by Ann Aguirre
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?”
“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.”
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.
&nb
sp; “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.
