He rolled his eyes. “Lord, help me. I have another hard case on my hands.”

He jutted something on a yellow legal pad. We were in a small room, with cream colored walls and a paneled ceiling. Two large windows spilled sunlight onto the floor and light blue sheets covered my legs.

The man put down his pen. “Now, whoever told you, little lady, that you can slap on an r-kit and charge right down the mountain into the battle, needs a good wallop. Anything magic hits it and the damn thing will go screwy on you every time.”

“Screwy,” I said. “Is that a medical term?”

“Of course. Follow the finger with your eyes, please. No turning the head now.”

He moved his left index finger around and I followed it with my eyes.

“Very good,” he said. “Count backward from twenty five.”

I did and he nodded, satisfied.

“It appears, mind you, only appears, that you’ve avoided a concussion.”

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Dr. Doolittle,” he said. “I’ve sailed through the night and day, in and out of weeks, to where the wild things are and now I’m their private physician.”

“That was Max.” The pain twisted my hip and I groaned. “Not Dr. Doolittle.”

“Ah,” he said, “what a pleasure to meet an educated mind.”

I stared at him for a moment, but he just laughed at me with his eyes.

“Where are we?”

“In the Pack keep.”

“How did I get here?”

“You were carried.”

I felt an urge to rub my forehead and found an IV dangling from my arm.

“Who carried me here?”

“That’s an easy one. His Majesty carried you out of the building, then you were slung over Mahon’s back and brought to my doorway.”

“How did Curran get a hold of me in the first place?”

“From what I understand, he leaped through some sort of a fire, grabbed you, and leaped back out. Which accounts for his third degree burns. Curiously, there are no burns on you. A mangled hip, some severe injuries to the stomach, massive blood loss, but no burns. Now why is that?”

“I’m special,” I told him.

Curran had gone through the bloodward fire. Twice. To get me. Idiot.

“You won’t tell me.”

“No.”

“That’s gratitude for you,” he sighed with mock sadness. “After you were brought here, I spent roughly four hours repairing your body, most of which”—he glared—“were spent on fixing your stomach.”

“Third degree burns,” I said.

“Yes. You haven’t heard a word I said.”

“I heard everything: four hours, stomach, hip, blood loss. You didn’t do a blood transfusion, did you?” There was no telling what the magic in my blood would do to foreign plasma.

“Heaven forbid. I do believe you think me to be an amateur.”

He ended “amateur” with a “tuar.”

“What about bandages?”