Mercy

"Okay, okay," Jacob whispered to himself as his eyes darted from the door to the window to the swiftly growing serpent. "Huge snake in the room. Hot water bottle ain't working. Oh, if only this was a dream."

Army protocol didn't cover magical scaled monsters.

"Hey…. Hey, Brit," Jacob stammered as the creature rose higher. "C'mon, wake up and work with me here, please….."

The snake tilted its flared head, looking between Claude and Jacob with something oddly like… perplexity. Jacob wasn't sure how to interpret snake introspection, but if the creature had been a dog he'd have thought it was trying to figure out which human was the master. Now if it was like a cat, it might be trying to decide who to eat first….

Jacob just hoped it was the former, and that this creature had some shred of intelligence.

"Ok…ay…." He rubbed his hands, analyzing the monster as if it was the boa constrictor that some greasy-haired breeder of exotic (illegal) pets had been trying to peddle some months ago.

"They eat mithe and rats," the peddler had lisped past several missing teeth. "Velly gentle."

"Gentle," Jacob repeated, wishing he sounded more convincing to himself. "Gentle. Only eats mice and rats. He … he won't hurt me, right?"

His confidence plunged into an uncertain squawk as the beast lowered its beaked snout, snuffling his face, suit and hair. Snippy chirps could have implied curiosity or hunger, but sparrows tended to chirrup the same way before crunching down a beetle. Jacob breathed shallowly through his nose, hoping Bill wouldn't reenter to find a nest of bones and shredded suit. He'd thought a lot about dying – being in the army, no one could ignore the inevitable – but digesting in dragon juices never made the list of least-volatile ways to go.

Actually, it never made the list. Because stuff like this wasn't supposed to be real.

"What, you want my coat?" Jacob squirmed as the creature tried to thrust its nose into his waistcoat pocket. "Are we even holding a conversation? 'Cause… uh… there's lots of rats in the basement. Landlord would throw a fit if he saw you, but since you're shrinkable he may not mind."

The serpent snuffled and withdrew its beak, poking into Jacob's other pocket. It scuttled back instantly and waved its snout, spraying crumbs.

"Yeah. Breakfast – hey, I eat the same stuff I bake," Jacob said defensively. No need to defend his morning rolls to a snake, but he'd already figured this day wasn't going to get any weirder.

The serpent curved its vertebrae, head half upside-down as it waited for Jacob to do … something. He raised his hands ignorantly.

"Hey, I'm not the guy with the suitcase. You want something, talk to…. Well, that ain't happening." Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Jacob puffed a sigh. This beast was definitely behaving more like a dog than a cat, but that didn't make it any more relatable to the average pooch. 

"What's a guy doing carrying that thing around in his pocket, anyway?" How'd the Brit get past security, for that matter? Englanders were strange. It'd be fine if Claude was aware enough to deal with his pets, but Jacob's last memory of owning an animal was when he suffocated his grandmother's cat. (It was an accident. Apparently fluffy things weren't meant to be hugged by small children.) But that just proved he wasn't good with animals. The kid down the street had a blind crow, the neighbor across the hall had a beagle, and Jacob had…. Well, now he had Claude. And apparently both of Claude's pets.

"This is ridiculous."

Resisting the urge to scratch the inquisitive beak tilted above him, Jacob eyed the suitcase. There must be some sort of feed for unnatural wildlife stowed inside.

The blue serpent followed his gaze, and Jacob edged towards the suitcase. "You want something in there?" Maybe it just thought he was leading it to food. He could still be the third course in eccentric snake chow. "You wanna go inside?"

Heck, if this twelve-foot reptile could have squeezed into a hot water bottle, a suitcase should hold it just fine. Jacob hoped it wouldn't find a way to squirm outside of the confines again. Taking a deep breath, he flipped the locks and flung the case open, jumping behind it and holding on as a freighter of blue and emerald rammed into the center.

It's not shrinking… was Jacob's first thought, followed instantly by … How deep is this case?"

The purplish tail flicked inside. There was a screech, then a roar from deep below. Exhaling shakily, Jacob pushed the lid down with his fingertips. He closed his eyes when it snicked shut, and delicately clicked the bolts down. Falling back against the wall, he mopped a hand across his forehead.

A horrible thought pulsed through his chest.

"If that's the size of a baby snake, how am I going to explain it if the duck-mole starts growing?"

After a twelve-foot duck-mole failed to materialize in his apartment, Jacob took his time setting the coffee pot on the stove and making sense of the ransacked kitchen. Mildred hadn't taken much – her jewelry case and her mother's teacups seemed to warrant the most fuss on a drizzly morning – but the silverware drawer had been ransacked and the sugar bowl was gone. Even the tin cup from Jacob's mess kit had disappeared.

"You had to take that?" Jacob scratched his head. "What was the point?"

Either Mildred was irrationally livid with him, or she'd suddenly discovered an appreciation for military souvenirs. It'd be too much to hope that she'd taken the cup because she thought she'd miss him.

"Okay, then...." Fetching the only mug he had left, Jacob eyed it dubiously and then shrugged. It was a little dusty perhaps, but it was clean. He didn't have a spare now that Mildred had taken all the China, but he could make due. There was a quart measurement he used for flour. That would be suitable for him for a day or two, and Claude ….

Thinking again, he rinsed the mug a second time. No sense taking chances.

Fifteen minutes later, fidgeting for a comfortable position in a hard chair, balancing the morning paper in one hand and a quart-sized cup of coffee in the other as he tried to concentrate on tiny black print and ignore the urge to curl up on the rug and shut his eyes, Jacob finally began to calm down. He wasn't snake chow. There weren't any more nasty surprises hiding in the room. (He hoped.) Once Claude woke – and given Bill's assessment of his brain damage, that might take a long time – Jacob would ask him a few gentle, prodding questions. Like what a Brit was doing with a suitcase full of animals in the first place, and if he really was insane like Bill thought.

First, though, he'd just worry about the present. Like whether or not Claude would actually regain consciousness, and how much he could handle before looping out. He'd probably feel like Jacob did in front of that beady-eyed snake – alone and very aware of a flanking predator. After all, he'd just gotten beat up by New-Yorkers. Worst thing probably was to wake up to another stranger, only to find himself completely helpless.

Well, Jacob might not have been the most supportive, reassuring guy, but he knew how to talk to wounded soldiers. More than one delirious young man had called him "Pa" or – embarrassingly enough – "Mama," or some other name relating to kin. He figured if he could be mistaken for a friendly face that easily, then he could play big brother well enough.

Stupid kid probably needed one.

He saw Mary Lou Barebone holding the Brit's wand over her head, chanting as black clouds unfurled behind her. The thin reed snapped, showering blue sparks, and then she was dancing in fire, her clothes burning as she pointed to the street, hollering about witches.

A little black creature scuttled away from the flames, fur smoking, and peered up at Jacob in terror. He moved to help, but suddenly he was behind the mob again, trying to yank them away from Claude.

"You'll kill him! Get off!"

Mary Lou began singing as fire scorched the bank walls. Before the flames, her eldest child continued to hand out pamphlets. One of them fluttered to Jacob's feet. A crude drawing of a monstrous snake stared, intelligent and docile as a hungry canine. Rain splashed in a sudden accumulation of puddles. Jacob looked back into the mob, but there were only people milling uneasily, and Claude wasn't there.

"Hey! Hey, have you seen him?" Jacob shouted, grabbing a man's shoulder. "The wizard? He's got a blue coat. Has anybody seen him? He's hurt!"

Another stranger handed him a coat – blue and mottled with boot prints. Jacob's arm shook as he searched the ground.

"Where is he? Please, someone help me find him!"

He saw Bill across the street and ran towards him, dodging people as the sidewalk suddenly became too full. A cab pulled in front of him and there was an awful thump, and he knew he'd look down and see Claude limp on the street, blood running into his eyes and –

It was the thump that broke into Jacob's dream and he jerked upright, fumbling to catch his upended measuring cup. "Aw, you gotta be kidding me," he moaned, shaking his feet out of a coffee puddle. "Landlord's gonna know that wasn't there before…."

The measuring cup fell with a dull clank. Jacob sprinted to crouch beside the heap of whimpering, bloody-lipped wizard who was trying to drag himself across the floor – a difficult task with a bound arm, splinted leg and broken right wrist.

"Whoa, whoa! No getting out of bed, doctor's orders!" Jacob scolded, half amazed that Claude was aware enough to roll out of bed and half terrified that he'd further hurt himself. He fumbled his arms under the Brit, lifting him easily back into the bed. Claude grunted out something that might have sounded like "mace" or "haste" if he didn't have puffed cheeks and a back full of rippling, cramped muscles.

"Okay. It's okay," Jacob shushed, stuffing a pillow under Claude's head and rearranging the blankets so that he was more comfortable. "My name is Jacob. This is my place. I brought you here so the cops wouldn't impound you. You're safe."

Sharpened green glinted in a swarm of bruised flesh, flickering from Jacob to the far corner and back again. Yeah, the guy had to be in agony. Whirling away, Jacob grabbed the bottle that Bill had left behind and measured out a wobbling tablespoon.

"Here. It's morphine – it'll help with the pain." He eased the spoon forward, wondering if Claude could even swallow, and sighed when the spoon was batted aside.

Accusation scoured him from that one good eye.

"This isn't my fault!" Jacob protested. "I'm trying to help you!"

Pain was bleeding through in swirls of brandy. Again the Brit's gaze latched onto the trunk.

"Oh, no," Jacob said calmly. "I'm not opening that thing. Not until – "

Panicked hazel speared into him and Claude's gasp heaved into a spraying cough. He keened, drawing his elbows against his ribs, and Jacob grabbed the bottle.

"Here – just a swallow! I promise this'll take care of everything." What a stretch – morphine couldn't fix broken ribs – but either his tone or his promises persuaded Claude to trust him. Cracked lips parted and Jacob tilted an arm under the Brit's shoulders, helping him swallow. Brown slushed into green as the painkiller took hold.

"S'okay," Jacob reassured as Claude blinked heavily. The right hand flopped, splinted fingers twitching out before they went limp.

"Might've been too heavy a dose," Jacob admitted reluctantly. He settled Claude down, peeking under the bandage around his skull in case something was bleeding again. Satisfied that he couldn't do any more, he tucked the blankets closer….

And then sighed.

Retracting his hand from the wet spot, he breathed in and out slowly, preparing himself for the inevitable. He really hated this part of hospitals. One more reason why he never wanted to be a doctor.

"Hope that dose was strong much," Jacob said apologetically, "Cause I'm gonna have to move you again. This'll just take a sec'."

He was starting to understand why Bill talked to himself so much. It was easier to ignore the patient when he was consumed with dissected observations. Like how the Brit must've been surviving on hardtack for months, he was scrawny enough, and maybe those scars Bill had been exclaiming over were actually from magical beasts like the serpent, instead of a war camp. Jacob talked about magic, and how he hoped Claude wasn't involved in any recent, improbable architectural damage, and he wondered what he was supposed to feed the wizard's pets.

"I don't even know where the mole is," Jacob admitted as he replaced the sheets. "I should've taken you to a hospital. Bill's right – I don't know what I'm doing. This stuff is for professionals. I can't even fold a bandage."

He was doing everything wrong, and Bill would shake his head when he came in next time and declare that Jacob was the most inept nurse he'd ever been unfortunate enough to be deployed with, but at least the Brit was still alive. That had to mean something, right?

"Is it spells, or just luck that you're still kicking?" Jacob mused as he lifted Claude back onto the bed. The Brit's mouth twitched in distress, but the morphine held firm. Jacob shook his head.

"I'm really sorry. I shouldn't be the one looking after you. There's tons of people – doctors, nurses… maybe even witch healers. But until we find one of those…. I guess I'm all you've got."

He looked at swathes of bandages holding broken flesh together and bowed his head. He was a clumsy factory laborer trying to patch up a master of magic. Life really hadn't given Claude the best lot. Nonetheless, Jacob was the one who had taken him off the scene, away from hospitals and the public's judgment. Claude was his responsibility now. He didn't have any skills to offer, but he would do his best.

Maybe that in itself would be enough.