by Ann Aguirre
“I was promised food,” she said pointedly.
With a muffled curse, the war priest led the way to a Rover, a cramped space for the four of them, all dented metal and rusted rivets, where she curled up in between piles of supplies. Callum prepared a plate and shoved it at her with the least gracious expression ever. Partly to be an asshole and also because she was starved, Sheyla scarfed her food in silence. The Eldritch was just as hungry, she noted, though he kept a watchful eye on the atmosphere.
“We took the RVAC from Tycho’s Golgoth a few days ago,” she said at last.
“Our allies deployed it,” Korin said darkly.
Callum swore and slammed out of the vehicle. At first, Sheyla didn’t process the danger. She was too full, too comfortable, and frankly, she was fucking exhausted. But she caught the whispers of depravity as Korin argued with someone outside.
“We pull the plug right now,” someone was saying sharply. “No rendezvous, no supplies. We’ll be better off on our own.”
“I agree.” Sheyla recognized Korin’s voice, now tight with rage. “I’ve said since the beginning, we can’t trust the fucking Golgoth. This rebel prince is using us to fuel his war of succession, and he might even be worse than his brother.”
Sheyla was on her feet and moving before she thought twice. A shoulder nudge banged the door open, revealing a furious Korin, impassive Callum, and the wolf scout. Six eyes locked onto her, but she didn’t flinch.
“That is bullshit,” she snapped. “Prince Alastor didn’t order that strike lightly. He wouldn’t have done it for power or…” She hesitated, trying to figure out why he would. And then she knew. “He was protecting us. I was already in the wind when the situation broke and they had no way to update us without compromising their position. He’s not like his brother. Hell, he doesn’t even want the throne. He’s fighting to save people, not slaughter them, I swear.”
“You’re willing to stake everything on that promise?” Callum met her gaze, grave as a funeral song.
She didn’t look away. “I am.”
“Let me talk it over with some people. Feel free to wait in the Rover.” The war priest wheeled away, and the other two followed him like he had a magnet on his back.
The Eldritch hadn’t come out into the cold, but he did scrutinize her when she returned. “Did you settle it?”
“I hope so.” She couldn’t entertain the opposite prospect, and anxiety was chewing at her now, for the survival of the alliance, how Alastor might be faring without her. She asked the question nearly in self-defense. “How did you keep up with me anyway?”
“You did seem surprised.” Soft, delicate amusement threaded the words.
“Are you telling me or not?”
“It isn’t a secret. Much like the Animari learn to shift around puberty, my people develop a gift. Gavriel can manipulate data streams, for instance.”
“You mean like wiping his image from surveillance?” Handy for an assassin, Sheyla had to admit.
“Precisely. I, on the other hand… am fast.”
“You make it sound so mundane, but from where I’m sitting, it seems like magic.”
“That’s our mystique,” he said lightly.
She had follow-up questions, no chance to ask them, because Callum burst into the Rover and said, “This decision’s all on you, doc. We’re rolling out on your word.”
There are no survivors.
For hours afterward, Alastor replayed those words until it felt like they must burn their way out of his brain and blaze a trail of fire on the snowy ground. Both Ded and Rowena were watching him with anxious eyes; he didn’t look at them. He couldn’t. With one order, he’d executed hundreds of his own people. They would be calling him a traitor and a butcher in Golgerra, when the news reached the city.
“The crisis is averted,” Gavriel said.
The Noxblade’s report on salvage echoed in his ears, oddly distant. He couldn’t focus and when he lifted a hand to brush away a lock of hair straggling from his untidy ranking braids, he was surprised to see how much it trembled. Quickly Alastor curled his fingers into a fist and tucked it into his pocket. He wasn’t cold anymore; actually, he was hot as hell—to the point that an ice bath sounded heavenly.
Feverish. Should’ve realized it sooner.
They had reached the rendezvous site an hour before, and Alastor wanted to wait out the Animari arrival—to formally offer greetings to his allies—but his strength might not hold. Ded took two steps toward him and Alastor held up a hand, silently shaking his head. He wouldn’t get any rest fretting about the Animari, so there was no point in retiring. If he got worse, he’d prop himself against Ded’s shoulder and make it look insouciant.
It was a near thing and he was swaying when the rumble of engines broke the silence, followed swiftly by the halogen lights riding high on the front of the Rovers that led the convoy. The vehicles transporting the war machines were slower, grinding of gears that made them sound scary as hell. Alastor squared his shoulders and joined Gavriel, standing at attention for the arriving dignitaries. He nearly tipped over in bowing to the bear leader whose name escaped him, someone else from the wolves, and the whole time, he was scanning for a certain doctor. A sliver of ice dissolved in his heart when he located her, clambering wearily from a rear vehicle, closely flanked by the Eldritch that Gavriel had sent with her.
Other people’s words spilled like a river around him, just a rushing of noise, because she was standing ten meters from him and the snow turned to liquid silver at her feet, drowning her in moonlight. His heart turned over or tried to, so there came a wrenching pain in his chest. He wanted to push past everyone and bring her to him, tuck his face in the curve of her neck, and then maybe he could taste again that glimmer of peace that only came when he was listening to her breathe. He wanted to frame her face in his hands and see if her cheekbones would nestle into his palms, if his fingertips would alight perfectly beside her temples. Then he would whisper a thousand endearments, followed by the simplest of questions.
Are you tired? Have you eaten? To someone else, those prosaic queries might reduce him to yeoman status, hardly befitting a prince. But such tender curiosities were the brick and mortar of a life built together, one memory at a time, and it was a magic that he might never possess.
The moment splintered like some mystic mirror when Gavriel elbowed him. “Say something.”
Shit.
He’d lost the thread, no context for what had been spoken or asked. “I’m sure you must be exhausted,” he managed. “It is late and all of your questions will keep.”
“True enough,” the bear muttered. “But it’s by Dr. Halek’s grace that we’re here at all.”
He had no idea what that meant, but doubtless Sheyla would supply the details. Suddenly he couldn’t wait a second longer, executing an ungainly bow and then he carved a path toward her. She didn’t pull away when he took her hand and drew her to the tent they shared. Inside, the warm air felt thick in his aching lungs. It seemed as if it had been years since he’d seen her.
Her gaze was appraising, clinical. “You look terrible.”
“I missed you,” he said—with the wry, silly smile that simultaneously shared and shaded his true heart. “So much I thought I’d die of it.”
“Don’t even joke. My reputation’s at stake.”
“Sorry.”
“Let me take your temperature.” She moved toward her gear bag and he intercepted her, not with a forceful hold, but with a gossamer wreath of fingertips, more easily broken than a whispered promise.
She stilled.
“It’s elevated,” he said. “Not high enough to damage my brain. Can we not?”
“What?”
“Be doctor and patient. Just for tonight.”
“What do you want instead?” A not-quite-casual question and her head was bowed, eyes fixed on that sole point of contact.
To hold you, he thought.
He said the next best thing, and perhap
s she wouldn’t think it was strange since she’d heard it before, but he knew his tone was aching. “To listen to you breathe.”
Alastor remembered telling her that he wished not to be alone but to be with someone who didn’t need him. His will had changed since then, a slow shift inexorable as lunar tides. Now he could not imagine anything more splendid than being the first face Sheyla Halek sought. Not even stopping his brother and ending the war.
Those dreams he must keep locked away, wrapped in chains like an old treasure chest.
She surprised him then. “I’m cold.”
It wasn’t like her to complain, and this had a different tenor, as if she was asking him for permission. He said, “Yes” without quite understanding what he was agreeing to. Sheyla put her fingers over his, and she was chilly, a welcome respite from fever heat.
“I’m prescribing energy exchange therapy,” she whispered. “To warm me and cool you. It should help both of us rest better.”
Alastor swallowed hard, nearly choking on a groan. His hands were deeply unsteady as he adjusted the heater. She was serene in stripping down whereas he was all eagerness and thumbs. Somehow, he managed to get them wrapped up in the thermal bedding. His breath hitched as she snuggled in; her hands and feet were icy when she tucked them against him. By morning, she’d either incinerate him or his fever would be broken, no middle ground.
At this rate, he might never get to sleep but it would be worth it. Not only could he feel her breath rushing against his shoulder, her scent was all over him, her hair spilling on his skin. Pleasurable chills rolled over him each time she inhaled. He thought she would pass out as soon as she warmed up, but little movements said she was still awake.
“Are you… doing something to me?” she whispered finally.
“Pardon?”
“That pheromone you mentioned before. Is that—”
“No.” He couldn’t contain the smile; it leached into his voice, too. “There’s no bloodlust.” Just normal desire, so if you want me… Alastor didn’t say it aloud, but he did feather a fingertip down her back and she rewarded him with a jerk and a shiver. In truth, he felt too ill and miserable to muster an erection, but he ached for her and it kindled the sweetest glow that she seemed to share his need.
“We have to sleep.”
“Please do.”
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.
“You’ve no idea how much.”
Alastor stopped teasing her then, stroking her back in a soothing way, and soon, she melted into him, breath leveling out. Eventually, he slept too and in the morning, he was neither reduced to ashes nor completely well, though his fever did seem a little lower. He extricated himself from the delicious clutch of her arms and legs, downed his medicine, and headed out to have that postponed discussion with the other Animari. Fortunately, they were content to talk in the Rover. He crammed into the vehicle with the other leaders and did his best to explain while they covered the last leg of the journey to Hallowell in style.
“If that’s true,” said Callum eventually, “then we owe you our thanks.”
“It is,” Gavriel confirmed.
“Feel free to speak with our scout personally. Dr. Halek is right. I did not come to that choice easily.”
I’m so tired.
Still, he managed a smile for the bear leader and the wolf lieutenant, who didn’t seem to hate his guts. The tension eased as the driver called, “I’ve got Hallowell in sight!”
When the vehicle shuddered to a stop, Alastor choked back a groan. At some point, his fever had spiked again, and his knees felt like water. He took a single step out of the Rover and the world slid sideways.
As it had so often before, darkness claimed him.
11.
“Low blood sugar.” Sheyla made the excuse on automatic as the prince’s guard caught him before he hit the ground.
“We haven’t eaten much in the last day,” Gavriel explained, presumably to the other leaders. “Supplies ran out a while back.”
She had no interest in how the bear leader or the wolf lieutenant responded. Sheyla leaned in to check Alastor’s breathing, ignoring the incipient chaos. Steady. That’s good. His face was like alabaster with desperate roses blazing high in his cheeks. He still has that damned fever. This was no place to examine him properly, however, with tons of soldiers milling around the city limits, surrounded by armaments and war machines.
After taking the prince’s pulse, she beckoned to Dedrick. “The hospital is this way. He needs fluids at the very least.”
“I’ll go with you!” An ethereally beautiful Golgoth female shouldered through the crowd, eyes wide and desperate.
The guard shook his head. “Stay here. Keep the men calm and give orders in my stead. Cooperate with the wolves, bears, and the Eldritch, understood?”
She let out a slow breath and nodded. “As you say.”
“Let’s go,” Sheyla urged.
“Do you need any help? Is it serious?” Probably Zan meant to be helpful, and he had been silent on their short trip together, but she didn’t trust him fully yet. Without meaning to, she flicked a look at the Golgoth currently holding Alastor, gauging his reaction.
Silently the soldier implored her to keep Alastor’s secret. There was no gain in making his condition common knowledge. “We’re fine. Stay with everyone else.”
Practically running, she passed beneath the arches that marked the entry to Hallowell. Normally she’d pause to evaluate the changes as it had been years since she left, but she didn’t spare a look. Unless I’m remembering wrong, we’re four blocks away. Muscle memory didn’t lead her astray; she had stumbled this path more times than she could count, half-asleep and called back on duty after a ridiculously long shift. She led the way across the quad to St. Casimir, a weathered white stone structure that had all the charm you’d expect in an institution constructed three hundred years ago, by a monastic order. Still, despite the austere exterior, the inside was well-kept and modern, brightly lit and absolutely bustling. A pang went through her when she spotted a few familiar faces, as the old scent of antiseptic washed over her.
“Dr. Halek, isn’t it?” A former professor was smiling at her, though his expression dimmed when he processed the situation.
“It is. I need visiting doctor privileges. Can you help me out, Dr. Seagram? It’s urgent.”
“I’ll get the paperwork started. You head to admissions and see if they can find your friend a room.”
“Thank you.” She called that over one shoulder, already navigating the labyrinthine crisscross of hallways, easy for visitors to get lost.
A semi-secret shortcut deposited them at admissions, where she sped through registration with the ease of familiarity. The clerk balked when she heard the patient was Golgoth but Sheyla overrode her. “I’m the attending physician. Get me a room and I’ll handle the rest. You don’t even need to put him on your nursing rotation.”
Sighing, the woman said, “Fine. We have space in the cardiology ward. 507, last room on the right.”
“Perfect, we’re on the way.” Curling her fingers at the silent guard, she hurried off.
It was harder than normal to keep fear at bay. She’d known he wasn’t well last night, but she’d succumbed to his blandishments, acting like a woman and not a doctor. This afternoon, when he collapsed, it took all her self-control not to react emotionally, too. She’d seen family members melt down in tears, shaking their sick loved ones and calling their names, like that ever did any good. But she’d suppressed the same damn impulse a short while ago.
And I know better.
Dedrick spoke then. “Will he be all right?”
It was a loaded question, full of a tacit request for reassurance. “I’ll do my best.”
As she’d remembered, the hospital rooms were small but clean, and this one was private. She opened the door for Dedrick, who needed no invitation to deposit Alastor on the bed. He was taking off his boots when she rushed off to get some s
upplies. She didn’t know the cardiac unit well, but a brief Q&A with the floor nurse soon got her squared away. By the time she got back, Dedrick had him ready for pajamas, which she passed over.
“When you’re done, I’ll start the IV.”
“I’ll be quick.”
And he was. He was also a capable assistant, handing her supplies before she asked for them with an assurance that made Sheyla suspect he’d done this before. “Hold his arm in case he moves, please.”
She needed to bring the fever down, but he’d said that other medications interfered with the serum, diminishing its efficacy. The physician in her called bullshit; there had to be some medicine he could take safely for pain and fever. In any event, she wasn’t inclined to heed doctors who were now working for Tycho and who would have executed Alastor on command. Not exactly the best care, that. In fact, she wouldn’t even be surprised if his asshole brother had ordered Alastor’s doctor to make him suffer as much as possible. As soon as Sheyla had a more accurate chemical analysis of the original serum, not the stopgap she’d created, she’d cross reference and check for interactions.
“How is he?” Dedrick asked, once she completed her preliminary check.
“This seems to be mild malnutrition, combined with exhaustion and dehydration. I can’t confirm anything else until I run some blood tests.”
It was best to take the samples while Alastor was out, so she collected them efficiently. Normally a nurse would do a good portion of this, but she’d promised not to impose on hospital staff. That choice didn’t stem so much from a desire to be considerate, rather from her need for privacy. She’d probably need to consult with Dr. Seagram at some point because he specialized in oncology, but if possible, she’d keep the prince’s secret.
Dedrick indicated the vials in her hands with a tilt of his head. “I’ll wait with him if you need to take those to the lab.”
“Not your first time, huh?”
“Unfortunately, not.”
“I’m glad he has you,” she said.
The big Golgoth half-smiled. “It’s the other way around.”
