His voice broke the silence ten minutes later: “That’s not right.”

“What?” I turned, the fingerprint kit’s dusting brush in one hand, to find him scowling at a jar full of purple liquid.

“Just a second.” He waved his free hand over the jar, muttering in Welsh. His magic rose, filling the air with the taste of ice and yarrow, and the ghostly image of a branch of oleander flowers appeared in front of him. He lowered his hand, even as the brush fell from my suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered to the counter. “Well. That’s an unpleasant piece of work.”

“Oleander,” I whispered, not taking my eyes off the flowers.

“Exactly,” said Walther, clearly missing the importance of the word. “Someone spiked the meat with oleander extract. I’ve never seen the stuff so refined. It’s practically pure—” He stopped, catching the look on my face. “What’s wrong? I can cure oleander poisoning.”

“That’s Oleander,” I said. My head was pounding again. I was too relieved to care. Oleander’s always had a preference for using her namesake—call it hubris or plain old evil—but I don’t know how to distill the stuff. I wouldn’t know where to start; with Devin gone, I wouldn’t even know who to buy it from. She was real, and I wasn’t crazy.

“Yes, oleanders.” I could tell he didn’t have any clue Oleander de Merelands might be involved. She was ancient history for most people, just another boogeyman beneath our racial bed. I’d been starting to think I was the only one who couldn’t let her go. “They’re poisonous.”

“I know.” I picked up the brush and turned back to the cup, resuming my dusting. “I’ve seen them before.”

“I’m not surprised. They’re stupidly common in Californian landscaping. What did you say happened to your hands?”

“Hawthorn bush.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “When you finish with that, I want a blood sample.”

“What?” I glanced back over my shoulder, eyeing him. “You didn’t say what I think you just said.”

“Do you think what I said was ‘can I have a blood sample?’ ”

“Does it have to be from me?” I’ve always hated the sight of my own blood. The thought of sharing it didn’t appeal, especially not with my hands already beaten raw.

“Since you’re the only other person here for me to ask, yes, it does.”

“Take it from yourself.” I squinted at the cup. “The only prints here are Luna’s.”

“You know what Duchess Torquill’s fingerprints look like?” Walther removed his gloves and tossed them into the trash can.

“I can be pretty persistent when I want to be.”

“Really,” he said, dryly. He picked up a lancet, walking over to me.

I decided to ignore both his sarcasm and the sharp object he was carrying. “I went through a forensics phase, so I hassled her into letting me take her prints. They’re unique enough that I remembered them—see?” I indicated the scalloped flower-petal whorls of one print. “Never seen anything else like it.” I gave him a sidelong look. “I’d rather not give blood today. I feel fine.”

Walther sighed. “Toby, your pupils are dilated, your pulse is up, and you keep staring at your hands—which, by the way, you’ve managed to hurt in some way that makes no sense to me. You’ve brought me meat spiked with enough refined oleander to kill dragons, and a cup covered in Duchess Torquill’s fingerprints. Please excuse me if I don’t believe you ‘feel fine.’ ”

“Dragons?” I echoed, momentarily distracted from the lancet. “This stuff could kill dragons?”

“Tybalt’s lucky any of his subjects ate this and survived.”

“It’s a little early to say they survived,” I said. “Can you make some sort of antitoxin for the ones that are still alive?”

“Cait Sidhe are odd, biologically speaking, but I should be able to come up with something.”

“We don’t have much time.”

“I know. That’s why I need you to let me take a blood sample before you drop dead and force me to explain your corpse to the administration.” His voice stayed level and soothing. “Chemistry professors who wind up with dead women in their labs don’t get tenure, and I don’t want to change jobs for at least another thirty years.”

“How do you know my pulse is up?” I felt my wrist. He was right—my pulse was racing like I’d been running a marathon. I frowned. Finding Walther’s office wasn’t that stressful, and watching him play with the chemicals had been almost soothing.

“Trade secret.” He paused. “You’re breathing too fast. You’ve been practically panting since you got here, and that forces your pulse up. That can’t be good, especially since you may have been exposed to some sort of toxin.”

“I’ve barely eaten today,” I protested. “I’ve been running in circles since last night.”

“Food and drink aren’t the only ways to poison someone. You can use inhalants, contact poisons—want the list? Unless you can prove you’ve managed to go without breathing all day, you’re at risk, and since you’re not a Gnome, you’ve been breathing.”

“Fine.” I offered my less-battered hand and turned my face away, squeezing my eyes shut. “Just make it quick.”

“I only need a little—it won’t even hurt. Tell me, are all Daoine Sidhe as squeamish as you?” He took my hand. “Not that you look like any of the Daoine Sidhe I’ve known, but I thought your people specialized in blood.”

“I don’t mind most blood, just mine.” Something pricked my finger. It wasn’t any worse than being clawed by one of the cats or stroking Spike the wrong way. I still winced.

“That’s it,” said Walther.

I looked back to see him wiping my fingertip with a cotton ball. I blinked. “Really?”

He smiled, holding up a test tube with a few drops of blood at the bottom. “This is all I’ll need.”

“Good.” I shuddered.

“You must’ve been hell as a kid,” he said, turning to drop the test tube into a rack. “I’d have hated being your family doctor. Imagine trying to give you a shot!”