23.
Twelve hours was a long shift.
Sheyla had worked for days straight in Ash Valley after the bombing, but prior to that, she’d worked normal hours in the hospital. It had been years since her residency. Unlike the others, she didn’t complain. That accomplished nothing and made Dr. Seagram peevish.
She heard him snap at Nurse Harlow, “No, I don’t know what’s going on in Hallowell. I’m not a seer, and I don’t have a magic mirror.”
He stomped out of the critical ward, leaving the nurse to approach Sheyla. Again. If only I had more vintage porn, she thought.
“He’s so mean.”
You’re so annoying. One of the ways she’d learned to pretend—to fit in better—was not speaking every honest thought.
“Did you change patient Li’s IVs?” she asked.
“Of course.” The nurse seemed affronted.
“And you’ve finished all the—”
“Yes. Whatever it is, yes. My list is entirely checked off. Now I’m just counting down the last fifteen minutes of our endless shift.”
Sheyla could’ve pointed out that if the shift was endless, there wouldn’t be a finite amount of time remaining, but that would’ve meant prolonging the conversation. Since she’d finished all her tasks as well, she went over to Dedrick and perched on the edge of the table at his bedside. From experience, she knew people spoke as if their words would be heard, so she tried to imagine what Alastor would say if he was here. She came up blank because he was so much brightness, irreverent and silly and…
Dear.
In the end, she only had her own words to give. “You’re healing well. There will be minimal scarring on your heart. It shouldn’t impact your physical prowess, provided you recover from the poison.”
That was the real threat, not that she’d say so to Dedrick, even in his comatose state. For the first time that she’d seen, his fingers flexed. Hesitantly she reached for his hand; it was warm and scarred, like the rest of him. It seemed to Sheyla that all the marks Alastor’s mother had erased, Dedrick bore them on his body in tribute. Probably he’d taken the wounds defending the prince, and she could not be more grateful.
Encouraged, she went on, “Alastor is waiting for you. I don’t think he’ll ever be the same if you don’t pull through, so you know what you should do, right?”
Another flex of his fingers.
“Good. It’s all right if you sleep a little longer. There’s not much to do down here anyway.”
She held his hand until her shift ended and the other crew shuffled in, no more bright-eyed than she felt. The dry ration packs on offer were essential-protein nuggets, the calories and nutrients required to sustain life, but it offered no savor to grind it up with her teeth and wash it down with tepid water. Already she wanted to shift and run, feel crisp wind blowing over her fur. Even the journey from Ash Valley to the rendezvous site that she’d once judged so awful and grueling shone like an inviting memory.
After dinner—or breakfast, she had no idea what time it was—she carried the code manual over to the signal machine. Using the instructions, she fired it up and was delighted to see the unit respond exactly as predicted. Silently, Dr. Seagram crept to her shoulder, but since he smelled a trifle ripe, she didn’t startle.
“You’ve already got it working.”
A pointless observation. “Is that all right?”
“Yes. Just don’t send any information that would give away our location. I can’t fathom why the invaders would come after us when there are higher priority targets, but it seems better to be safe.”
“Agreed.”
After a moment’s thought, she painstakingly input the code for the letters S-H-A-L-A-I. Only Alastor would understand its significance. Random militia officers would have no clue and enemy Golgoth would only know that it was a flower. In the prince’s hands, it would become a private message, one that could’ve come from only one person.
His heart’s delight.
“An odd choice for a test,” Dr. Seagram said.
Sheyla only shrugged. There was no reason to explain her personal life, so long as it didn’t impact her professional performance. After turning off the signal machine, she got a book and chose the most comfortable-looking seat. It was too soon to retire; she would only toss and turn if she tried to burn all her free time in sleep.
This time, the one who interrupted her attempt at reading wasn’t Nurse Harlow, at least. A slight male joined her in an adjacent chair, and with some effort, she placed him as Dr. Mitra. He didn’t smell like anyone she’d ever encountered before, which was enough to pique her curiosity. It was beyond rude to ask, Why do you smell so strange?
He offered a friendly smile. “We haven’t spoken much. What are you reading?”
“The Secret History of Eldritch Queens: A Study in Espionage and Assassination.”
“Not what I expected.”
“Which is?” She wanted to demand the point of this conversation. Social interaction seemed rambling and inefficient, but she surmised that it sprang from a need for contact.
“From what I’ve seen, you’re all business, so I thought you’d be reading a medical journal.”
“Those are all fifty years out of date,” she pointed out. “Whereas this was already historical nonfiction when it was printed.”
“There could be new discoveries in later versions of the text, obviating prior assumptions of historical accuracy.”
“True.” Finally, she had to ask, “What is it that you want, Dr. Mitra? I can’t imagine you came to debunk my choice of reading material.”
“Not as such, no. I was just trying to be polite, get to know you before I request a favor.”
“No need, just ask.” Finally, she could see an end to this.
“I’m quite good friends with a doctor on first shift, and it would make time go faster for both of us if we were on the same schedule.”
“So, you want me to switch.”
“If you don’t mind. I know you’ve just come off rotation, but—”
She made a swift decision. One double shift, and then I’m working opposite Nurse Harlow? It felt like Dr. Mitra was doing her the favor.
“I’ll go relieve him right now.”
“Really? I can’t thank you enough—”
She discarded her book and strode toward the ward. Sheyla found her promised swap partner; they went to Dr. Seagram together. He mumbled a bit, but in the end, he approved the request.
“If this starts a tidal wave of shift trading, I’m holding you two responsible!” he called after them.
Maybe it was a small thing, but the switch cheered her up considerably. The first shift staff was polite but not chatty, just the way she liked it, and work was the best use of hours that otherwise would pass like chilled honey dripping off a spoon.
Gratefully she immersed herself in other people’s needs, tended one minor emergency, brought another patient back from the brink of death. Normal. Satisfying. Exhaustion prickled at the back of her eyes, and in that moment of weakness, she let herself wonder.
How is he? Is he hurting? Tired?
Before she could topple into the abyss of bleak curiosity, Nurse Mills grabbed her arm. “Dr. Halek, you have to see this.”
His urgency snapped her back to reality, big room, basic equipment, row on row of patients who needed her best. She went at a run, skidding to a stop at Dedrick’s bedside. His vitals were erratic, and just as she feared he was about to go into shock, they stabilized.
His eyes opened. Searching. The unfamiliar surroundings, sounds and smells, and this room was far from inviting, more like a dungeon where medical experiments might be conducted. Panic would set in soon—she’d seen it before. Quickly Sheyla stepped into his field of vision and took his hand, because that was what Alastor would do.
“You did well,” she said. “You’re safe.”
He couldn’t speak for the tube in his throat, but his eyes were asking, in abject terror, about the prince, so she added, “Alastor’s fine too.”
As far as I know.
Sheyla’s alive.
She must be.
When Alastor first got the news about St. Casimir, his first reaction was pure panic, but once he quelled it, he’d understood it was wrong. Because no matter what had happened at St. Casimir, he didn’t feel the empty devastation that would surely follow if his love had departed from the world. She wouldn’t want me to worry. If she was here, she’d say, “Do some work if you’re wasting your energy on that.”
It was harder to excise his fear for Dedrick, not to imagine his friend buried beneath a ton of fallen rock and dying by millimeters, too weak even to call out. Because of Sheyla, he’d managed to control that terror too.
She’s looking out for him. Somehow.
He clung to that truth as a lifeline and focused on the defense of Hallowell. Alastor had no idea how long it had been since he slept. Realistically, he couldn’t keep this up. His spirit was willing, and the situation was dire, but his body couldn’t keep the pace. Already he was in so much pain that it was hard to function, and he would pay for this overexertion for days.
“You don’t look well,” Zan said.
He decided to answer honestly. In the last twenty-four hours, the Noxblade had saved his life repeatedly. While he wasn’t—and would never be—Dedrick, he’d earned this much of Alastor’s confidence.
“The truth is…” Concisely, he explained his condition.
“Understood.” If the man had praised him for trying so hard or patted his back, he might’ve lost his temper since he was already exhausted and irritable. The matter of fact reaction offered no space for it, thankfully.
“Do you want me to see if I can find a Sol to make it easier for you to move around the city? The ground troops can catch up. If you’re in the thick of the fighting when it starts, it won’t impact morale.”
Despite the initial victory in the west, the outlook wasn’t good. If they paused to rest, it gave the enemy time to regroup. The invaders had razed St. Casimir along with that whole section of the city, bombarded the east, and were about to overrun the south. There were multiple breaches and the militia was falling back as planned. Their last stand in Old Town might be the final hurrah for freedom.
Belatedly he realized Zan was waiting for an answer. “Yes, please. I’m aware that private vehicles are prohibited on city streets, but I suspect the chancellor can make an exception in wartime.”
Zan cocked his head, eyeing the fires blazing in the distance. “I’d be more worried about rubble blocking our path or whether there are streets anymore, myself.”
“Gallows humor. I like your style.” With an effort, he forced a smile and got to his feet by hauling with both arms, then he braced himself on the cathedral wall.
They had taken a few hours rest here, ostensibly for the men, but Alastor couldn’t have continued. It wasn’t enough, nothing would be, until he saw an end to this, one way or another.
“I’ll be back shortly. We’re not too far from the weapons factory. They usually have vehicles on site.”
Considering the Eldritch’s speed, there was no doubt his jaunt would be swift. As he watched Zan go, Rowena approached.
“Are we moving soon?”
He nodded. “I’ll be scouting ahead. I need you to lead the men and keep them strong, no matter what. Can you do it?”
Her level gaze said she understood that the survivors who were sworn to him in Golgerra probably wouldn’t see another sunrise. There was no anger in her, only acceptance, and Alastor blinked away weary tears. Everyone who followed him, they were all too devoted and good.
“Don’t think that you failed,” she said. “Nobody could have done more or better. Tycho committed a lot of his forces, he’s counting on capturing these resources, this staging point.”
“Thank you.” That was all he could manage when he meant so much more. For staying, for being my friend, for believing in this bittersweet dream.
By her expression, she understood and she was at peace with whatever came next.
Just then the comm crackled to life. “Some good news at last,” Korin said.
“Bless Gavriel’s stealthy heart,” Alastor answered. “Channel secure?”
“I wouldn’t talk about battle plans on here, but we can check in.”
“How do things look at the southern outpost? We’re heading out to reinforce.”
“Too late.” Her grave tone rendered the report even more dire. “There aren’t many of us left and those who can move are falling back to Old Town. Checkpoints and barricades are blown to shit, they have an RVAC and…” The comm cut out, but he had the gist.
Alastor swore.
Since Rowena had heard, she went to update the Exiles, and a bit later, Zan zoomed up in a battered Sol; it looked like he’d seen combat in liberating the vehicle. The Eldritch beckoned cheerfully.
“I didn’t know how to drive a Sol when I got in this thing, but it’s not too much different than a Rover. If we mounted guns on it, this could be a tiny weapon of mass destruction.”
It was a throwaway comment, a joke, but Alastor studied the Sol with new eyes. He made a snap decision and barked orders while Zan stared at him in stunned surprise.
“You were kidding. I’m not. Let’s get it done.”
Another hour wouldn’t save the people in the south, but maybe he could clear a path for those trying to make the fallback in Old Town. The Exiles proved to be as deft at jury-rigging artillery as they had been learning masonry in Ash Valley, and soon half the Sol’s roof was missing, and he had it rigged out with missiles and a hefty caliber gun. His people were hard to kill in hand to hand, so he’d avoid close combat, as he no longer had the energy left to change.
He got on the comm. “Korin, do you copy?”
“Check.”
He remembered her caution—don’t talk battle plans, just in case. So how to handle this?
First, a fact-finding question, nothing definite. “Can you provide air support?”
“Only two of us left, but Ria and I will have your back. What’s the op?”
“Survival,” he said. “Farham’s Law.”
Surely she would be familiar with the adage: The simplest available course is always best. Not everyone agreed with Farham, but it was a well-known truism.
A pause. “Understood.”
“There are civilians and volunteer militia on the move. I’m on point, clearing the way. My men will guard the rear.”
There, that was informative only to Korin. Any enemies who overheard this chatter wouldn’t know his location or where he was headed, nothing helpful to extrapolate.
“Copy,” Korin replied. “We’re inbound.”
Taking a breath, Alastor switched off the comm and headed over to his men. “I’m sorry I can’t lead you personally from this point. From here on out, treat Rowena’s word as mine. Your highest priority is assisting the evac and ensuring the safety of Hallowell’s citizens. Guard yourselves well too and get to Old Town safely. It’s an old installation, so it’s the most defensible point in the city. If we can hold that ground, we can still win.”
Each Exile dropped to one knee and pressed their right hands over their hearts. Overwhelmed at their loyalty, Alastor fought to get himself in check and went to them, one by one, briefly resting a hand on their heads. He didn’t know if he’d see them again.
“Rise. Fight like warriors, and afterward, celebrate like champions.”
The Exiles roared in response, along with a few of the militia who happened to be nearby. Turning, Alastor spotted Zan waiting by the open cathedral doors. Framed in radiant light, for an instant, the Noxblade looked like an unearthly figure, a religious icon instead of a man.
“Are you done inspiring the masses?”
No, not a divine being. Just a joker.
He smiled. “For now. You drive, I’ll shoot.”
“Do I not get a say in this?”
Alastor shook his head. “I know how to do one, not the other.”
There was no further discussion. With Zan at the wheel, Alastor settled into the makeshift gun-pit and activated his weapon of choice with more glee than seemed healthy.
“Target acquired.”