Heart's Blood (MxM)

Chapter 2

Four days after finding my first dead body, I'm in the tiny office I share with a Tarot reader and an astrologer, doing my best to convince a perfectly good paying client that I'm not the one she needs to see.

"Miss Mumu needs to see a vet, Mrs. Collins," I say for the third time, "not a psychic."

I suppress a grimace of distaste as the little white dog bares its teeth at me and growls.

It's not unusual for people to bring their pets in for a reading, and I can read animals, but the things I pick up from them tend to be mundane. Usually something along the lines of "I like the park," or "rolling in shit is fun."

I've yet to solve any mysteries with the help of a cat.

Today, Mrs. Collins has brought in her horrible little dog, Miss Mumu, for the fourth time this month, because apparently she's "not quite herself," and Mrs. Collins is concerned she might be having an existential crisis of some kind.

I suspect indigestion, but I'm not a veterinarian, so all I can offer is the advice that she go and find one.

"But won't you at least try?" Mrs. Collins insists, rheumy eyes blinking in her aged face. "Here—I brought her favorite blanket." She holds out a tattered blue cloth covered in dog hair and an almost artistic pattern of stains.

I really don't want to touch it.

On the other hand, Mrs. Collins is my only client today, and she's got a lot of influence among the elderly, dog-owning crowd, who for better or worse make up a significant portion of my clientele. It's in my interest to at least give her something.

Resignedly, I take the blanket and close my eyes, opening my senses to whatever impressions it has to offer.

I get a sense of warmth and comfort (it seems that Mumu really does like this thing), a feeling of sleepiness, and then—to my surprise—a strong ache in my teeth. I hold a hand to my jaw and open my eyes, and the feeling fades.

"How old is Mumu?" I ask.

"About eight, I think."

"Mrs. Collins, I'm not a vet, and that's what Mumu needs. Tell them to look at her teeth. I think she's got an infection."

I can tell she was hoping for a more philosophical revelation, but she promises to take my advice.

When she reaches into her purse to pay me, I sigh.

"No charge today, Mrs. Collins. This one's on the house."

"Oh, no. I couldn't," she protests.

"Sure you can. Isn't it nearly your birthday? Consider it a gift."

She purses her lips, and to my dismay, her eyes are bright. She's no fool, and she knows what I'm doing. Like a lot of older people, she lives on a fixed and limited income, and vets are expensive.

"Julian, dear," she says, taking back the blanket when I hand it to her, "you're too sweet for your own good, you know? Thank you."

I hold still and try not to grimace as she leans over and kisses my cheek. She's holding Mumu, and the motion brings the little beast closer than I'd like.

When she's gone, I heave another sigh, pull down the Venetian blinds, and close the office. It seems like my rent partners are also having a dry spell, and I'm the only one who had an appointment today.

As I wander down the street towards my car, I dust dog hair off my shirt and wonder if maybe I should add a "no pets" policy to my business. It would cut into my income, but at least I wouldn't have to see Miss Mumu again.