Emilie didn't respond to the thanks; she was too busy getting everything ready. The two syringes, the little spoon that she would use to mix the crystals in the water to heat it up into a wonderfully toxic syrup. Ezra had been so insistent that she snort that Emilie had almost forgotten how much better it was when you injected it right into the vein. It was a high that swallowed you whole and spit you out and, oh, it made you want to get chewed up over and over again.
It wasn't until she asked about the dog men that Emilie looked up from her ritual, and she simply shook her head. They weren't mean, really. She didn't care for Bishop one bit but their leader, the king of the hounds, was the one willing to supply her with the Prax, so he couldn't be all bad.
Except he had killed Sister Slaughter. Had probably killed a handful of other Ghouls, too. Then again, how many Hellhounds had they killed?
"Rats and dogs don't get along," she said easily, and before long, she had two syringes full of the glowing, deadly drug, but she didn't hand Clover's to her right away. "What've you got to give me?"