Instinct Ascending: Rabids Book 2

by Amy Cook

  Cajun quickly took off, leaving Harley to scramble into the next course of action. Grabbing armloads of towels from the gym closet, and a first aid kit, he tossed them on the couch at her feet. And then he froze.

  Maybe he should have had Charleen come along so that she could handle the whole undressing and cleaning thing. His Hybrid suddenly rolled about in his head in that entirely disturbing way that seemed to happen only when Amiel was around. But this time, it carried the mental equivalent of a manly punch to the gut, as if to say “snap out of it, princess, and get to work!”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Harley grumbled to himself, earning what he assumed was approval from his Hybrid. The Hybrid side was right, of course; there was no time for hesitation. Every moment he wasted was a moment Amiel wouldn’t get back. Besides, if the kid could do it for him while he was in full-on Hybrid mode, he could do it for her.

  Shoving all thought to the side, Harley set to work, digging into his methodical detachment usually reserved for the worst parts of his job. It was the only way to save his mind from too much mental scarring. This time was no different. Seeing Amiel in such condition was more devastating to his psyche than he cared to examine at the time.

  He cut and pulled the soiled clothes away from her skin, tossing them in a pile nearby. He fought to remain focused as he struggled with the removal of the bra thing she wore. Turned out those things were damnably difficult to take off. Unable to find a release mechanism, he finally settled for slicing away the offending material in strategic locations for swift removal. Tossing it to the side, he was filled with a conflicting sense of pride in conquering the contraption, and feeling like a total creeper for having done it.

  Clearing his throat, he covered certain areas that were distracting to his gentlemanly side, and refocused on the task at hand. As an afterthought, he tucked his jacket up near her face, remembering how she’d mentioned his smell earlier. He doubted she’d notice now, but it gave him a sense that he was helping more than just her body with his efforts.

  He took extra care to clean each wound, knowing infection was something he needed to avoid at all costs. Her brother had died from a poisoning infection in his body, the tags able to do little more than prolong the process long enough for him to receive closure with his little sister. It hadn’t been a pleasant process, from what he’d gathered. Amiel might not be poisoned with the same substance, but damned if he would let anything similar happen to her if it was within his power to stop it with something as simple as a thorough cleaning.

  Sitting back, he formed a mental checklist. Slashes from what were clearly Rabid nails zigzagged across her body, though most of her wounds appeared to be abrasions and cuts from her escape rather than from her actual encounter with the Rabids. Which was in itself amazing, considering the lack of protective clothing she wore. He unraveled the t-shirt pieces from her hands, distractedly noting it was the remains of the stupid fish shirt he’d given her. She seemed rather attached to the thing, and he doubted she’d be happy about losing it.

  “Don’t worry yourself none, kid. I’ll get ya a new one,” he promised, cringing internally as he pulled shreds of the fabric away from her fingers where it had glued to the open wounds. About half of her fingernails were missing, though he had to pull a few of them off the rest of the way because they still hung on in a crooked, screwy way. There was no saving the nails, and they would only serve as a method of trapping infection if left alone. Her right hip was darkly bruised as well, and if he had to guess, he would peg that for where the bus had hit her, based on the shape and location. Thankfully, bite marks were not among the list of wounds.

  Her torso, particularly the ribs, was the worst off. Bruising of various shades covered her pale skin. Taking a deep breath, Harley slid his fingers under the towel, stopping just below her breast. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the bones beneath his fingers, softly grazing them along the ravaged skin above each length, in search of damage. He found plenty. Each rib boasted bumps and indentations that screamed of breaks. He knew there were probably many other breaks he couldn’t feel, as well. What he didn’t know was whether any of those breaks posed the risk of infection, or puncturing important organs. Frustrated at his inability to do more, Harley turned back to doing what he could, and finished cleaning her wounds.

  He looked at her face often during the cleansing process. It helped center him, remind him to stay focused and work swiftly. It reminded him of what was at stake. It also made him worry. She didn’t once wince; not one emotion played across her face in any way to show that she felt the obvious pain that should be wracking her body. It worried him beyond compare.

  Pulling layers of towels back over her body along with the jacket, Harley stood and walked away, running a hand through his hair. He was utterly helpless, useless. She needed a damned Clean hospital! Those ribs were beyond his skills. If she were a Hybrid, her body would shift the ribs itself: mend them, provided the damage wasn’t so extensive the body couldn’t heal quickly enough. There was no way he could manipulate the bones back into place himself, without risking further damage. But leaving the bones as they were could cause them to heal in positions just asking for a punctured lung sooner or later. He just didn’t know, and that was the root of his problem.

  Harley closed his eyes, breathing shakily. Amiel had asked him if he hated his tattoo, the one that set him apart as a Hybrid. He’d honestly told her he didn’t hate it, but there were times he wished it wasn’t there. This was one of those times, and for the first time he found himself very nearly hating it. If it cost the kid her life because the cursed thing stirred prejudice in the only ones who could help her? Yes, he could very easily find himself hating it. At the end of his skills, Harley picked up the phone.

  “Charleen, I need Pell.”

  Chapter 13

  Pell

  Pell stared up at the imposing mass of Hybrid intensity before him. Harley stood with his feet spread wide, arms folded protectively across his chest, an image of sheer, imposing danger. He was awesome!

  “Say what again? My brain was wandering.” Pell grinned, chagrined upon realizing Harley was waiting for an answer. A storm shifted across the man’s eyes, and Pell once again found himself distracted. Hybrids were such fascinating creations!

  “I said fix her,” Harley growled, and this time the meaning came through loud and clear.

  “Fix her?” His eyes shifted to the girl that lay unmoving on the couch. “I don’t understand.”

  “She’s injured, beyond my means of help. Y’all know ’bout this mumbo jumbo, so pull out all them gizmos and fix her.”

  “But I’m not a surgeon!” Pell’s eyes widened. “I am really more on the technical side of things.”

  Harley glowered, and Pell held up his hands to fend off the brewing storm. “But I think I know someone who might be able to help.”

  Again the emotions shifted across the Hybrid’s face, and Pell was caught up in the wonder. Maybe the emotions weren’t clearly noticeable to just anyone, but Pell could see them clear as day. His mom always told him that he had that gift, the ability to read every tiny detail of those around him. Of course, she also said that it was a flaw, because his detailed examinations and wandering mind often distracted him from what was happening around him. Like right now. He winced as his eyes suddenly focused back on those in front of him.

  “Don’t worry. He’s trustworthy. He has nothing against Hybrids, or against anybody, really.”

  “Right. Somebody else that’s got somethin’ dirty hangin’ over his head that’ll keep him from rattin’ us out?” Harley groused, and Pell’s head whipped toward Cajun in disbelief.

  “You still haven’t told him yet, have you?” There was more surprise in his voice than accusation. Another fault of his, Pell had a terribly difficult time feeling the darker emotions most people should in situations: fear, anger, distrust, jealousy and hatred were just not much on his list. He should be angry, yet surprise and curiosity overwhelme
d most of the faint feelings of hurt and frustration, drowning them out.

  “Uh, yeah. About that.” Cajun winced, glancing apologetically between him and his brother. Pell sighed heavily and moved away to make his phone call. Dr. Brent showed up not fifteen minutes later, that same pep and vinegar in his step that Pell had always admired. He didn’t think the doctor had ever had a gloomy day in his life. They got along rather well when they had worked together.

  “Hello, my boy!” Dr. Brent greeted him at the door with a wide grin. Pell eagerly ushered him in and up the stairs.

  “Hello again, Doc.” Pell grinned. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Oh, yes — yes it has! How are your legs these days?”

  Pell blushed. “They’re strong as ever, Doc,” he acknowledged quietly. The subject of his legs had always been a humbling one, bearing lessons he’d never forgotten.

  “Good to hear. I trust you are still doing your exercises?” At Pell’s guilty look, the doctor shook his head. “Now, now, my boy, there’s no excuse for lack of action. Especially in today’s world! Must keep those legs in tip top shape for running!”

  “Yes, sir,” Pell replied contritely.

  “That’s a boy.” Dr. Brent patted him on the shoulder as they reached the top of the stairs and he took in the audience currently watching them. His eyes immediately zeroed in on their tattoos. “Ah, I see your friends have exciting stories of their own. I’d like to hear some of those someday.” His eyes twinkled in that way that had always put Pell at ease during his treatments, and it seemed to have the same effect on him still. His friends, however, didn’t seem to agree. Harley’s stance in front of Amiel became rigid and protective as the doctor neared.

  “Doctor Brent, these are my friends. They are Hybrids, as you’ve already guessed. Their friend is hurt and needs your help, but first they need to know that they can trust you to proceed with confidentiality and no prejudice. Without that trust, they won’t accept your help. Things typically become ugly after that.”

  “I assure you, as a doctor, I have never broken my vow of confidentiality. I’ve got thousands of private cases locked away up here, and not told a single soul of them.” He winked, tapping his head. “And as for prejudice, it is quite simply not something allowed in my profession. A body is a body, doesn’t matter who it belongs to.” With that, he immediately walked toward the prone figure on the couch.

  Harley stepped in the way, eyes dark. Pell felt a tremor of unease, which was rather unusual for him. The doctor meant a lot to him, and he was getting quite old now; Pell didn’t think he could handle one of Harley’s usual displays of force. He moved to intercede, but Dr. Brent held up a hand to stop him.

  “Ha! Quite the show, quite the show, sir. Though I must say I won’t be able to tell whether I can help or not, if I am not even allowed to see the patient.”

  Harley’s eyes narrowed, and the doctor shook his head, grin in place. “Petulant one, aren’t you?”

  Cajun snickered, and Harley’s eyes narrowed further.

  “Now, no need to get your knickers in a twist. I’m guessing you wouldn’t have called me if this was something you could handle on your own. If I’m to be of use, you’ll have to let me do what I can. Otherwise, I’ve wasted a trip out here and your friend will suffer,” Dr. Brent stated kindly but firmly. It was the same tone he’d often used on Pell in his youth when he’d balked at the idea of treatments.

  Then, something miraculous happened. Harley’s expression faltered, a shadow of doubt shifting across his eyes. That was something Pell rarely saw, and the times he’d seen it had always been in the presence of this girl. If Pell didn’t know better, he’d say the man had a soft spot for the girl that ran deeper than protection. But knowing Harley as they all did, such a thing was difficult to believe, even for an optimist like Pell. Harley stepped aside, acquiescing and letting the doctor move closer, another sign of changes brought on by the girl. Though he moved aside, he didn’t move far away, eyes vigilant as a hawk as he watched Dr. Brent approach.

  “My, my,” Dr. Brent murmured in pity. “Look at this poor child. What happened to her?”

  “She was attacked,” Harley stated simply. The doctor hummed, examining the wounds. At this point, Pell quickly turned away. His never-ending curiosity ended when naked lady bodies came into the picture; from there on out, Pell was a babbling idiot, red-faced and more off balance than usual. Now probably wouldn’t be the best moment for that. Especially with Harley in the room. The man already thought him to be a grungy old-lady lover; the last thing Pell needed was for the guy to think he had a thing for his charge. With some relief, Pell noticed Cajun and Charleen doing the same, avoiding glancing at Amiel entirely.

  “I see multiple cuts, abrasions, and vast bruising. Signs of great blunt force trauma to the ribs and hip. She fell on something? Perhaps was hit by a car?”

  “Both,” Harley admitted grudgingly.

  “She was hit by a bus, and then bounced off a dumpster from a couple stories up. Like a really lousy bouncy ball,” Cajun offered helpfully, for which Charleen sent him a glare. Pell grinned. Sometimes his friend was as clueless as he was.

  “And these cuts are caused by Rabids,” Dr. Brent added. It wasn’t a question, or accusation, simply a statement of fact. Harley stiffened.

  “She’s not infected,” the brooding man proclaimed.

  Dr. Brent nodded. “That’s well and good, because there is nothing I can do for that.” The couch squeaked behind Pell as the doctor moved about. “I see these often enough on my patients. Though I must say they look different on horse flesh.”

  Pell froze.

  “You’re… a veterinarian?” Harley’s exasperated and dangerous tone floated toward Pell, who winced, shoulders hunching. He’d hoped that little tidbit wouldn’t come to common knowledge. Dr. Brent merely laughed.

  “Currently, yes. But don’t have an aneurysm. I was once considered one of the greatest minds in the medical field. The human medical field, that is. Pell can attest to my abilities,” he clarified. The sudden, heavy weight of attention fell on Pell’s shoulders, and he slowly turned toward his friends with contrition.

  “I was born with a dangerous malformation of the spine. Dr. Brent performed a groundbreaking surgery on me while my mother was in the late terms of pregnancy with me. I should have died; at the very least, if I made it to birth I’d never be able to walk. But Doc Brent is an amazing surgeon. His surgery corrected much of my issues. I was able to make it to full term. And through his rehabilitation efforts, and subsequent surgeries, I’m able to walk.”

  Dr. Brent nodded solemnly as he pulled a device from his bag, before squirting a gelatinous substance on Amiel’s bare torso. Pell flushed, quickly looking away again. She was modestly covered in the main areas, but her whole side and stomach were revealed, and Pell wasn’t at all able to handle that.

  “He was an extraordinary patient: one of a kind, in truth. I was never able to replicate that miraculous recovery with any other patient. Eventually, that fact is what drove me from the human medical profession. But Pellerton?” There was awe in his voice, pride over his success. “He succeeded by leaps and bounds, where others failed miserably. One of the smartest boys I know, minus his difficulty in concentrating. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that was a consequence I wasn’t able to save him from.”

  Pell shrugged good-naturedly, remembering Amiel’s kindly astute observations about his owning his personality. He’d been trying to take that advice to heart a lot lately.

  “It just adds to my mysterious and exciting personality.” He grinned. The doctor hummed, already back to his professional mode as he examined the girl.

  “Pellerton, fetch me a stool, or a box or something, to put this machine on, would you?”

  Pell moved quickly to answer the doctor’s request, returning to his side with a wooden crate. “I need you to mess around with the dials until we have a clear image. You’ve always had a knack with machines, and this thing hates
me on the best days.” Dr. Brent halted Pell’s efforts at escape, and Pell sank to the floor at his side. He was careful to keep his eyes averted, ever mindful of Harley’s unsatisfied grimace. He really needed to get Cajun to tell his brother the truth before Pell ended up in a hospital. The screen flickered to life on the small device, pulling Pell’s attention to focus solely on it.

  “Interesting,” he murmured, tweaking the dials until a clear image came into play. The moment his fingers left the dials, the image blurred again. Experimentally, Pell placed his fingers back on the dials, and the image cleared. He got caught up in the moment, hands moving back and forth, static clearing and forming over and over. The sound of the doctor clearing his throat finally snapped him out of the momentary daze, and he apologetically held the dials to keep the image crisp.

  “This device is an advanced sort of ultrasound machine. Given that we are not in a hospital, and I am currently a veterinarian, we only have so many tools at our disposal. This tool is not as accurate as an x-ray machine, perhaps, when it comes to searching for these things. However, it will do for our purposes. Besides, studies have shown ultrasounds to actually help hasten the healing process of broken bones, did you know that?” Dr. Brent asked conversationally, though he obviously was mostly talking to himself.

  “She has multiple breaks and fractures. Honestly, though, I am not seeing the severe level of damage I would expect from someone who was hit by a bus and then fell several stories onto a dumpster.” Dr. Brent sent a significant look up at Harley over the rim of his wire glasses. Harley’s shoulders shifted uncomfortably, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

  “But then, she’s not your typical girl, is she?” It wasn’t a question so much as it was a statement of fact. He turned his attention back to his patient, shifting the ultrasound wand to her hips. “Typically, in such a situation, I would be looking at a situation of Flail Chest. Given the location of her breaks and fractures, she was very close to experiencing that very thing, and yet miraculously she has avoided the full cost of this.”