22.
Since Sheyla’s arrival in the bunker, she hadn’t spoken to anyone much, because everyone was organizing the supplies before an emergency cropped up. So far, the patients were stable, coping with the move, but with any critical condition, the status could change in a heartbeat, and patient welfare depended on staff being able to lay hands on necessary medicine and equipment with lightning speed.
Once everything was sorted, she took stock of her surroundings, a thorough inspection that started with the large room close to the lift. It had been originally intended as storage, she thought, but at some point, they’d half-repurposed it as a lounge—with battered couches, tables, and chairs scattered around the space, with all the shelves shoved against the far wall. Like the lights in the elevator, the overhead bulbs glowed an artificial yellow and she could hear them, as if the current was whispering. There was also a smell, musty and close, that she hoped would dissipate in time, if only to be replaced with sweat and pheromones.
Farther down the hall, there were four rooms, two larger than the rest. Those, they had earmarked for the critical ward, setting up life support systems and connecting them to the emergency generator that Dr. Seagram claimed would run for six months, if they were careful. They only had food and water sufficient for two, however, so if they didn’t get an all-clear signal from Hallowell’s forces before then, the generator would be the least of their worries.
She wouldn’t think about that.
The last two rooms included a dormitory and a cavernous wet room with washing and toilet facilities, though they couldn’t count on the running water. If there was interference above ground, it would stop, leaving only what they had stored in bottles. That might be a problem for some, but Sheyla could shift and groom herself.
Sometimes it’s good to be a cat.
Even if Dr. Seagram hadn’t said this was an old installation, she could’ve guessed by the dingy gray flooring and cracked blue tiles in the lavatory. As for the dorm, it was all bare sheetrock and stacked metal bunks, three tall, four sets. More than enough sleeping space, especially considering that they’d likely be working twelve-hour rotations; there weren’t enough staffers to do three shifts.
Lockers against the far wall offered a place to stash personal effects, but Sheyla came out with nothing but the clothes on her back. There should be spare scrubs floating around, one less worry at least. As she concluded her survey, Dr. Seagram called to her from the hallway.
“Now that things are somewhat settled, we’re having a brief meeting in the rec room.”
“Is that what it’s called?” she mumbled.
“If you dig around, you’ll find some books and magazines from the turn of the century. Riveting stuff.”
“I can hardly wait. I wanted to ask about the signal ma—”
“The signal machine should be fine. Even if the cables are disrupted, we still have the trolley lines. Our messages should get through. If there’s anybody alive to read them.”
“You’re the cheerful type, aren’t you?”
Seagram grinned as they stepped into the rec room. Already assembled, there were three doctors, five nurses, and four aides so adding Sheyla and her mentor to the tally brought the total to fourteen. Not a bad care ratio, but it might get dicey depending on what specialties the group encompassed.
Too late for second thoughts, we have to do our best.
“First let’s introduce ourselves since we’ll be stuck with each other for a while. Make it quick, mind, so I can go over the first duty roster. I’ll start. Most of you know me, but I’m Dr. Eldred Seagram, husband to Franklin, father of two, formerly of Burnt Amber, and Director of Oncology at St. Casimir.” He glanced around the lounge. “Everyone clear on how it’s done?”
A series of nods, then he pointed at Sheyla. “You start, we move left from there, until everyone’s done.”
“Dr. Sheyla Halek, research specialty, GP in Ash Valley. Mated to…” Alastor, the demon prince, but that wasn’t an insult in her mind anymore, more of an endearment. “No one. Three siblings, hate small talk. Next.”
To her left, a slender man with fair hair stood, though that hadn’t been required. “Nurse Darian Mills, critical care unit, formerly of Ice Spire, Mated to Evelina for six years. I like talking about bees and botany. Next.”
Though Sheyla knew she needed to learn all their names, at minimum, she found herself drifting. She pinched her wrist to force sharper attention. In the end, it wasn’t easy, but she memorized names and facts like they were medical terms.
Three doctors, besides herself and Seagram. Names: Sherwood of Pine Ridge, Akoni of Burnt Amber, Mitra who had declined to give any information other than medical specialty.
Nurses: Mills of Ice Spire, Harlow, Odell, Laxmi, and Baako. She’d already forgotten where all but one of them were from, but it probably didn’t matter.
Aides: Gola, Udek, Chibueze, Enrian.
There was a mix of male and female staff; most were mated. When the last person finished speaking, Dr. Seagram stood. Though he’d requested brevity, the intros still took at least fifteen minutes. It was a minute miracle that no alarms were sounding down the hall.
Quickly, he explained the shifts, divided as Sheyla had predicted. He read the names of the people who would be on duty first and then said, “The rest of you, relax and get some rest. You’ll need it.”
Since her name hadn’t been called, she’d be on second shift. As the others went off to the ward, she stood up, only to be hailed by Nurse Nervous. Harlow, she corrected herself mentally.
“Do you think we’re safe?” the woman asked.
“More than the people who are fighting.” Her tone was curt because it was an asinine question.
“We might not even be able to get a message out. Did you see the apparatus Dr. Seagram mentioned?”
Until this moment, she hadn’t even looked but her gaze followed Nurse Harlow’s gesture until she spotted the machine in the far corner, near the lift. Perched on a table, it was the oddest piece of “technology” she’d ever seen, with a wooden base and metal knobs attached to a metal wand that sat atop a metal plate and there were the wires he’d mentioned, running from the unit into the wall.
“There’s only one way to find out,” she said.
She went over to investigate, but there was no usage manual, no hint of how to operate the thing. Dr. Seagram should know, based on what he’d said, but it was a poor idea to have only one person trained on such matters, plus she’d always loved puzzles.
He mentioned old books down here…
Near the hallway, she located the shelves in question, haphazardly stacked with books, files, and periodicals. Most were medical journals, unbelievably outdated, some were fiction, including some rather fascinating vintage pornography. Not what she was looking for, but Sheyla did pause to admire some of the pictures.
“What are you doing?” Nurse Harlow hovered behind her, and she stifled a sigh.
It seemed she’d acquired a shadow.
“Looking for documentation.”
The woman seemed puzzled, not Sheyla’s problem. On the bottom shelf, underneath a stack of yellow papers, she found what she sought—a usage manual for the wired gizmo, along with a simple cipher system. It tracked logically that the outpost would have access to these same materials, so she sat down on the floor to study.
Unsurprisingly, Nurse Harlow joined her. “Is it helpful?”
We must live together for gods know how long. I cannot snap at her.
“With sufficient review, I’ll be able to use the machine and send a test message.” She was trying for a nice way of saying, Shut up and let me focus.
It didn’t work.
The nurse chattered on. “I should have volunteered for the triage team, I think. Being underground unsettles me so much.”
“You don’t say.”
Here, for many people, the urge to comfort would kick in. Sheyla just wanted Nurse Harlow to go away. Somehow, she restrained her impatience. “Is that where the rest of the St. Casimir staff went?”
Eager nodding. “There are med tents set up at all borough outposts.”
If things had been less of a mad scramble, maybe she would’ve chosen the triage team too, but Sheyla wasn’t wired for regret. Done was done, and she’d do her utmost to help in the bunker. If he knew, Alastor would probably be glad she was here with Dedrick, at any rate, and sequestered from the fighting.
Offering a longing look at the manual, she tried one last time to distract Nurse Harlow. By offering her the vintage porn. “This is amazing, check it out.”
Nurse Harlow took it, and finally, there was blessed silence.
I am wrath.
I am vengeance.
No, that was the wrong word. Justice. For those who couldn’t fight, Alastor led the Exile infantry. Korin and her two flankers provided enough air support for him to maneuver his unit into position, and he raised both arms in salute, hoping she saw it from her eagle-eye view.
He never felt so powerful as when he changed, even if he was charging straight toward a battalion of his own people. They were coming in hard, echelon formation, and he spotted heavy weapons near the back.
“Rowena!” He only needed to call out and point for her to see what he did from her better vantage.
It was a risk to send her in ahead, but he couldn’t let them hit the Exiles with that artillery. He slowed and roared a challenge, willing the commander to recognize him. If he did, he’d run straight at Alastor, never mind what the winged Gol might be doing.
It worked.
Following their commander, the whole squadron rushed at Alastor. He guessed there must be a bounty on him, dead or alive. How many coins for my head on a stick? That gambit let Rowena swoop in and drop grenades on the back of the line. The weapons and ammo went up in beautiful, fiery explosion that took out at least ten more grunts in pure collateral damage.
Shots rained down from behind, suppressive fire as he’d requested from the city militia. He didn’t have time to admire the fireworks, though, because in ten more seconds he was fighting for his life. Dedrick should be here, at his back, but he only had this scrawny Noxblade. Though Alastor had to admit, Zan was both ferocious and quick with his twin blades, which the enemy knew to be wary of, as they were poisoned.
He blocked a strike and another, then went on offense. We have to hold the line. Bodies slammed together all around him, the stink of smoke, burning flesh, and blood blending into an intense stench that fired his need to kill everyone who came at him.
Soon, he wasn’t thinking at all, no tactics, no strategy, just teeth and claws and deadly spikes. Corpses piled around him, his kills, Zan’s, and still they came on. He knocked three enemies down with a vicious swipe of his tail, and then, it was all butchery: gobbets of bloody meat and entrails yanked through soft spots in armored plating. One by one, he slew them all, until he was simultaneously sick and euphoric at the carnage.
Movement in his periphery, and he spun, narrowly avoiding a strike by the squad commander. Warily Alastor circled; this brute was nearly as big as he was, without the spikes, plating on his chest. By his scars, he’d fought often in the arena.
“You shame our people,” the captain growled.
“Don’t you respect strength? If so, how can you question my decision to challenge my brother? If you had a chance at the throne, wouldn’t you take it?”
Something like respect flickered in the Gol leader’s eyes. “If I was royal-born, I’d challenge and win.”
“Then you understand why I must kill you.” Alastor lunged, a fraction too slow to plunge his claws into the other’s throat.
A gravelly laugh. “You’ll try.”
“Less talk, more dying.” Zan zipped in and slashed, just a slice across the soft skin beneath the Gol’s arm.
A bee sting, really.
“You think…” But the leader couldn’t get his breath; panting and wheezing, he dropped to his knees.
Alastor finished him swiftly, a mercy, as the poison would take ten more minutes to complete its work. Zan was already engaging more nearby. His prey tended to die from minor wounds, contorted and frothing at the mouth. His body count just kept climbing, and he was so fucking fast that Alastor couldn’t keep up.
The initial bloodlust waned as challengers slowed. They’d broken their enemy line, at a cost. Nearly a third of his Exiles lay among the fallen, and more were fighting farther west.
“Fall back!” he ordered.
Rowena repeated the command, calling to the ones who had prowled past the range of his voice. As he’d hoped, the remainders of the enemy squad, now leaderless and frenzied, gave chase. They had the RVAC mounted on a roof nearby and he waited until just the right moment to fire off a flare to the gunner. On that mark, she opened fire, blasting the ground so that an entire wave of Golgoth invaders went up in red smoke, drifted to dust. Even the earth seemed scorched, darker than normal dirt, and the smell—since they’d deployed the RVAC at long range last time, he hadn’t breathed in the fresh death.
No one should have this thing, let alone use it. If he took the throne, the first thing he’d do was suggest a voluntary disarmament on all sides.
His surviving soldiers rallied around him, blood-spattered and triumphant. The west holds. Now he needed news on how the forces fared to the south. If one side of the phalanx caved in, there would be no stopping the sack and pillage of Hallowell.
His skin felt too small and it was hard to think. Each idea came with too much straining when all he wanted to do was find Sheyla and fuck her through a wall. This wasn’t a new impulse, fortunately, but Alastor paused when he realized how specific the urge had become. Before, after the battle in the forest, he would’ve grabbed Ded or whichever soldier was closest to rut his brains out.
Fuck.
Fuuuuck.
Best not to dwell on it.
“Orders?” Rowena asked.
“We return to the outpost to see how the other units are faring. I’ll decide our next move after the status report.”
“Fall in,” she called to the men.
Borrowed strength from his brute form kept him moving at a brisk clip, but if he kept it up, he might collapse as he had before, unable to hold his shape. I can’t. I’m needed. I have to ration my energy. Still, he’d left his clothes at the outpost and he didn’t care to start wild stories by returning from battle naked and covered in blood. The Animari already nursed enough mistaken lore about his people.
The outpost commander was waiting for a word, but Alastor held up a hand to forestall him. Being unable to communicate easily offered an excellent excuse for him to shift back and dress, doing his best to hide the awkward erection.
At this moment, he could make anyone within a ten-foot radius want to fuck him, and in fact, the outpost commander was starting to look flushed, instinctively moving closer. Alastor took a step back.
“Your report?”
“Yes. Right.” The man rubbed his cheek and then put out a hand, dropped it to his side in eager flutters that might have been endearing, if Alastor had been trying to seduce him. Eventually, he collected himself enough to say, “I’m sorry, we don’t have any information yet. The signal machines are silent.”
“They’re probably still fighting in the south. Should we move to reinforce them…” It was a rhetorical question more than anything else.
“I’m not sure, sir. I feel…” The commander struggled to find a word that wasn’t wildly inappropriate.
“Walk it off. I’ll come back later.”
To aid in that recovery of composure, Alastor moved away to find Rowena. The Exiles had changed as well, but he could tell by their restless movements and febrile eyes that they wouldn’t be able to hold long. Quietly he said, “Find some privacy. Do what you need to. Fast. With each other, no meddling with the locals.”
It might seem like an odd move, but he needed all of them sharp and this was the most efficient way to keep anyone from losing control. That was a fucking disaster on deck, if his own soldiers seduced—or gods forbid, ravaged—the people they were supposed to protect.
Rowena added, “You heard him. This is a hit and quit, not the orgy of champions.”
Joining them would clear his head, but a lean figure was already headed his way. When the man stepped into the light, Alastor recognized Gavriel, visibly stained with his night’s work. Blood dotted his fair features, painted his white hair in streaks of violence.
“Bad news or worse?” the Eldritch asked.
“Surprise me.”
“Then I’ll let you decide which constitutes which. The south can’t hold and St. Casimir Hospital has fallen.”