24.
For over an hour, Dedrick had been pleading with his eyes for someone to remove his breathing tube, and when Sheyla was satisfied his lungs could cope, she complied. The nurse offered a basin in case it triggered his gag reflex, and he retched but since he hadn’t eaten in days, nothing came up. They followed the usual protocols about food and water; it was far too soon to think about weaning him from fluids yet that was Dedrick’s first demand.
It nearly always was.
His voice came out hoarse as he strained to sit up and couldn’t make his body cooperate. “Unhook me from these infernal machines and tell me what’s become of Prince Alastor!”
With a gentle hand, she pressed back on his shoulder; that much was enough to drop him against the mattress. “Calm down. When I have a spare moment, I’ll explain. Right now, other patients need my attention.”
His gaze followed her, silent and baleful as she checked off tasks from her work list. Sheyla took pride in being the most efficient doctor on any rotation. While others chatted, she rarely took breaks and kept moving, even when she’d rather rest.
Finally, Nurse Mills tapped her shoulder. “I hate to bother you again, but he’s getting agitated. Nobody will mind if you spend fifteen minutes talking with him. You’re like a damn medicine machine.”
That wasn’t the first time she’d received such a compliment, if it was supposed to be one. To Sheyla, it never registered that way, always with faint edges of venom and judgment. If she was a machine, tasks would be effortless, and there would be no pain in her shoulders, no tension in her neck, no throb at her temples. Working this way might be her choice, but it wasn’t easy.
She swallowed the complaint and went to Dedrick because excess agitation wouldn’t aid his recovery. There were no chairs for visitors in here, like they had in the good facilities above. When the staff retreated, they’d brought the minimum necessary to treat patients.
“Is it all right if I sit on the side of your bed?”
A flicker of amusement. “Like I could stop you.”
It was hard not to see this man differently, now that she knew he had been Alastor’s occasional lover. People’s features rarely interested her, but she noticed details about him now, like the scar that bisected his dark brow and the burn on his side. Like most of the Golgoth, he was pale, his face was rough, like the side of a mountain—the antithesis of the prince—and he had hair in so many shades of brown that it was almost like a wolf’s variegated fur. His latest wound was still bandaged, relatively small in relation to other marks and the overall damage he’d suffered.
Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t you be speaking, not staring?”
“I’m sorry. Let me bring you up to speed.” As succinctly as possible, she related an account of recent events. She finished with, “I’m unsure how it’s going in Hallowell, but if there’s a way to prevail, Alastor will find it. He was safe and whole when we parted.”
Dedrick closed his eyes, leaning his head against the headboard. “We’re entombed then. No exit unless they send word.”
“You’re in no shape to fight, so rest and recover,” she said sternly.
“May I ask why you’re here and not with him?”
“That option wasn’t offered,” she said. “I think he was protecting me, and I hope it’s giving him some peace to know that we’re together.”
“It sounds as if you’re fond of me,” he said wonderingly.
Sheyla almost smiled. “Did it? I’m not sure I’d use that word, but I’ll admit, Alastor has talked about you so much that I feel I do know you well.”
Dedrick plucked at the covers, and it was sweet to see such a warrior reduced to shy silence at the idea he might’ve received a compliment. Or several. “I hardly know what to say. Good things, I hope?”
“The best. I’m sure this isn’t news, but he considers you his closest friend.”
“For a long time, I was his only friend,” Dedrick said.
“Yes, I heard that, too.”
“Seems there’s nothing he didn’t share with you.” But he didn’t sound aggrieved, only pensive. “I should apologize. When I first noted how drawn he was to you, I discouraged him from…” He winced and she passed him a cup of water to soothe his raw throat.
Probably he shouldn’t be talking so much, so soon, but it wouldn’t do permanent harm, so she prompted, “From?”
“Pursuing you. I was afraid you’d hurt him. I’m sure you realize, it will benefit him if he can make a marital alliance with one of the Animari clans or even the Eldritch.”
“I know,” she said softly, ignoring the pang as the reminder pierced her.
Wartime romance, remember?
As if I could forget.
“I’m sorry I did that. It’s clear you’ve made each other happy, and those memories are precious, even if—”
“Dr. Halek!”
An alarm blared, cutting Dedrick off. At the other end of the ward, a patient was coding, so she raced to help. They already had the emergency kit laid out; she took the lead, first with prep meds, then shock treatment and resuscitation efforts. She went for three full minutes before Nurse Mills pulled her away.
“Too long. You have to call it.”
Sweaty, shaken, and gasping, she swiped a hand over her face, hoping to hide how shitty she felt. Each time, it echoed like a personal failure. She took a last look at the patient’s face, matching to the info from his chart. Ilan Herovi, age 17. Born and bred in Hallowell, wolf stock, probably emigrated from Pine Ridge. Like Alastor, he’d suffered from a rare illness, one that was hard to manage and complicated to treat, an illness Animari doctors knew little about.
It could be my prince lying there. He might die in battle instead, faint fucking comfort.
“Call it,” Nurse Mills repeated.
In a monotone, she spoke the patient’s name and pronounced him dead, though she couldn’t be certain of the time. Then the nurse pulled the sheet up, covering the boy’s face.
“I need to speak to Dr. Seagram,” she said. “I’ll be back presently.”
They hadn’t discussed the protocol of losing a patient. Up above, they would call for an orderly and send the body to the morgue. Down here, there was no such service; they didn’t even have a cold room to slow decomposition. As Sheyla skimmed through the available space, no solution seemed ideal.
“I’ve already heard the news,” Seagram said heavily. “I collect you need to know how to proceed?”
“That would be helpful.”
“Let’s move two sets of bunks into the rec room. We’ll use the lockers to partition part of the dorm for… storage.”
Though Sheyla didn’t say so, nobody was going to lie down in there now. Even if they weren’t superstitious about the dead lingering, there were health and hygiene concerns related to sharing space with the dead. Since everyone could shift, there was no reason to worry about beds, really. Sleeping in cat form was fine anywhere. Or maybe at Seagram’s age, he needed the comfort of a mattress.
She just nodded and said, “I’ll get it done.”
Briskly she returned to the ward and gave the orders, concealing how much she wanted to curl up in a corner somewhere. Bitter thoughts filled her head as she finished her shift, whispers of failure and futility.
Dedrick called out to her as she was leaving. “Are you going to bed?”
It had been a full day; she should be ready to pass out, but if she tried to sleep, Sheyla knew from losing prior patients, there would be nothing but terrible dreams.
“You have a better idea?” she asked, without much hope.
“I’m plenty rested and bored. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind keeping me company. Maybe read a book?”
“You want me to read to you?”
A shrug. “Only if you want.”
Sheyla understood now how this man had kept Alastor alive and capable of hope. His instincts were phenomenal. Even wounded and confined to bed, he was paying attention to her mood and found a way to offer a decent distraction.
“I’d like that,” she said, smiling.
Alastor had a job to do.
Clear the path or die trying.
Ahead, the broken city streets were clotted with the Golgoth who had shattered their defenses, now free to loot and pillage. Wheeling the heavy gun, he unleashed a spray of bullets on the brute-Gol squad storming toward them. The ballistic hailstorm tore through even their armored bodies, decimating them in seconds. Their corpses toppled into a twitching pile of tissue, and the survivors scattered.
“Don’t stop,” he called to Zan, past the howl of the wind. “The Exiles will mop up stragglers, and I only have so much ammo.”
The Eldritch called back, “Like I would! I have two modes, fast and faster.”
An enormous brute of a Gol stomped into their path, bigger than Alastor when he changed and twice as armored, all plates, horns, and claws. This must be one of Tycho’s Elite. He unloaded, but the warrior took little damage… until a rocket whistled in from above and reduced him to a flying foot and a spray of blood mist. Alastor glanced up and spotted Korin and her cadet, air support as promised; he raised an arm in a gesture of thanks and she flashed her lights to show acknowledgment.
“We have a problem!” Zan shouted.
“I think we’re—oh shit.” Alastor locked onto two additional units entering the fray, likely tracking the Sol’s movement, at the intersection up ahead, all changed and ready for slaughter, with at least four Elites among them.
“Thoughts? Some of them look like runners, and we can’t afford to stall out here.”
“We get creative,” Alastor called. “Korin, do you copy?”
“Affirmative.”
“Are the buildings fully evac-ed here?” In truth, many of them had taken damage, fire, shells, and burn from long-distance RVAC. The one he was eyeing looked like it might collapse on its own, but he couldn’t risk this plan if it meant injuring innocents.
“Make it quick,” Zan snapped. “We’re closing fast.”
The Sol raced closer to the knot of Gol invaders, way more than they could handle. Alastor’s shoulders tensed.
Korin answered, “There should be no civilians, only looters and shooters.”
Alastor released the controls and went for his launcher, unleashing a missile. When Korin saw the side of the building cave in, she likely figured out his plan in a hurry since she launched a swarm of rockets at two load-bearing pylons. It fell like a dying giant, crushing one of the units, and blocking the road, so the Elites couldn’t touch them.
With a triumphant cry, Alastor lobbed grenades to the left and right, so they sped by in an inferno of shock and awe. Behind them, more of his brother’s soldiers died in the blasts, the rest went down in a hail of shrapnel. Each jolt of the damaged road sent pain slicing through him, and his hands hurt from clenching the artillery. The air was so thick with smoke, rubble dust, and chemicals that it was a miracle he hadn’t passed out yet.
“With our numbers, this would’ve been impossible on foot. Our forces would’ve been flanked and slaughtered.”
Zan nodded, swerving to avoid an Elite that burst from the ashes of a charred structure right nearby. She was immense, charging toward them with intent to flip the Sol. Clearly a veteran, this warrior had only one eye, the other scarred shut, and she roared a challenge in base-Gol, with her gaping mouth, revealing uneven yellow teeth.
“Fuck,” Alastor said.
“Less whines, more mines,” Zan shot back.
If they weren’t about to be rolled, he would’ve laughed. The Sol was nearly out of juice, and there was no sun in this dark night of the soul, plus this bitch could run. She was about to take them from behind, too close for Korin or Ria to have a shot.
The gun’s useless, won’t penetrate.
With a growl, Alastor went for the last of his grenades. He pulled the pins off four, let them cook for a few seconds and dropped them onto the road, where they rolled under the target and detonated. Not a clean kill, but with her four limbs crippled, she wouldn’t catch them. Once they had some distance, Korin went nuclear and blazed the bitch to dust.
From there, the coast was clear, Old Town in his sights. The Sol was choking, batteries just about dry. His comm popped, hissed, then Korin came across. “You good? There are multiple fires for us to put out.”
“Free and clear. Come back when you can,” Alastor said.
“Copy.”
All around him, the city burned. His impression of Old Town was heartening, because the old fort walls had been shored up and all the artillery produced by the converted factories had been concentrated here. For our last stand. Wall-mounted gunners at the ready, this place was grim and focused. The gates opened slowly, permitting Zan to guide the dying Sol inside. Civilians and Exiles should arrive soon. Hopefully, there would be some breathing room before the next wave.
Weary and half-deafened from the killing spree, he swallowed a groan as he rolled out of the vehicle. Zan touched his shoulder.
“You good, boss?” A clear indication that the Eldritch didn’t see him as some asshole royal. Apparently, they’d bonded in those fast, furious moments.
Alastor responded as he would’ve with Ded—with a friendly nudge and, “Yes. Thanks.”
The horizon was lightening, a gray day with hidden pearls. Dawn now, maybe my last.
Given how fucked Hallowell had seemed passing through the center of it, Alastor fought the seductive numbness of despair. The damage he’d witnessed, devastating and heartbreaking. Broken streets, bodies burning where they fell. Hallowell was a hellscape, and moreover, a vision of the world his brother would create. Here in the sanctuary of Old Town, the med tent was overwhelmed with the injured, mostly children who couldn’t shift. Their dirty faces and disconsolate eyes would haunt him forever.
I didn’t do this.
I tried to stop it.
Alastor would give a lot for just five seconds with Sheyla—to hold her and breathe her in. Having her nearby would dispel the lingering specter of colossal failure, that he was about to fuck things up so prodigiously that there could be no recovery for generations. Eventually, he collected himself enough to climb the walls, watching for the rest of his troops.
Gavriel’s Eldritch stumbled into Old Town first, worse for the wear, their numbers much reduced. The Hallowell western outpost force arrived next, and it looked like they’d scrapped with some of the survivors, despite his best efforts. Alastor kept watching the pavement as the sun climbed steadily in the sky. No enemies. No allies.
At last, the Exiles rolled in, much later than he’d expected. No Rowena. His chest tightened so hard that he saw sparks.
“Where is she?” he demanded. “If she fell out there, you should’ve brought her body, even if it killed half of you to do it.” Rage gave his voice power, even though he knew he was talking shit, being wildly unfair.
She deserves so much better. I should have been there.
Graff stepped forward. One of the youngest, he still had seniority with Ded and Rowena out of the picture. He dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. We’re all so sorry.”
“No apologies. No excuses. What the fuck happened out there?”
“A group of Tycho’s Elite jumped us. Rowena… they took her. Cut and ran. Maybe for ransom…?” His voice went up on a hopeful note. “The king knows that you hold her precious.”
He closed his eyes to control the absolute fury that rolled over him. Spikes half-shot from his back before he locked his emotions down. “Get out of my sight.”
Graff ran.
Not fair.
Don’t care.
As if that wasn’t enough, his comm vibrated, a new user looking to connect. With an angry gesture, he permitted the link. “Who’s this?”
“Finneas Furbander, at your service. With my first and final report.” A ferocious noise clamored in the background, nearly drowning the man’s voice. “The invaders are everywhere. Swarming. We cannot permit our factories to be taken. Rather than putting weapons into our enemies’ hands, we shall take them with us.”
“What are you talking about?” Alastor had a terrible feeling, chills rolling in infinite loop.
Furbander went on, “The charges are set. Five factories in all, and we count the sacrifice well worth it. If we time this properly, most of these bastards will die at our hands. It may give you the edge you need.”
Suddenly he understood. “There has to be another way, sir.”
More noise, like a ram slamming into a metal door.
“Sadly, there is not. I won’t say it was a pleasure meeting you, Alastor of Golgerra, but I do thank you for your service. Advise the chancellor that I would like a statue in the plaza. Bronze, I think.” Crunch and bang, like a broken door. “Now, good sir, I am out of time. Please tell my wife and children I love them.”
An immense boom, and the comm went eerily silent.