Immortally Embraced

by fox, angie

  “Outside,” I said, standing.

  “Now,” Marc said, hot on my heels as I pushed through the curtain and strolled through the lab. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like trying to save him while the whole time, I’m thinking I should be saving you? You were out there. Alone. You could be getting stabbed, blasted to hell, sliced up by imps. Did you even think before you took off?”

  We charged out of the lab and he got a good look at the half-trashed jeep.

  “Holy shit,” he said, turning me around, “What the hell are you doing taking these kinds of chances?”

  “Right. But it’s okay for you to make me shoot you and wonder if I killed you.”

  He balked at that. “I survived.”

  “I didn’t know that!” My voice broke as I shouted.

  Goddamn. It actually felt good to finally let it out.

  I took a step closer to him. “And what about what you did when we were breaking into the lab? You just jumped into that vent without a gas mask.”

  “I’m a dragon. I can handle it.”

  “I didn’t know that! You’re always running off. Thinking you can sacrifice yourself. Expecting me to suffer and you don’t even think about what it’s doing to me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about me. I sacrifice. I gave up everything so you didn’t have to sit back there in New Orleans and wait around for me for the rest of your life.”

  That was rich. “You think you’re so fucking noble. Well, you’re not. You’re taking the high road. It may sound moral and superior, but what you’re really doing is running away from the people you love. You’re not sacrificing. We are.”

  He looked at me like I was nuts. “That’s bullshit.”

  It was the truth. “You’re asking me to be there for you and then you keep putting me through this.”

  He stood for a moment, silent. “You just ran off on me.”

  “It feels pretty shitty, doesn’t it?” It was twisted. It was fucked up. “I may have shot you, Marc, but you stepped in front of the bullet.”

  He’d always had to be the noble one, and it sounded great on paper, but what it really meant was that he left people like me holding the bag. “You want it all. You want me. You want things to be the way they were. You think you can have it for a few days or a week or however long we happen to be together until I never see you again.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t choose that,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “No, you didn’t. But you’re asking me to do something that you’re not willing to do yourself. You’re asking me to love you. You’re asking me to be with you. But you’re blocking yourself. You’re playing it safe. I can feel you holding back. I know it, Marc, because I’ve had the real you. I had you when you were sweating it out with me on the roof of your walk-up. I had you when we couldn’t think of anything but what it would be like to finally graduate and be together. I had you when I found that ring.”

  It was like I’d slapped him. “I was going to ask you on your last day of residency.”

  All the fire drained out of me. They’d come and gotten him the Sunday before. “I know.”

  “How?” The pain in his eyes stole my breath away.

  “Because I know you, Marc.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, they held a sorrow so deep it tore me in half. “I can’t do it,” he said.

  I nodded. The kicker was, I understood.

  It was just too hard.

  He stilled. “So where does this leave us?”

  “Alone.”

  “Petra?” Father’s voice called from the lab, weak and questioning.

  We rushed to the back room, where our patient was trying to sit up. He had his hand to this throat.

  “Are you thirsty?” I asked. I helped him lean his back against the headboard.

  “I’ll get him something,” Marc said, brushing past me.

  He brought back a bottle of water and helped Father tip it to his lips.

  I wiped the sweat from the priest’s forehead. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay, I think,” he said, looking around, as if wondering how he’d gotten into my back bedroom. “My head could be better.”

  Marc checked his blood pressure as Fitz jumped up on the bed and lay next to his owner.

  “What happened to me?” Father asked.

  I removed his boots and pulled the covers up over him. “It’s called medusa water. She gets mad and it boils.”

  “She’s a patient of yours,” he said, reaching down to stroke Fitz. “Be careful. Medusa has been banished. She’s not of the immortal world and she’s not of ours.”

  “What are you saying?” Marc asked.

  The priest considered the question. “Medusa is an entity unto herself.”

  Marc didn’t look too happy about that.

  “So is Fitz,” I said as the puppy rolled over so Padre could scratch his belly.

  Father glanced past me. “Is there supposed to be smoke in there?”

  We headed into the lab and sure enough, red vapor billowed from the medusa water/sphinx venom vials. I shared a glance with Marc.

  “I’ll take a look,” he said. “Why don’t you take care of Father?”

  Father was trying to roll to his side. “If it’s all the same to you, this father would rather rest up at home.”

  “Actually,” I said, taking a closer look at his dilated pupils, “I’d rather have you in the recovery ward.” Better safe than sorry.

  He made a face. “Is that truly necessary?”

  “Medically speaking? Yes.” He’d be under strict observation, unlike here. “Besides, Jeffe is on shift tonight.” Father had been teaching the Sphinx how to play poker. It would give them both something to do.

  Father nodded. “Very well.”

  I brought a wheelchair up and we got him moved and settled in. After Marius examined Father again and practically tossed me out of recovery, I made my way back to the lab.

  Marc was busy at the microscope. “Anything?”

  “Yes,” he said, angling the microscope toward me.

  I looked through the eyepieces and adjusted the microscope until I could see fat, round cells. The medusa water had neutralized our sphinx venom.

  We did it.

  Numb, I pushed away from the sample. “Well, that’s it, then.”

  “It is,” Marc said. “Good news. You don’t have to deal with me anymore.” He moved past me toward the door, careful not to touch. “I’m going to take a walk. Why don’t you announce it to the general?”

  I should have stopped him, but I didn’t as he banged out of the door and out of my life.

  chapter twenty-four

  We set up the official test in a private room near the recovery ward. Marius waited in the OR, scrubbed up and ready for surgery, in case anything went wrong.

  And it very well could. Drugs like this usually went through a litany of tests before they were allowed to be used on real people, or immortals in this case. But the order had come straight from General Argus: Test now.

  I just hoped that if there were complications, they’d pull it and let us refine the active dose. You never knew with the gods. I finished taking our patient’s vitals as Marc wiped his arm with an antiseptic swab, preparing for the injection.

  “How are you doing?” I asked the burly special ops soldier.

  He nodded in recognition. “I’m doing.” It was the immense Asian I’d had on my table. I’d cut off his arm and still, he’d volunteered to help test this drug.

  He was brave, giving; he was one of the good ones. I just hoped we wouldn’t let him down.

  “We’re going to put you out for only about fifteen minutes.” I wanted to give a small dose the first time.

  He nodded, a thin sheen of sweat betraying his fear. Immortals as a rule didn’t like giving up control. This one hadn’t even wanted to be tied when I severed his arm.

  I squeezed his hand. “No worries.”

 
Kosta gave us space; Argus did not. I flexed my shoulders, angling for a little breathing room as I inserted the needle into our patient’s arm.

  We’d know in ten seconds if this worked or not. I squeezed the plunger and began the countdown.

  “Ten, nine, eight…”

  The soldier’s eyes fluttered closed.

  “Pulse is steady,” Marc announced.

  I nodded. “Seven, six, five…”

  “Breathing is normal.”

  “Four, three, two. One.” I pulled the needle out and glanced up at the monitors.

  Our patient was out.

  “Can he feel anything?” the general asked over my shoulder.

  Marc checked his pupils, then the monitor. “He’s functioning, but under.”

  The general beamed under his mask.

  We did it. We found a way to help. I touched my patient’s scarred shoulder, feeling a hundred things at once. Relief, pride, joy, sadness that it had taken this long.

  Argus edged me out of the way. I did a double take as he unsheathed a wide-blade hunting knife. “What are you—?”

  I watched, shocked, as the general buried the knife in my patient’s chest.

  The monitors screamed. Kosta seized Argus’s arm as the general twisted the knife and yanked it out.

  He was sweating, triumphant as he held the bloody blade. “You’re right! He didn’t feel it.” Kosta shoved him. Argus stumbled back, a bloodthirsty leer in his eyes. “We did it!”

  “Get the hell out,” Kosta thundered, his scar white, expression murderous as he half shoved, half dragged the general away. But the damage was done.

  “I need suction!” Marc said, as blood poured from the wound. “Crushed rib, collapsed lung,” he continued, examining our patient. “I don’t know if it got the heart.”

  I hurried for our instruments. Sweat gathered at my surgical cap as I suctioned the blood. The blade had torn a hole through his left lung, above the heart.

  Goddamn fucking gods.

  I’d looked this man in the eye. I’d told him he’d be okay.

  He did this for me.

  Marc’s brow knit as he worked.

  “We only have fifteen minutes,” I reminded him.

  Less, actually.

  “Give him more,” he barked.

  “We don’t have any more,” I ground out.

  Marc’s fingers slipped in the blood and he cursed under his breath.

  The anesthetic would keep our soldier out for a quarter of an hour, if it worked right. Please let it work right.

  We had to have him stitched up and healed in less time than that or he’d wake up in the middle of surgery.

  Sweat slicked his brow as Marc re-inflated the lung. “I don’t think it went any deeper,” he murmured, focused.

  I suctioned the blood. “Five minutes.”

  His forehead crinkled. “I can’t make him heal any faster, Petra.”

  “Try.”

  I suctioned as Marc stitched. We guided the muscle as it grew back together. We guided the ribs, leading the broken bones as they re-formed.

  “How are we doing?” he asked as we both pulled back, bloodstained gloves poised over our patient as his skin knit together.

  “Less than a minute.”

  Marc closed his eyes and exhaled.

  I wiped a damp, sterile cloth over the soldier’s chest, cleaning away the blood. His vitals looked good. Chances were, we’d done it. I wanted X-rays just in case.

  Our patient stirred. He was early. His skin was still red and raw.

  “Holly,” I called. “Can you get in here?”

  The soldier blinked, staring at the ceiling. I slipped off my bloody gloves and reached for a new pair. “How are you feeling?”

  Confusion trickled across his features. “I don’t know,” His eyes flickered over me. No doubt I was pale. I hid behind the clinical calm I’d perfected from years on the job.

  His gaze darted to Marc, then back to me. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I answered. “You didn’t feel anything, did you?”

  He shook his head.

  Marc had pulled on a new pair of gloves as well. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to order a few tests, just for documentation.”

  He nodded.

  It had worked.

  We did it. We developed the first humane solution I’d seen come out of this vicious combat.

  And tested it brutally.

  I gave my patient a reassuring squeeze. Just when I’d thought there could be hope in this war, I was reminded that it could never be that simple.

  Holly joined us, scrubbed in and ready to take over. “Kosta wants to see you at the officers’ club.”

  “Lovely,” I said, giving my patient one last look. “I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

  Marc and I headed back toward the surgical locker room.

  He pulled off his cap and I did, too. I yanked out my ponytail. “Why can’t we just go to Kosta’s office?” The commander knew I wasn’t a big drinker. Besides, after the stunt Argus pulled, we had a lot to discuss.

  “Come on,” Marc said, his hand sliding across my shoulder. “Commander’s orders.”

  Yeah, well, a drink wouldn’t be the best thing, as pissed as I was.

  We entered a square room just behind the surgical prep area. Lockers lined up on opposite walls with a few benches in the middle.

  “He stabbed him,” I said low, wadding my gown and shoving it in bio waste. “He fucking stabbed him.”

  “How much do you know about Argus?” Marc asked, tossing his gown on top of mine.

  “Not enough,” I admitted as we headed out of the physicians’ locker room and into the night. I’d been so eager to pursue the anesthetic, so focused on getting it right, on helping patients like my amputation case. I didn’t stop to think who I might be trusting.

  “Maybe your commander knows something,” Marc said as we made tracks for the officers’ club.

  I didn’t doubt it. Kosta was a barracuda. And if he didn’t want to use his office, I had to wonder if the conversation we were about to have was going to be off the books, so to speak.

  The run-down shack that served as the officers’ club stood on the edge of camp, close to Kosta’s quarters and the VIP tent.

  The tin roof was loud as heck during the monthly rainstorm, but it gave the bar its bite. Large gutters funneled down into tanks that captured Hell’s Rain. Rodger had measured it at 180 proof. Normally, I avoided the stuff. Right now, well, let’s just say I wasn’t against it.

  Marc and I attracted more than a few stares as we wandered past the wooden bar toward a table in the back.

  “It’s the dry doc!” a mechanic at one of the front tables yelled out.

  “Hold on to your glasses. She’s got sticky fingers!”

  “Rodger finally drive you to drink, Robichaud?” another yelled before they saw me walk up to Kosta. Just that quick, the peanut gallery quickly turned back to their drinks.

  Marc and I pulled up a chair at a wooden table in the back. Kosta sat, red-faced, in front of a drink he hadn’t touched.

  “Argus is giving his report to HQ,” Kosta said, the scar on his lip white.

  Marc sank into a chair. “What do you want to bet he leaves out the part about stabbing our patient?”

  “How is he?” Kosta asked, eyes on the door.

  “He’ll live,” I said. It wasn’t the point.

  The bartender brought us each a clear glass of Hell’s Rain. It smelled like lighter fluid and lemon Pledge.

  My fingers curled around the glass. I wanted to rant. I wanted to yell. I wanted to list everything I hated about this war and this place and the injustice of fighting for an army that didn’t care whether we lived or died, whether we suffered, if we had lives, or if we loved.

  But Kosta was my commanding officer.

  Besides, he knew.

  “Congratulations,” he said, raising his glass to us before downing it.

  Some party
.

  I dipped my pinkie into my glass and tasted. It scalded my tongue, made my ears run. This was worse than the time I tried tequila.

  Lazio leaned back from the table next to us. “You have to drink it fast.” He held his up and downed it like a shot.

  Ew. What was the point?

  Marc sat scowling. His hair was tousled, his mouth wide and firm. His complexion was ruddy, as if he’d just gotten back from a bike ride instead of a mad rush to put a man back together.

  My silent appraisal seemed to annoy him. He threw back his drink and punched it down so hard the table rattled. “Hell of a celebration.”

  “I’ll be sure to write up something for your file,” Kosta said to Marc. “Can’t guarantee it’ll do any good, coming from our side.”

  That’s right. Marc was leaving.

  I’d known all along it would come to that. I’d accepted it. And still I felt like a part of me would never heal.

  Maybe I did need that drink.

  I raised my glass before I could think about it too much.

  “That’s it,” Lazio called from the next table, reaching for another one. “Let’s toast. To tonight’s prophecy!” He held up his drink as everyone at his table clanked their glasses, Hell’s Rain sloshing out onto the table.

  I grabbed Lazio’s arm as he moved to drink, spilling half his glass.

  “Oh, hey, awwww…” He shook his wet arm.

  “What prophecy?” I demanded.

  He looked at me like I’d gone off the deep end. “They will fire the weapon and bring an end to suffering.”

  “Fire the weapon?” I asked, fighting for my voice. “They actually said, Fire the weapon.” I hoped he was drunk.

  He chuckled. “PNN’s been repeating it all day. They’re going crazy trying to figure out how the last one came true.”

  Death came with a gift. Like the dagger in my pocket.

  I rushed to the bar. “Turn on PNN.” The bartender shrugged, reaching under the counter for an old transistor radio. It whined as he turned the dials, trying to find the station.

  “Hurry up, hurry up,” I said, turning the thing around. Doing it myself.

  “He will fire the weapon and bring an end to suffering,” said a woman on the radio. “But what weapon?”

  One that could destroy us all.

  “Well, it’s obvious the gods have something planned and they will tell us in their own good time.”