Vampire's Embrace: A Vampire Queen Series Novel

by Joey W. Hill

  “Ready for a break, Doe?” Sister Helen waved her down as Nina pressed a reassuring hand to Greta’s shoulder and headed up the corridor. “Though shifts might mean little tonight, Matron says everyone takes a dinner break. It’s an order. Can’t have us getting muddled and giving some poor chap the wrong thing.”

  “I’ll say. I’m pretty sure you meant to put beer in this IV, Sister.” One of the men, Tom Caldwell, bumped it with his shoulder. He had compound fractures in both legs and broken ribs, the result of being hurled through the air, colliding with a couple trees and then bouncing off the top of a lorry, according to his mates. He was pale with the pain but had refused the additional morphine Nina had offered. He was worried supplies could run short and he didn’t want to be the one who’d made another man go without, no matter how they reassured him over it.

  “Are you still here, Tom?” Helen arched a brow. Though Nina was tall for a woman, Helen was one of the shorter women in their service, the top of her head barely reaching Nina’s shoulder. She had a raspy voice like a stern frog, and the flaxen hair of a fairy tale princess. “I could have sworn I saw orders to send you back up to the front with a crutch.”

  “Well, give me a brew and a stick, and I’ll be out of your hair.” He winked at them.

  “If I find a brew, I’ll be drinking it myself.” Helen shook her head at him, and looked at Nina. “I’ve got this lot. Tell me what I need to know.”

  Nina sent the shorter woman a grateful look and proceeded to fill her in on anyone who needed extra looking after, like the feverish and possibly hallucinating Charlie. Then she grabbed a bully beef sandwich and a drink, and headed out one of the side doors. They’d used some of the adjacent abandoned buildings as temporary sleeping quarters, so she might lie herself down for a quick nap to get her through the rest of the evening.

  As she stepped outside, she drew in a breath, but it was to steady herself, not because anyone would willingly draw the air into their lungs. When she’d first arrived in Malacca, the stench had been overwhelming, the land of “stinks and drinks,” as many of the expatriates here called it. The jungle and pervasive mangroves had their own aroma, as did the villages, where the people cooked with spices and fruits unfamiliar to her at home. That would have been tolerable, but when those scents mixed with the constant smell of stagnant water, populated by waste and sewage, it could kill the appetite. The standing water was a result of the drains dug everywhere there was human habitation, to avoid flooding during the rains.

  She’d lost nearly ten pounds her first couple months here. The relentless tropical heat added to that. It was even worse for the nurses and doctors in the operating theater, where the bright lights increased the temperature to the point they drenched their own clothes with sweat.

  Over time, though, one got used to all of it. And learned to breathe shallowly.

  She’d chosen the exit door on the side of the building more likely to get air movement, since another nearby cluster of buildings formed a funnel down a slope of lawn to some smaller outbuildings. A light rain was falling. The diesel fumes of the latest ambulances still lingered in the scent mix. Someone was burning something. She suspected the smoke was coming from the same places the next wave of wounded would be.

  She closed her eyes, put the modestly cold bottle to her forehead. Was there any more horrible thing than people who started a war? How could they think that what they gained by making others fight for their lives, their homes, as well as the cost the armies of the instigators would pay themselves, would ever be worth it? The humid air, the fumes, the undercurrent of tropical decay, blood and male sweat, was a combination she’d ever after associate with this dense eye in the storm of violence.

  Yet it was in this moment of calm when nothing else was, that he appeared.

  He emerged from the gloom, cutting across the lawn and moving more swiftly than she’d ever seen a man move, yet in a rigid way, a soldier trying to run dead-out in an odd, arms-straight-down manner. Then she realized he was dragging a travois, weighted with another man.

  The man transporting the wounded one briefly lifted his head, as if he was trying to find the entrance to the hospital. She broke into a trot toward him, calling out. “You there! This way.”

  His head swiveled toward her, registered with a curt nod that she was pointing him to the closest marquee. She could have simply made sure he reached the orderlies, but it was rare men weren’t brought by vehicle. She was curious to see what the situation was.

  As she converged on the marquee with the arriving man, Nina saw he wasn’t wearing a uniform. Brown daks, a torn and bloodstained grey shirt, nondescript utilitarian wear. Heavy boots. His face was streaked with soot or black paint like a soldier with camouflage, though, and his bearing seemed to suggest military training. His first words proved he had familiarity with casualty setups, and that he was solidly Australian, not a Brit. He had a strong, forward way of speaking that suggested he was used to being obeyed.

  “I’ll take him inside. He needs surgery. Doctors. Now.”

  Several nights ago, they’d processed nearly two thousand casualties in a twenty-four-hour period. At one point, Nina had despaired at how many “nows,” were needed to ensure as many as possible had “laters.” But despair was the type of emotion that could cause unnecessary haste, which was when fatal mistakes happened. She was well-trained enough that she’d pushed it aside. It made her grateful for how hard the Matrons had drilled them so that panic couldn’t get the upper hand. But the word “now” could still trigger that despondent feeling, no matter how well she controlled it.

  “Here first,” she said firmly.

  “He’s already been tagged,” the male said brusquely, trying to maneuver around her.

  Nina was no stranger to having to pull a man out of a battlefield mindset. Stepping directly into his path, she slapped a hand to his chest and dug in her heels, because it was like stopping an advancing brick wall. His gaze snapped down to her. In the near darkness, it was impossible to tell eye color, but they were piercing, as determined as the most high-ranking officer she’d met to date. Maybe more so. She felt an odd compulsion to give in to his will, and shoved it away, too. But it took enough effort she practically bared her teeth at him, which caused a flicker of surprise on his intent face.

  “Let us take a look and move him to a stretcher. The orderlies can carry him into the critical care area, where the surgery is,” she explained. “You can’t go there. The sooner you let us do what we need to do, the sooner we can get him help. Are you wounded yourself?”

  “No, damn it.” The man muttered an additional curse, but accepted Tim’s assistance to ease his burden to the ground and let the two of them take a look. She maneuvered around the men to do just that and had to suppress a curse herself. She tacked a prayer onto it.

  God have mercy on him.

  The wounded man had a serious stomach wound, his abdomen dressing bulging, probably that and a few emergency stitches the only thing holding his intestines and organs where they should be. In the field, they wouldn’t fully seal a wound because the transport conditions in the stifling heat badly affected a wound deprived of oxygen. Sewing it up too securely encouraged infection faster than leaving it completely open. But the bandage was wet with blood.

  “Leave him tied to the travois,” she decided, instructing Tim. “It’s putting pressure on the wounds we don’t want released until he’s with the surgical team. Get him inside and put him at the front of the line.”

  Though it would likely only confirm the inevitable. She’d seen wounds like that, and so had Tim. The way his green eyes met hers briefly, the tightening of his chapped mouth, told her he knew the likely outcome. He gestured to another of his mates to help him carry the stretcher and nodded to the man who’d brought him in. “They’ll do all they can,” he said, not unkindly. “They’ve got the best surgeons here.”

  The best that were available. It was a standing joke among the doctors themselves, a self-d
eprecation that made her appreciate them even more. They gave their all to every patient, as hardworking as any of them, such that she fully agreed with Tim.

  The man didn’t seem to hear him. He had his gaze pinned on the face of the wounded man, and he’d clasped his hand. Nina was shocked when the injured soldier’s eyes opened. Given the severity of his wound, she wasn’t surprised his morphine had worn off, but she was surprised he was coherent enough to speak through the unimaginable agony he must be feeling. Three words.

  “Thanks, mate. Sorry.”

  “Bollocks to that,” his transportation said bluntly. “See you soon, Mort.”

  Nina touched his wrist, letting him know they had to move away, but the standing man didn’t let go. It was the other man’s hand who fell away, and Tim tucked it next to him. They headed off toward the hospital, while Nina stayed behind. From the other man’s expression, she realized she might need to run interference to keep him from following Mort and getting underfoot.

  She put her hand on his arm to break his focus on the departing stretcher and its precious contents. “Are you sure you’re not hurt? I’m going to check, all right?”

  The amount of blood on the back of his shirt was astonishing, almost obliterating the original color, and it still looked damp, though that was likely perspiration. But she would check, because often they didn’t register their own injuries while trying to protect a mate.

  He was still staring over his shoulder. The man who’d moments before had stormed out of the jungle and insisted on seeing a surgeon seemed at loose ends now. Also not an unusual thing. He had thick black hair that was a little longish over his brow, but cut short and sharp on his neck.

  “Sir?” She wasn’t sure why she switched tactics and spoke so formally to him, except he did have the air of an officer about him, or at least someone who would be called “sir” in some capacity. She was right, because that brought his gaze to her. He looked in his thirties. Though there was a weariness about him, it didn’t affect how he stood, straight and tall.

  She drew him under the flaps of the marquee where the dim lantern light could be turned up for examinations without violating blackout restrictions. Once there, she got a better look at his eyes. They might be blue, but when he turned his head, they were touched by grey, an almost silver glimmer. Almost too iridescent to be human.

  Right, Nina. She chided herself. It wasn’t just soldiers from the front lines who could get fanciful. She must really be tired. More than usual. She needed that sandwich.

  “I’m not hurt,” he said at last. “It’s all his. The blood on me.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll check. I’ve had men with sucking chest wounds who didn’t realize they had them. Let’s get this shirt off you. We might even be able to find a clean one around here somewhere.”

  His gaze had returned to the hospital entrance. With a brief hesitation, she moved closer and began to slip the buttons of his shirt. He was a few inches taller than her, something she noticed since she wasn’t a short woman. When his head turned, she felt the stir of his breath on her brow as he dipped his chin to watch what she was doing.

  His passivity about it increased her concern about his state of mind. Usually a soldier would courteously brush her hands aside to prove he could do it himself.

  But his body stiffened as her fingertips brushed him. A shy one, maybe, not sure about a woman touching him. Not that most of these blokes had an aversion to that, but sometimes after coming out of the thick of things they were twitchy, the way Rigby had been when she touched his shoulder. She kept her movements steady, brisk.

  “Why didn’t you wait for an ambulance to bring him from the dressing station?” she asked by way of a distraction.

  “I was told the next one coming would take too long.”

  She glanced up. From the way the man adjusted his gaze, not meeting her eyes when he said it, she suspected what they’d told him was the man wasn’t going to make it at all.

  He wouldn’t have listened. If she hadn’t intercepted him, he’d likely have taken himself, Mort, and that determined hard jut to his jaw straight to the operating theater. She could well imagine him putting his precious cargo on a table, even if he had to sweep off whoever was on it.

  She noted his pallor had lost another full shade. If he’d run all the way here through the jungle, adrenaline alone may have carried him here, but that would be draining away rapidly now that he’d found help for Mort.

  “Easy there. Sit down.” She pushed him into a chair since the nearest cot was occupied, and finished opening his shirt. “I am going to check you,” she said firmly as she moved around him, tugging the shirt from his shoulders. “So be a good lad and be still for me for a moment. You’ve been brilliant getting your mate here, but let’s be sure you’re all right. John, bring me water, will you? What’s your name?”

  “Alistair,” he said shortly.

  Strewth, he had broad shoulders, and an upper torso that would make an artist reach for a brush. The strong curve of spine and taper to the waist were beautifully formed. It was a practical observation. She saw a lot of male bodies, and noted the ones that had been blessed with beauty.

  He clasped her wrist before she could listen to his heart, take his pulse. The firm steadiness of the grip drew her attention.

  “I’m all right,” he said, the syllables precise and clipped. “Go make sure Mort is fine.”

  Mort… With the repeat of his mate’s name, recent memory stirred. The conversation between Rigby and Charlie came back to her then, the bits of information they’d revealed.

  An aristocrat, they’d said. One who didn’t wear a uniform. Maybe he was an expatriate living in this area, with a beach home in Brisbane. His focused expression was that of a man of means, used to everyone around him being a subordinate. But his tone wasn’t impatient or rude. Just flat, as if laid out beneath many other things. She knew how that weight felt.

  “Careful, mate,” John said, putting the water she’d requested on the table. “The sisters give the orders around here, or there’s hell to pay.” He shot her a wink, but it was also a quick unspoken question she answered with a nod. She had this one in hand. He could go back to what he was doing.

  Alistair’s face twisted with impatience, and she spoke quickly, evenly. “You brought Charlie, Jonathan, Horace and Rigby to the dressing station.”

  That unusual gaze snapped to her, roved over her in a blink, taking her in, perhaps for the first time. “Did they make it?” he asked in that same heavy tone.

  “Jonathan didn’t,” she said quietly. “But we hope Horace will. Two are in recovery now. Rigby and Charlie.”

  He digested that, his expression tightening briefly. “And they’re doing well?”

  “Well enough to be giving you a hard time in your absence. As men do, when they care very much about one another. I understand you’re a ‘damn fine footy player, and a total larrikin.’”

  She’d heard them say that right after she moved away to correct Greta. She expected it had been Rigby’s attempt to lighten the moment and ease Charlie away from visions of an angel of death.

  Alistair’s lips twitched, and eyes warmed slightly, but his tone remained brusque. “I need to get back. Tell them you saw me and I’m fine, if they’re of a mind to worry about me.”

  He began to rise, but she tightened her grip on his shoulders. His skin was firm and not clammy, which was good, but she worried about dehydration since he wasn’t perspiring, and everyone sweated here. Clothes dark at the armpits and lower back were a Singapore fashion statement, Helen liked to say. Thigh sweat was an unmentionable yet constant aggravation.

  “Just give me a quick moment to do this,” she said. “Here, drink this water. Where are you going, anyway?”

  He paid no attention to the water. “There’s another one out there. I have to go get him.”

  Sensing her time was limited in direct proportion to his tolerance for delay, she started her exam as he was speaking. He
winced as she probed his skull. The wetness of his dark hair had suggested she start there to ensure none of the dampness was blood. Some of it had been. He’d suffered a close graze with some kind of projectile, enough to have taken out a furrow of flesh that had exposed bone.

  “Bloody hell,” she murmured, and signaled subtly to John in case she did need help keeping this one pinned down. “You need stitches here, at least.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  But she’d already adjusted to press him forward on the stool so she could see his back down to the waistband of his daks. She drew in a breath.

  It had to have been shrapnel that tore into his flesh so deeply, right above the kidneys. The gaping hole should have poured most of his blood out. And completely incapacitated him. Which was why instead of shouting for a gurney, she was frowning and probing the coagulated, fist-sized hole. It was already trying to close, clusters of skin cells crisscrossing it like a web.

  John had approached, and Alistair stiffened once more, though this time his posture and the glance he shot the orderly’s way was even more aggressive. At her slight head shake, John didn’t retreat, but he didn’t advance either, waiting on her. They were all aware that the men could be hypervigilant and combative. They could do damage without meaning to do so. Fortunately, Alistair seemed to relax as John stood down. At least toward the orderly.

  Her wrist was clasped in that hard grip again as he twisted around. Even with him sitting, their faces weren’t far apart. Those blue eyes glittered, dark brows drawing down to add to the tension highlighting the strong bones of his face.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice strained. “I need to go…now.”

  It was then she noticed his gaze had latched onto a particular part of her. Not her face. And not her breasts. Many of the chaps got caught up in those. As long as they weren’t cads about it, a nurse could hardly get in a blue over it, when they were bent over the poor fellows so often, their brassieres practically in their faces. But Alistair wasn’t looking at that, either.