Host Club on the Pleasure Planet (On the Pleasure Planet)

FIFTEEN

Benedict’s evening had not gone as expected. Instead of sedately drinking their pints at The Pub, the meandering over to Saveur for another night of plastering on a smile and hob-nobbing to aliens he suspected were criminals, he was sitting in the waiting room of a veterinarian’s clinic.

Farq had tried to rob him, he’d fallen out a window, Oz had saved him, and Oz had gotten shot. And Oz had been bleeding to death in the middle of the street, and no one had wanted to help him. Benedict had flagged a cab and taken the Vetruvian to a hospital, but no one there had given a damn.

It seemed like no one thought Vetruvians needed care. They weren’t on the level with other aliens, not like felids or yetis. Hell, even some humans outranked the entire shapeshifting species.

Vetruvians were dirt, apparently, to be treated like animals. Benedict’s tail flicked in annoyance as he thought about it.

The doctor stepped out of the surgery, still in blood-spattered scrubs. They lowered their mask and slithered toward Benedict. Benedict tensed, letting his claws dig into his arms. “Well?” he asked.

“He’ll make it,” the doctor said breezily. “Lucky for him, the bullet went wide. If it had been an inch or so to the left …”

Benedict didn’t know exactly how long an inch was, but it sounded like a very small measurement. He didn’t ask what would have happened; he didn’t want to know what vital organ or artery would have been hit.

“But he’s going to be okay?” He let out a shaky breath and relaxed into his chair when the doctor nodded.

“He’ll need to rest,” the vet continued, “and physiotherapy will help him keep use of the shoulder.”

Benedict nodded. “Okay. Okay.” He’d already determined that whatever Oz needed, he was going to get. After all, Benedict was under no illusions—that bullet had been meant for him. Farq just had shitty aim.

Oz had taken a bullet for him. Oz had saved his life, not once but twice in the very same afternoon.

Guilt mingled with relief and thankfulness. Benedict could never begin to repay Oz for that. Heap on that Oz was a slave, that he’d acted so selflessly to save his master .

Benedict felt sick when he thought about it. So he didn’t think about it. He thought, instead, about Oz’s recovery, how he was going to nurse the Vetruvian back to perfect health. It was all he could do, and Oz deserved so much more.

The doctor snapped off their gloves, moving behind the counter. “I can recommend a place for therapy,” they said.

“Please,” Benedict replied, moving to the counter.

“We’ll send you the bill,” the doctor said. “I recommend letting him have bedrest for a while—we don’t keep Vetruvian blood on hand, you know.”

Benedict frowned. The vet cleared their throat and shifted nervously. “So, you know, we … couldn’t do a transfusion.”

“Oh.” Benedict let his eyes widen. “Did … does he need one?”

“Technically, yes. But I think he’ll pull through, provided he’s given a chance to recover.” The vet paused, their mouth twisting. “Vetruvians are kind of a medical mystery still—nobody really understands their shapeshifting, which makes it difficult to conduct medical procedures.”

“Oh,” Benedict said again, feeling a little foolish.

The doctor rubbed their face. “But I think—and the few studies that are out there suggest this—he’ll simply redirect some of his cells to whatever he needs most, in this case blood. And over time, he’ll make more blood, like most other species, so he’ll be fine. But only if he’s given enough time to recuperate.”

The doctor gave Benedict a stern look, which Benedict didn’t really understand. Instead, he simply nodded and said, “Of course, of course.”

The doctor nodded once more. “Here’s a couple of prescriptions for him—should help with the pain. Call if they don’t seem to be doing the trick—I can prescribe something else for him. It’s a bit of a guess with Vetruvians, what will work, because?—”

“Of the shapeshifting,” Benedict concluded, and the vet smiled.

“Now you’re getting it,” they said. “All right. I’m discharging him. You can get him home okay?”

“Yeah,” Benedict said, although he was already doubting he could. He’d left his wallet in the office—he was dreading going back—and he’d spent most of the credits he had on hand on the cab over here.

He’d figure it out. Saveur wasn’t far from here. Maybe Shakes or Sassa could help him. One of them could go get his wallet and …

He thought about Farq still lurking around or maybe Vito’s goons and suppressed a shudder. No, he’d leave Oz with them and go to the office himself. Get his wallet. Face whatever evils still lurked in the shadows.

And shut that window and lock up.

He ended up cabbing over to Saveur anyway. Oz was so dopey he couldn’t walk and, for being such a little guy, he was surprisingly heavy. Benedict had thought shapeshifters would be light as a feather, but Oz was dense .

Which made sense if he thought about it; he had to have a lot of matter to be able to rearrange himself like he did. In this form, it was all packed tightly together, and that made him heavy.

Then again, Benedict supposed he’d be heavy any which way—in another form, with the molecules all spread out, he might feel lighter, but he’d be too big to carry.

Or something. Science had never been Benedict’s strong suit, nor had Abbot Bartholomew encouraged the brothers to learn much about it. The universe was mysterious, he said, and they ought to leave it that way.

Looking around Kateria, Benedict wasn’t sure he agreed.

He stumbled into the kitchen of Saveur, dragging Oz with him through the back alley.

Nobody was in the kitchen, which didn’t surprise him. According to the staff, their cook had run off the second they heard La Chef was dead, and nobody had bothered dragging them back. And it wasn’t like Benedict had hired anyone.

Or bought another slave. Or freed the ones he owned. Or paid anyone.

Shoving those thoughts aside, he poked his nose out to the bar, peering around to see if anyone was nearby.

Just Nzx, and they weren’t helpful at the best of times. Still, he waved to them, trying to flag them down. They arched a brow, then stepped closer to the bar. “Sir?” they asked.

“Get Sassa,” he demanded.

Their brow furrowed as they drawled, “Okay …” Then they walked off.

Benedict was just beginning to think they weren’t going to return when Sassa arrived at the bar, hands on her hips and frown on her face. “You want something, boss?”

He waved her closer, and her frown grew. “Oz has been shot,” he tried to whisper.

“What?” One of her ears twitched, and Benedict wanted to call her out—they were both felids, and he knew she could hear him over the music.

“Oz has been shot.”

She shook her head. “I still didn’t hear you—Oz isn’t pouring shots, he isn’t even?—”

“He’s been shot!” Benedict bellowed, and he was pretty sure the entire restaurant turned toward the bar, eyes wide. He shrank back a bit, ears plastered to his head.

He finally looked at Sassa again. She was simply staring at him, like she couldn’t possibly process the idea. “Oz?” she asked. “Shot? Like, with a gun?”

“No, with a bow and arrow,” Benedict sniped back, then cried, “Yes, with a gun!” when it looked like she believed him about the arrow.

“Stars above,” she muttered, swinging herself behind the bar. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

Benedict nodded. “He’s going to be fine, or so the … doctor assured me.”

Sassa nearly bowled him over. “Doctor? Who’s paying for that ? He’s not at the hospital, is he?”

“No,” Benedict said. “He’s in the kitchen.”

Sassa almost recoiled. “The kitchen? The hell?—”

“I need help.” He was surprised by how fervently he meant it, how desperate he felt saying it. “The doctor said he could go home, but I don’t know where he lives.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Sassa said, waving a paw. She grabbed a pen and paper, then scribbled down an address, before handing it to Benedict with a flourish.

“Thanks,” he muttered, looking at the scrawled address. She had neat handwriting.

“No problem,” she said, then paused. “You can read it, right?”

“Yes.” That wasn’t why he was still standing there.

Sassa waited. “Okay …”

He closed his eyes. “I need money for cab fare.”

“Why? Don’t you own this place, you should be?—”

“My wallet is at the office. I … forgot it. In the aftermath.”

“Of Oz getting shot,” Sassa finished, and Benedict nodded meekly. She sighed again, then went to the register. She punched in a code and opened it. “Get him home, boss.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She looked out at the floor. “Then get someone up here to tend bar. I’ll try to hold down the fort tonight, but …”

“I’ll send Mig,” he assured her, although she looked anything but reassured at the mention of the six-armed bartender from The Pub.

He didn’t have time to think on it. He needed to get Oz home. “Good night, Sassa.”

“Night, boss,” she echoed, although he barely heard it as he headed toward the door.