough-as-nails colonel being susceptible to anything so mundane. She competed in triathlons when she wasn’t busting people’s faces in some martial art or another. Coffee was her only vice, as far as I knew, and she ate more servings of vegetables than a goat with a tapeworm.
“Yes. I have your bonus.” Lieutenant Sudo pushed the envelope across to me. “And I must let you know—”
“Wait. You can’t tell me Colonel Willard is in the hospital and drop it. Is she just getting treatment or what? She didn’t have to leave her home, did she?” I waved vaguely toward North Seattle where a few officers who worked in the city, running intelligence and keeping an eye on the magical beings that showed up here, had apartments.
“Her condition is quite advanced. She’s in the hospital for the rest of… until they’re able to get it under control.”
“Quite advanced? How can that be?” The now-familiar tightness returned to my chest. And my throat. I struggled to calm the emotions welling up and squeezing everything. I wasn’t going to use the inhaler in front of this kid. And I definitely wasn’t going to cry. “She has to have been getting all of the usual screenings,” I said reasonably, logically. “She’s not the kind of person who would put that off.”
“I’m not her doctor. Listen, here’s your money—bringing cash is highly unorthodox, I’ll have you know—and I’m here to inform you that we won’t have more work for you until I’ve finished my investigation.”
I blinked slowly. “Investigation?”
Was this kid old enough to investigate more than his comic book collection?
A waiter came over, so Sudo didn’t answer right away.
“Can I get you anything?”
Sudo shook his head and waved at his cup. As if the guy had been asking him.
I started to also shake my head but thought of the colonel. “Do you have any bottles of that cold nitro stuff?”
“Yes. Sweetened or unsweetened?”
“Definitely unsweetened.” I had laid a five on the table, then wondered if that was enough for hoity-toity coffee.
The waiter went to get the order without commenting.
Once he was out of earshot, Sudo answered my question. “I’m an accountant. General Nash—Colonel Willard’s boss—ordered me sent in to see if everything is legitimate and a genuine expense that the taxpayers need to foot.” He pinched his lips together as he regarded me.
“The taxpayers that don’t want to be eaten by wyverns, orcs, or trolls are probably okay with it.”
He curled a lip. The gesture reminded me of the dragon—Zav. But Zav, at least in human form, was handsome enough and old enough to make it look like that aloof haughtiness was perfect for him. Sudo just looked petulant, like someone had stolen the comic books he’d been investigating.
Suddenly suspicious, I opened the envelope to see if there was actually cash in there. I never would have doubted it with Willard.
Sudo’s hand lifted toward it, but he dropped it. He glanced nervously around, as if afraid someone would see us exchanging bills. I couldn’t care less if an undercover police officer came over to talk to us. Sudo could impress the guy by showing him his military ID with accountant stamped on it.
“This is only twenty-five hundred,” I said after counting it. “I usually get a five-thousand-dollar combat bonus.”
“I know. It’s completely unacceptable. Soldiers who go into war zones overseas don’t get that much nearly as often as you’re getting it.”
“Soldiers who go into war zones overseas don’t have to buy their own magical weapons from people who don’t accept credit cards, not to mention traveling all over the Pacific Northwest and staying in hotels without TDY pay, which I don’t get because my position doesn’t officially exist. Willard’s whole office doesn’t officially exist.”
“Giving you that much money is ridiculous, and it’s one of the reasons I’ve started an