25.
After that young patient died, things went sideways.
It was slow at first, whispers that ceased when Dr. Seagram entered the room. Normally Sheyla didn’t pay attention to gossip, but the words she caught were edged with desperation and malice. Nurse Harlow was usually in the thick of the talk, no reassurance there, for she’d already observed that the woman didn’t possess the steadiest personality.
The silence of the signal machine troubled everyone. Nobody had paid much attention when she first sent the test message, but the longer they went without a reply, the harder it became to control the fear of what might be happening in the city above. Earlier, Dedrick had used the word ‘entombed’ and if they were down here long enough, it might even prove true. Dying in confinement? It would be hell, and in the end, they’d probably go feral and turn on each other when the deepest survival instincts kicked in.
Her stomach churned at the mere contemplation of such a potential outcome. Dedrick called out, rescuing her from the mental image of blood-spattered walls. Sheyla went over to his bed, raising a brow in query.
“You rang?”
“My own personal physician? This is service. I was actually talking to Aide Cabueze.”
Who was paying no attention whatsoever. Sheyla smiled. “You have two minutes. What do you need?”
“If you won’t unhook me, I was wondering if you had more portable units I could drag around behind me. I won’t get stronger lying in bed.”
Sheyla shook her head. “What you see is what we have.”
They hadn’t come down here with plans in place for recovery or the dead, best and worst case scenarios. It seemed clear Dr. Seagram hadn’t expected them to hide for this long, more of a precaution than a long-term strategy. Yet Hallowell was silent. Logically, that suggested Alastor was losing. Perhaps no one is left to answer.
“Which means I’ll be drinking that protein mess again.”
“Now that you’re stronger, you can chew it if you wish.”
Dedrick sighed. “There’s nothing that can get me out of this bed faster?”
“For a big, bold warrior, you certainly complain a lot.”
In fact, she was already doing it. The fluids he wanted to remove so badly should have him on his feet in half a day. She’d analyzed their cross-compatibility and had deduced that there was no reason he couldn’t receive an Animari plasma transfusion. At first, she wasn’t certain he could tolerate it, fearing that his system might fight an Animari donor, but she’d tested her theory before he woke up and had found no adverse reactions, so she’d switched his IV as soon as he woke up.
“Your bedside manner is terrible.” He was smiling, though.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
Nurse Mills interrupted the conversation to point out, “There are other patients who need you, doctor, even if they aren’t so vocal about it.”
The mild rebuke didn’t irritate her because it was true. With a nod of apology aimed at both Dedrick and Mills, she went about her work. As she’d predicted, before the end of her shift, Ded was moving around his bed, testing the range of his tubes. She could tell he was chafing to be cut loose and while there was no discharge, per se, it was time to evaluate his condition. Since Dr. Seagram had been studying Golgoth anatomy as well, she called him to consult.
She handed him in the data stream chart, not printed since their supplies were limited. “Everything looks good to me. He’ll need to rest and take it easy, but I don’t see any reason why we can’t let him ramble around the bunker.”
Seagram ruminated over the various test results and then checked Dedrick’s wound—cleanly sealed, stitches dissolving as intended. “That looks good. Why don’t we peek inside?”
“Hold very still,” she told Dedrick.
Sheyla fetched the wand and the 3D anatomical map that had so fascinated Alastor what seemed like ages ago appeared over Dedrick. Some of his organs still showed traces of damage, but they were clearing him to stroll between three rooms, not fight a war.
“I see you’ve used an unusual treatment…” Seagram questioned her about the plasma transfusion and they talked for ten minutes past shift change about the theoretical benefits of cross gene therapy betwixt the Golgoth and Animari.
Until Dedrick cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Still here. Still a person.”
“I don’t see any reason why you can’t get up,” Seagram said.
“Congratulations.”
Their group was drawing definite attention, most of it laced with disapproval, so she hurried through a facsimile of discharge and brought Dedrick the biggest pair of scrubs she could find.
“You’re probably tired of pajamas.”
With a surprisingly warm smile, he took the clothes and went to the bathroom to get dressed. Alastor will be so happy, she thought, and then uncertainty crashed down.
As she headed for the lounge, she caught the tail of an ominous whisper. “…can’t kill him. The biometrics won’t work if he’s dead.”
She stilled in the corridor. Those in the rec room were the first shift staff who had already gone off-duty, which meant the mutiny was pervasive.
“We’ll die down here if we don’t do something. Just like that Herovi kid.” Barely a breath, but Sheyla still caught it.
Dedrick came up behind her and started to speak; she lifted a hand, warning him, but it was too late. The voices stopped. They had Animari ears, too.
What? His eyes asked.
She shaped the word ‘mutiny’ with her mouth, once, twice, each time slower until cognition sharpened his expression, and then Dedrick tipped his head toward the great room. She nodded.
“There’s no point tiptoeing anymore,” Dr. Seagram said loudly.
Too focused on eavesdropping, she hadn’t heard the old man. Again. Before she could stop him, Seagram marched into the rec room with a pugnacious expression. “You want to knock my head against the wall, turn the lift on, and flee, do you?” Seagram let out a deafening roar, dropped his clothes, and bristled into a large brown bear.
That escalated quickly.
As others followed, Sheyla mumbled a curse, got naked, and slid into cheetah form. Her growl said, Over my dead body. Settling beside Dr. Seagram, she doubted the two of them were enough to get the rest to back down. It’ll probably end in bloodshed. Why are people so fucking foolish and impatient?
The opposing group suddenly took a step back and when Sheyla spun, she understood. Dedrick had changed too, and these people had probably never seen a brute-Gol before. Unlike Alastor, Ded was quadrupedal in this form, huge and armored, ridged, and awe-imposing. It looked like he could bite somebody in two, one blow, too severe for quick-healing to save anyone. She didn’t speak base-Gol, but she could guess he was rumbling a threat, like, keep at it and I’ll fuck you up.
The would-be mutineers shifted back first. “Let’s talk about this. No need to be… impulsive.”
Sheyla stretched and luxuriated in being a cat for a few moments, making sure the others understood that she wasn’t in the mood to play. Give me a reason. She said it by prowling around them, and then she swiped at one for good measure.
Skittish, huh?
It took a few minutes to get dressed, which made the standoff feel slightly ridiculous. Dr. Seagram was clearly still pissed, and she didn’t blame him.
“Listen up, you fuckwits. Yes, we may die if we don’t hear from the defenders soon, but if you try to take the lift without knowing the situation, you could be stranded in the shaft, and then nobody’s getting out. So shut up, do your jobs, and wait. We’re here for one reason only—because these patients will die without us. Trust me, I’d rather be working in a triage tent, too. Instead, I get to hole up with you worthless shit biscuits. Any complaints, choke on them and die. That’ll leave more protein packs for the rest of us.”
“Damn,” Dedrick said as Seagram marched out. “Shit biscuits?”
“I know. He’s magnificent when he gets going. Once he called me a festering sack of fermented assholes.” Sheyla wasn’t trying to be funny, but everybody in the lounge heard it, and they couldn’t stop laughing.
“We’re all gonna die,” Nurse Mills said, but he didn’t seem troubled.
She frowned at him. “Eventually, everyone does.”
When Ded smiled and slung a comforting arm across her shoulder, she leaned in. Faith wasn’t something she had a lot of, but the demon prince had never let her down.
He won’t start now.
Five factories. Five sacrifices.
Hours later, Alastor was still reeling over what Furbander had done. In blowing those facilities, the owners had taken out an incredible chunk of Tycho’s force. Smoke was still rising in black columns, a spiraling monument to the power of people defending their homes. There was no price too high; he saw that now.
Alastor wanted to storm out and scour the city for Rowena.
He couldn’t. It was likely she’d been taken as bait, not for ransom, as Graff had suggested so optimistically. When he didn’t come for her, Rowena would be returned to Golgerra in hopes they could torture some of his plans out of her. Once she proved useless, Tycho would execute her, as planned before Alastor saved her from the block.
I’m sorry, Row. I’m so sorry.
Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t abandon Old Town to search for one soldier. Refugees were still trickling in, straggling militia members who barely made the fallback. Waiting was the worst part. There would likely be one more battle before they broke the invaders entirely.
“Sire? We don’t know what to make of this. It’s been circulating among the officers and someone finally thought to ask you.”
Alastor turned, doing his best to mask his weariness. These men and women were all equally tired, and they’d lost so much, so fast. He accepted a paper with the word S-H-A-L-A-I on it, and his heart almost stopped.
“Where did you get this?”
“It came through the signal machine. We were so surprised, I didn’t even know—”
“Show me.”
Following the young militiaman, he hurried into what looked like an old telemetry room, full of machines that defied qualification. The one in question sat on a battered desk, attended by a man so venerable he made Chancellor Quarles look like a spring flower.
“Did you want to send a reply?” the clerk asked.
“Please. Just one word: Home.”
It was Sheyla; it had to be, for he’d shared that story with nobody else. Yet he couldn’t risk a longer message without confirmation. She had been cautious too, wanting to be sure he was the one who received her communication.
She’s alive. She’s waiting.
St. Casimir might be a rubble heap, but she’d found a way to survive. My clever doctor. His spirit brightened to the point that it hurt. He touched the crumpled note that he kept with him always, such a silly thing.
I’ll miss your face.
Miss yours too, love. Be strong. We’ll be there soon.
While he reflected, the old man worked the device, then gave a satisfied nod. “It’s done.”
There were more pressing matters, but he stared and waited, convinced it wouldn’t take her long to answer. Please, Sheyla. I need this. Give me strength, as you always do.
Seemed like forever, but it was no more than ten minutes when the machine started working again, etching out each letter in response to the signal. “How are you, my prince?”
It’s her.
“Reply?” the clerk asked.
“We hold. Location secure.”
When he left the building, he realized he hadn’t seen Zan for a while. Since the Eldritch had clung like a second skin, that seemed… sinister. In the wake of Rowena’s abduction, he went from zero to red alert in about twenty seconds. Alastor deployed multiple men to help him search, until he stumbled across the Noxblade crumpled near the west wall.
More assassins? I’ll kill every last Talfayen loyalist myself.
He broke into a stumbling run and tumbled to his knees beside the first Eldritch he’d call his friend. “What happened?”
Oddly he didn’t smell blood and in searching, he didn’t find a wound, not even a scratch or pinprick that could’ve delivered some noxious poison. Zan was so fucking pale that Alastor thought he was dead, but as he shook him, the man’s eyes fluttered open.
“Let me help you to the med tent.”
A faint smile. “No point. There’s no cure for this.”
“I don’t understand. If you’re sick, you should’ve told me.” I told you. I trusted you. Alastor couldn’t get the words out. He’d lost too much, too fast, and he felt like tearing his own skin off.
Zan reached for him with a fair, slim hand. Uncomprehending, he took it, unnerved by how weak the grasp, how thready his pulse. “I don’t understand.”
“It was… an adventure,” Zan whispered. “Worth. It. Finish…”
But it was too late. His body slumped forward into Alastor’s arms, and confusion raged through him like a river flooding its banks. For the longest, he just held Zan and swallowed the urge to scream.
When he finally let go and stood, he found Gavriel waiting behind him like a ghost. He didn’t even try to avoid the fist that smashed into his jaw; he just took the hit and fell over.
Alastor spat blood. “Tell me what just happened.”
“All Eldritch have a gift. Zan’s was phenomenal speed, as I’m sure you noted. What you didn’t realize is that our gifts come at a cost. There’s always an energy exchange. The more we use our gifts, the more energy we expand. Deployed sparingly, we tend to live a long, long time. Otherwise—”
“Fuck. Fuck.” Over the past few days, Zan had run constantly, fought like a demon, everywhere at once, defending him.
“You understand. He burned through his entire life in days. For you. I didn’t ask him to guard you. He volunteered. And…” Gavriel’s jaw clenched. Alastor saw from the Noxblade’s balled fist that he wanted to hit him again. “He was my best friend. To this madness, I’ve lost my blood brother and my oath-sworn swordmate. What more will you hell born brutes and beasts take?” The words became a howl and Gavriel sent a blade skimming past his ear.
He didn’t flinch, even when it pinged off the wall and rattled by his feet. “I’m sorry. If I’d known—”
“That’s why he didn’t tell you. ‘We need the prince to unite the Gol’, that’s what Zan said to me. ‘Whereas I am expendable’.”
“He planned to die?” Alastor asked, incredulous.
“Not as such, but he understood that he might be pushed to it.”
How am I supposed to walk beneath the weight of so much sacrifice?
The answer came, clear as if Sheyla had whispered the truth in his ear. It was even her voice he heard, framing the words.
You remember what they’ve given, but you don’t allow that to prevent personal progress. The dead are not clinging to our ankles. Each year when we light candles and speak of their deeds, it is tribute enough for their honor and consolation.
“Please,” Alastor said. “Take him. I wish to participate in whatever sacred rites your people cherish, but now isn’t the time.”
“You and I are finally in agreement,” Gavriel muttered, as if it pained him.
At the Noxblade captain’s signal, men came for Zan’s body, conveying him to the makeshift mortuary, already filled with Latents, the unlucky, the frail, and the young. Zan joined the number, and as the doors shut, Alastor rubbed his chest. He talked himself silently through the bronchial attack, brought on by the pall in the air and the weight of grief. The tightness doubled him over; Gavriel didn’t move to console him. Just as well, he didn’t want him to.
Somewhere in the camp, a small child was singing. As he struggled for oxygen, the sweetness of it pierced him like a blade. “Mother, keep me safe and warm. Mother, carry me to your light. Mother, bear me in your arms. Mother, guard me from the night.”
It was an ancient, simple hymn yet and as that little girl sang the second verse, more voices joined her, deep and low, light as air. “Father, cradle me to your chest, hold me up as waters rise, and you who guard your family best, take me home so I can rest.”
By the final verse, it sounded as if every soul in Old Town was singing with all their hearts, a choir that could reach heaven itself. Alastor was too tired and broken to believe, but he took comfort in the way the citizens of Hallowell reached for each other while the city burned.
The shout came from the walls then. “Sire! The enemy’s on the march.”
The people sang on.
Alastor nodded. “We’ve done what we can. Let them come.”