CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Thurston stepped off the train at Ashland station. There was only one man on the platform this late at night—a homeless guy in a raincoat stocking cap sitting on a platform, dejected. The man looked up at Thurston, and the sight of the bloodied doctor snapped him out of a long frown.
“I thought I was having a bad night,” the guy said.
Thurston ignored him.
“If they didn't steal your cash, I could use a buck or two,” the man called after him.
Thurston stalked down the stairs. Every step sent a rush of pain through his back. He stopped on one of the landings and rubbed it. That werehyena hurt him something awful when it threw him into the wall.
He needed relief. He imagined all the salves and poultices that probably existed in the faerie world that would take his pai
