Coffee & Composition Part 1

by A. C. Ellas

  George let go of him. The relief was so great that Yeri almost collapsed. He pressed his forehead to the floor and sucked in a deep, shaky breath as silently as he could. George growled at him, “Get up, damnit. You know I don’t like it when you do that.”

  New fear gave his limbs strength he didn’t think he had. He picked himself up off the floor. He leaned against the desk to hide his shakiness. His head hurt, the lights were paining his eyes, and the voices of the humans still arguing above him hurt his ears. He had stopped listening. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not passing out.

  The solid, cool wood of the desk accepted his weight and supported his body as he waited. The pain in his chest, shoulder, and arm throbbing in time with his pulse was much worse than the pain of the beating that only asserted itself with every breath. He floated along, not really thinking, just accepting what was. The absence of music worried him. Always before he’d had music to comfort him, no matter how bad things had gotten, there’d been beauty in his mind. But no longer. The silence between his ears was profound. Had the muse deserted him at last?

  “Yeri, stand.” That was George. From the volume and tone of the man’s voice, it wasn’t the first time he’d said that. Swallowing down the acid of yet another surge of fear, he did his best to comply, but he had forgotten about the injured foot. He had always led with his left foot, and today was no different. When he tried to put weight on the limb as he levered himself upright, the foot spasmed, the knee collapsed, and he ended up on the floor at George’s feet. The only thing he managed was to force down the scream that tried to wrest itself from his throat, emitting only a strangled whimper in reaction to the pain.

  A hand wrapped around his ankle, and Yeri froze, his breath catching as he ceased his second attempt to get up.

  “Look at his foot.” Ellie was surprised, and he wondered at that. Had she really thought he’d spilled the coffee on purpose?

  “I’ll carry him,” Devlin announced. “Where do you want him, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” George replied. His other hand stroked Yeri’s calf. “He needs to be where the doctor can get to him easily, he needs to be comfortable, but it would be best if he’s somewhere easy to clean—he’s a bloody mess.”

  “There’s that nook in the kitchen,” Ellie suggested. “We could put some blankets down so he’d be comfortable.”

  “That’s perfect,” George decided. He released Yeri’s ankle and stood.

  Devlin reached down for him, and Yeri barely controlled the urge to snarl and show teeth—he could feel the relaxation in his upper jaw as his fangs descended. The man’s arm slid under him, the hand gripped his right shoulder, and the pain exploded through him from the point of contact. He screamed and twisted away from Devlin. His fangs were at their full extension, and he had sunken his claws into the carpet. He tried to force himself to calmness, tried to relax his hands to retract the claws, tried to draw his fangs back up, but his body wasn’t cooperating with his brain. The fear in Devlin’s scent didn’t satisfy him; if anything, it deepened his body’s rage, and he restrained himself from lashing out by force of will alone. At least his body obeyed him to that extent.

  “Back off. Go get the blankets. I’ll take him.” George’s voice was a soothing balm. Devlin’s departure also helped. The next hand to touch him was George’s, and he managed to retract his claws from the carpet. His hands ached from the strain he’d placed on the free-floating claws, but it was a familiar ache, and so, he ignored it. He concentrated on pulling his fangs back up. They didn’t want to.

  George’s hands were stroking him, hot pleasure flowed in their wake, but the man had a purpose in mind other than making Yeri relax. “Tell me where it hurts.” He kept repeating that as he stroked, not pausing long enough for Yeri to actually reply. Every time his hands found a place where Yeri felt pain, they’d pause then move away. The adrenaline rush had passed when George finally gathered him into his arms and helped him up.

  Yeri stood on his right foot and contemplated the best way to walk. Putting weight on the ball of the left foot was simply no longer possible. He tried walking on his toes, but the stress placed on the injury was almost as painful as directly stepping down on it. He hobbled slowly by using only the heel of the left foot. It wasn’t elegant or graceful, but the only other option was to hop.

  The shortest path from the study to the kitchen was through the garage. George walked with him, offering both physical and emotional support. If not for that steadying hand, Yeri would have simply collapsed in the garage. The dizziness was getting worse, not better. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the world spinning about him, but there was some relief from the pain caused by the bright lights. Of course, he couldn’t keep them closed if he wanted to walk. Hobble. Whatever.

  George helped him navigate the half step up from the garage to the kitchen entrance. It shamed him that he actually needed that assistance. Ellie, Devlin, and Marra were already in the kitchen. There was a thick blanket on the floor against the wall of the unused breakfast nook. There had been a table there once upon a time, but it had never been used, and so George had moved it to the music room where it served as a writing desk and music storage space. Yeri hobbled over to the blanket and paused, his attention on George.

  “Lay down, Yeri.”

  Yeri inhaled as he sank down onto the blanket. George’s scent reassured him, a mix of love and concern. Devlin’s scent lacked anger for a change, while Ellie smelled puzzled as well as worried. Once he was down, Marra tucked pillows about him and covered him with a light blanket. He wondered why the humans were being so nice to him. The worry and guilt in their scents didn’t jive with the fact that he had hurt his mistress and had deserved his punishment. Surely, they realized that? The warmth did him in, he drifted into an uneasy doze despite the pain.

  * * * *

  Ellie sat down on the edge of the blanket. She resisted stroking Yeri’s soft, inviting fur. He was hurt—badly—far beyond her own injuries. Having seen the stain in the dining room, she knew that most of the coffee had, in fact, missed her, and if her mental reconstruction was right, a great deal of it had hit Yeri instead. The problem was that his fur coat hid any burns from visual inspection. Her gaze shifted to the bottom of his left foot, crusted over with blood. According to George, there was something in there, something hard that he couldn’t reach. Had that caused the entire accident? With growing guilt, she recalled dropping those nails. She’d found them all, though, hadn’t she? If she hadn’t... if he’d stepped on a nail... she shook her head.

  “There were nails in the carpet,” Marra was telling George as they walked into the kitchen. “I found several while cleaning in there. It’s possible I missed one.”

  “It’s my fault.” Ellie looked up at them. “I was hanging those pictures and I dropped the box of nails. I thought I’d gotten them all, but I guess I wasn’t thorough enough, not if Marra found some.”

  “And there’s blood on the carpet,” George concluded quietly. “We all saw his reflexive kick... something similar must have happened when he stepped on it.” He nodded as if he’d decided something. “I’ll call the vet. Devlin, give him something for pain. Ellie... why don’t you take Lee and go take a nap. You were hurt, too.”

  Ellie didn’t want to go, but George was right. She was tired and wouldn’t mind a nap. She stood up, accepting Devlin’s deft hand in assistance then took the slumbering baby from Marra and slowly walked toward the stairs and the waiting bed. She throttled down her rising guilt. Surely, her wishing for Yeri to go away hadn’t had anything to do with the accident.

  Chapter Six

  “Slave.”

  He resisted waking, dislike for the owner of the voice warring with his trained obedience.

  “Yeri,” the voice was insistent, closer, and now, Yeri could smell the man—he was worried, remorseful, and fearful.

  Yeri opened his eyes, the better to assess the threat if threat there wa
s. He reminded himself that the man had full rights over him. That only set him further on edge.

  Devlin was holding a glass of water in one hand, something else—something small—in the other. “Here, Yeri. Medicine. George wanted you to have this; it’s for the pain.”

  Devlin held out his hand, so Yeri raised his own hand to accept the two white pills. He looked at them. They looked like pills. They didn’t smell bad either. He popped them into his mouth, accepted the glass of water, took a drink and swallowed them down. They didn’t taste as nasty as most pills. He drained the glass and handed it back to Devlin before curling up again.

  The lack of sleep the night before made it easy for Yeri to doze. It was a temporary escape from his pain and his problems, but one he accepted gratefully. New pain, centered in his gut, woke him. He gasped at the intensity, like nothing he’d ever experienced before. This was so much worse than even a soured scent-locking that there was no comparison. Hot, throbbing agony pulsed through his core with every beat of his heart.

  “Yeri, what’s wrong?” Marra’s voice was close to his ear, and he hadn’t sensed her approach.

  He inhaled, her worry for him was strong. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a whimper. He tried again to answer and couldn’t, it hurt too much.

  Marra backed away, her voice calling for George now.

  He tried to listen for a response, but the world was spinning and grey, and he could feel his breath rasping in and out as he struggled to get more air. His muscles burned with the need for air, his lungs ached as they tried to pull in enough of it, but no matter how deep his breaths, it wasn’t enough. Panic clawed at the back of his throat.

  * * * *

  George walked swiftly into the kitchen at Marra’s frantic summons and nearly stumbled in shock. Yeri had taken a definite, obvious turn for the worse even in the few minutes George had been gone. The Rovani was gasping for air, his pale skin was even paler, mottled... grey-tinged.

  He fell to his knees beside the stricken Rovani and gently set a hand on the furry shoulder. No response. George lifted him, trying to find a position that would make breathing easier for him. Yeri’s body stiffened, the back arching in the ominous precursor to full-blown convulsions.

  “Marra, get the shot!” He rolled Yeri onto the blankets, on his left side, as the grand mal seizure commenced and focused on protecting Yeri’s head from the hard floor.

  Marra swiftly handed him the syringe, already unwrapped, uncapped, and ready to use. He wasted no time, finding the spot on Yeri’s hip and plunging the needle in. He depressed the plunger, forcing the medicine into the spastic, rock-hard muscle. Once the syringe was empty, he pulled the needle out and handed it back to Marra for disposal. It took a few minutes, but the convulsions eased then died away, and Yeri lay limp against the blankets, only the harsh rasp of his breath indicating that he even lived.

  Yeri had never looked like this in all the time George had known him. Fear curdled his gut, fear that he might actually lose Yeri this time. He glanced at the clock. It had been nearly an hour since he’d called the vet. Where the hell is she?

  Devlin walked in and paused, surprise on his features. His eyes were locked on Yeri. “Dear god, what happened?”

  George only shook his head and checked Yeri again. Still breathing, but the pulse was rapid, his skin was even more ashen, and the tips of his fingers were darkened.

  Devlin knelt down beside them and set a hand on Yeri. The Rovani didn’t react. The doorbell rang. Yeri didn’t even flinch at the noise. Devlin stood. “I’ll get it.”

  “I hope to god it’s the vet,” George muttered.

  “Me, too,” Devlin replied and strode out.

  The next two minutes, while waiting for Devlin to return, felt two hours long. Devlin walked back into the kitchen leading both Ellie and Doctor Kavales, who’d been Yeri’s vet for as long as George had owned the Rovani. Ellie’s soft gasp sounded loud in the silence.

  Doctor Kavales strode right up to the blankets and knelt down. She looked Yeri over with a critical eye then asked, “What happened?”

  “We think he stepped on a nail, it’s lodged in his left foot, and I can’t get it out,” George replied. “When he stepped on it, he spilled hot coffee. There are tender areas on his chest, right shoulder, and arm. An employee who should have known better whipped him for spilling the coffee and injuring my wife. We brought him in here to keep an eye on him, he was in a great deal of pain and seemed shocky to me. We gave him something for pain, I called you, then when I came back to check on him, he looked like he couldn’t breathe. I tried to reposition him; he had a seizure, so we gave him the shot. That’s everything, I think.”

  Doctor Kavales looked up. “What was he given for pain?” There was urgency in her voice.

  George frowned. “I assumed his pain medication...” he turned his gaze on Devlin. “That was what you gave him?”

  “Ah, I didn’t know he had his own pain medicine. I gave him Tylenol. It’s what I use for my arthritis, so I had it on me.” Devlin looked pained. “Was that wrong? I thought Tylenol was harmless.”

  “All Rovania, like cats, are highly allergic to Tylenol. His symptoms are consistent with acetaminophen toxicity,” Doctor Kavales said firmly, interrupting George’s impending fury. “He needs to go to the hospital immediately, this is beyond my ability to treat here. Call the ambulance, and I’ll do what little I can while we wait.”

  “I’ll call,” Devlin offered and quickly scurried from the room.

  What little the doctor could do involved inserting a tube down Yeri’s throat and force-feeding him activated charcoal. She explained what she was doing as she worked. Yeri put up no resistance at all, but in due course, he began to heave. George held him while Yeri emptied out his stomach into a basin Marra adroitly positioned.

  The ambulance crew arrived, much more swiftly than George had dared to hope. George numbed Yeri’s nose as they strapped him to the gurney, and then, he followed them out, along with Doctor Kavales, who was giving the medics a detailed report.

  The ride to the hospital was tense but silent. Yeri wasn’t conscious enough to howl. The vehicle had barely gotten out of the neighborhood when the medics took things a step further. They inserted a tube down Yeri’s throat to breathe for him. They didn’t put an IV in this time; they used something that looked like a combination drill and gun to insert something into the long bone of his upper arm.

  “It’s better access,” they told him. “Medications reach his heart faster, and the line can’t collapse, blow, or infiltrate.” They started giving him two medications once that line was in, one to keep his blood pressure up, and one for sedation to keep him from fighting the machine pumping air into him. Another line was inserted, which caused George to wince. “His urine’s brown,” noted the medic. “Tylenol for sure.”

  George controlled himself with an effort. Yeri’s color was improving, at least, he no longer looked cyanotic, but he was also receiving one hundred percent pure oxygen. They reached the hospital, one that only dealt with Rovania and was said to be the best in Athens, and took Yeri in. The doctor there performed a quick exam, agreed with the diagnosis of Doctor Kavales, and added a third medication to those already being given to Yeri.

  “It’s an antidote for the acetaminophen,” the doctor told him. “Hopefully, it’ll help in time. Rovania can’t metabolize acetaminophen properly, so it forms a new compound, which screws up their red blood cells. This will reverse it and prevent new damage from occurring. We’ll have to support his body until he purges the damaged cells and replaces them with new. If that’s not enough, we’ll try to find some donor Rovania for a blood transfusion.”

  “What about the nail in his foot?” George worried about what effect the nail would have on his friend if it stayed in his body for any length of time.

  “That will have to wait until he’s more stable,” the doctor said, shrugging. “We’ll keep you posted.” />
  “Can I stay with him?”

  “Our intensive care unit has regular visiting hours, but overnight visitation isn’t permitted. These Rovania are very sick, they need time to rest and heal.”

  George stayed long enough to see Yeri settled in a room, to see that the staff was both compassionate and skilled, and then, he allowed them to shoo him firmly but politely away.

  * * * *

  The worst part of it was that George didn’t say anything. Devlin had his excuses marshaled, that he hadn’t known Tylenol was anything other than harmless, he hadn’t known that it was poisonous to cats or to Rovania. Yeri had nearly died, could still die, and it was entirely his fault. The mood in the house was bleak, and yet, George wasn’t accusing him, wasn’t yelling at him, hadn’t fired him. And he should, Devlin admitted to himself. I would if our positions were reversed.

  Bleak and silent. Even Lee was quiet, as if the baby could sense the worries and fears of the adults. As hours turned into days, Devlin found himself missing the music the most. He hadn’t grown up with bouzouki music, it wasn’t in his soul as it was in the souls of the Greeks about him, but... he missed it. He missed Yeri’s music in particular. He could tell the difference now between the music on the radio, and the music Yeri played. And perhaps wrote.

  He was willing to admit, if only to himself, that he might have been mistaken. George’s obvious worry was more than that of a man for his friend; it was as if the man feared to lose some truly vital part of himself. He kept back, held himself back, from both George and Ellie. He did his duties with dispatch, and although he didn’t outright avoid them, he didn’t make any effort to seek them out, either. He watched, though, watched for any indication of Yeri’s condition.