Page 59 of The Wrong Monster

“Kevin stays here until he’s stable enough to move without putting him at further risk.”

The instructions are directed to Ariadna to pass on to Mrs. Harris, but I see Art’s jaw tighten out of the corner of my eye.

“Problem?” The question is cool, quiet, as I turn to face him.

“Not a problem. Just thinking through the logistics of keeping the boy here. If Yuri or Semiyon or anyone finds out he’s here⁠—”

“Then they’ll have to go through me to get to him.”

Something in Arthur’s gaze shifts. The humanity slides back. Good; he’s vital as my head of security, but sometimes I need him to understand the why. And that he’s not working for a complete monster.

“I agree,” the doctor throws in quickly. “If you can give him a week here, or more, to let the bone begin to heal⁠—”

I cut him off. “I doubt Mrs. Harris will want to be away from her son for that long. But we’ll do what we can here. You’ll be on call,” a statement, not a question, because that’s what I pay Dr. Fowler for, “for anything he should need, and I’d like you to show some of the staff pain med dosing.”

I turn toward the three Boeviks. All three straighten, eyes locked on me despite working directly under Arthur. They understand who their real leader is.

“You have one job. Find Semiyon.”

The name seems to change the temperature in the room. Because that’s the one thing we know. Somehow, Semiyon found out Kevin was a spy.

And if he knew that much, then someone talked, someone saw something, or Semiyon has gotten far closer to my organization than I realized. I never gave him that much credit; an aging Boevik, a nuisance, but never anyone to take seriously. I even let him drink in bars in Lake Placid when I could have had him thrown out on his ass in the cold.

“Find him,” I repeat. My hands curl into fists. “And when you do, you bring him to me.”

No one asks what happens after that; they already know.

* * *

Forty-three hours. That’s how long Kevin has been in this house.

I stand beside the bed and watch him sleep. Heavy sleep, the kind that doesn’t look restful, but looks necessary instead, as if he’s drugged. Which he is.

Every few breaths, his chest catches. A wheezing sound follows, and his face pinches even though he’s unconscious. His fingers twitch against the blanket before going still again.

I hate seeing him like this.

The feeling sits beneath my ribs, sharp and unwelcome. I reach down and adjust the blanket where it’s slipped from his shoulder.

“Easy, rebenok.”

Kid. What I’d call him if we crossed paths on the street; not even acknowledging him by name. Now he’s laid out in one of my guest bedrooms, still dirty because we couldn’t manage more than a sponge bath. He’s in pain because I let this get out of hand.

When he can get out of this bed, he’s finished running errands for us. No more messages from Yuri’s bars, no more fishing for names. I’ve been calling it protection while taking what he brought me, and here is the result.

I underestimated Yuri and the depth of the trouble we’re in. Now he’s not just coming at me from a legal standpoint, but he’s fighting dirty in the streets.

The door opens quietly behind me, and Kevin doesn’t wake or budge. Art steps inside, closing it without making a sound.

“How is he?”

“Still sleeping.”

“And when he wakes up, he’s out of the field,” I tell him. “No more children passing us information. I don’t care how useful they are.”

Art looks at Kevin, then back at me. “I’ll make sure everyone understands.”

He nods. “Matilda’s fine. I checked on her, just as you asked. She’s inquisitive, knows something is up, but is not pushing much when we keep it vague.”