Book of the Dead: AESLI-00: (A reverse harem, post-pandemic, slow-burn romance) (The JAK2 Cycle, Book 1)

by V. E. S. Pullen

  Another round of disinfecting followed, and then she was inserting a dull needle into the more mature access — it slid in smoothly, the attached tube slowly filling with blood — and a sharp one into the new point at the exact same angle and depth as every previous insertion over the last month, a technique that forms a permanent tube of scar tissue into my arm that was the goal of the whole procedure. Once the second needle was in place, she covered them with an antibacterial shield and released the tourniquet then disconnected the first collection tube, a tiny one for the sample needed to measure the density of my blood. Once both accesses had larger collection tubes attached, I could relax a bit as they began to fill.

  Soldier Boy stared at the setup, visibly confused at how slowly my blood was pumping into the receptacles. He was about ten seconds away from trying to listen to my heart to make sure it was pumping correctly, and I didn’t wait for the inevitable questions. “I have polycythemia vera. My bone marrow is hyperactive, produces way too many blood cells so it gets super thick and slow to circulate.” His eyes shot up to meet mine, concern plain on his face, and I looked away before the pity could follow. “I come in just about every morning to get my oil changed. Mouse removes two-thirds of a pint, replaces it with fluids to thin the rest, and thus the need for the fistula.”

  “You’re at 56% for wbcs and 64% for red,” Mouse appeared in front of me, her brow furrowed with worry. “That’s really high considering it’s only been two days — you were at 58% pre-phlebotomy on Saturday and 53% on Friday. What’s going on?”

  “New doctor,” I muttered, hoping it would be enough, but neither one of them seemed interested in backing down. Since the damn collection tubes were filling at a crawl, I heaved out a big sigh. “She’s messing with some things— I wish she wouldn’t, but she’s not exactly listening to me.”

  “What do you mean she won’t listen to you?” Soldier Boy was all kinds of upset, which was sweet in a way, but annoying in others. “She doesn’t have to listen to you, the hematocrit does all the talking! 64%… that’s like your heart is trying to pump honey — that’s dangerous!”

  “Yep,” I agreed cynically, “and it doesn’t exactly feel good either.” I pinched my fingertips together. I wasn’t sure if they were more numb than usual or I was just imagining it; same with my toes. I had to be so careful of my feet, I’d had problems in the past with toenails splitting without me realizing it, sometimes bleeding a slow trickle into my shoes for hours.

  My version of PV was a little out of the norm, which the doctors thought goes along with it hitting me so young: I had an abundance of red blood cells and white blood cells, my rbcs and wbcs, but was a little lacking on the platelets. On the one hand, it meant I had a slightly lower chance of developing blood clots causing strokes or heart attacks, which is a problem with the slow circulation of PV, but on the other hand, my blood doesn’t clot very well. I could potentially bleed out from a small cut.

  I was constantly worried about internal bleeds too — sometimes PV is treated with low-dose aspirin to help thin the blood, but that can cause bleeding ulcers in the stomach. Unless I wanted to get scoped regularly, it wasn’t an option.

  “Who is it?” Mouse demanded, swapping tubes again, and I squirmed in my seat, not wanting to talk about it in front of him, but she wouldn’t stop. “Seriously, who is it? What is she messing with? This isn’t good—”

  I widened my eyes and pinched my mouth, giving her the shut the fuck up look.

  “Quit avoiding the question!” He was starting to raise his voice at me. Oh, fuck this noise.

  “It’s none of your business,” I hissed at him and glared at Mouse. “Let it go.”

  “No, I want to know what’s going on.” Mouse was relentless, and I was trapped in my seat as my blood drained.

  “Mouse, it doesn’t matter,” I forced out through gritted teeth.

  “I’m just going to tell him when you leave so you might as well spit it out.” Now she was glaring right back at me. “Or I’ll just fucking call McNamara myself.”

  “McNamara knows!” I shouted, all my frustration causing me to explode. “He won’t do anything! It’s the new fucking OB-GYN director, and she took me off birth control last week — she read a fucking article once and thinks she fucking knows better. I’m all fucked up, I don’t know what to do, and you’re not helping!”

  Mouse collapsed down onto her stool, knowing exactly how helpless I was in this situation. If my lead doctor was allowing the change then I was screwed — no one was going to prescribe medications against McNamara’s orders.

  Soldier Boy wasn’t nearly so accepting. “Can you up the dosage of whatever medicine you take? The meds that aren’t birth control, I mean.”

  I stared at him, not saying anything. Mouse’s silence was equally as pointed as she switched out one of my collection tubes and prepped the bag of fluids I’d get to thin out what was left, purposely not looking at either of us. She wasn’t stopping at 300-some mLs today, it looked like she was taking a full pint if not more. Even though all the repeated blood draws made me iron-deficient, and taking that much would wipe me out physically, I’d feel better later in the day.

  “You are on medication, right?” he asked, horrified, his jaw clenching and eyes blazing when I jerked my head negatively. His face reddened. He looked kinda like a shaken bottle of soda getting ready to pop, and I’d had about enough of that. I had no desire to get yelled at by this man.

  I slammed my free palm down on the stainless steel countertop next to me with a satisfying boom! and interrupted his impending explosion. “Stop,” I said, my voice pitched low. “You need to calm the fuck down and stop talking like you have any fucking clue what my case is. My bitching about changes in my treatment protocol to Mouse is one thing, she’s been with me for years and knows what and why, but you don’t. You’ve been here all of a half hour, so shut the fuck up and mind your own business, or you aren’t going to last long.”

  He glared, but it wasn’t directed at me, and I don’t know how I knew that I but I did. Suddenly, he started shaking out his arms and stretching his neck like he’d strained muscles keeping all that in, scowling fiercely, but when he finally looked at me again, his smile was sheepish. I got this warm tickle on the inside — in a very tiny, tiny way, he tried having my back.

  Does that mean he likes me?

  Mouse cut between us, interrupting my unnatural fit of girlieness, to change out the other tube and remove the needle. She hooked up the bag of fluids that would help me feel human again for a little while, and we all let the intensity of the moment fade. I finally broke the silence, looking up at where he stood off to the side, scowl back and lost in thought, and asked, “So what is your name?”

  The storm dissipated and he smiled at me weakly. “Taiowa Chandler.” He pronounced it tee-oh-wa, so the “Tai, for short” was odd. I wanted to ask how tee became tie, but he’d kept talking. “And you? Or should I just call you Lady Azrael?”

  “Azzie is fine,” I smirked at his startled expression. “Yeah, that’s really my name, I wasn’t just quoting the game but good on you for recognizing the reference. That’s a little obscure.”

  “Wow, that’s— quite a namesake.”

  “I know, right? My parents met playing Wendigo so lucky me, although it could’ve been a lot worse. There are three Emmas and four Bellas in my class.”

  In the spirit of one of Rachel’s books, nothing snuffs out the burning flames of ardor quite like finding out the object of interest is jailbait. I swear his face fell right then, I wasn’t just imagining it, and he instantly distanced himself.

  Cool.

  Cool, cool, cool.

  Chapter Two

  Azzie

  I made it back across the hospital on shaky legs, feeling pretty good now that my blood could pump again. It was the contradiction of my disease: the frequent blood draws left me shaky and sometimes nauseated, but thinning my blood out ultimately made me feel better. I had a few more side effe
cts than normal because of the volume taken, a bit of lightheadedness and weakness even though the smoothie I’d had for breakfast was loaded with protein and iron.

  The benefits of having a nutritionist for a guardian: she made sure I was getting exactly what I needed when I needed it, but we hadn’t planned on a full pint today. I might have to supplement my lunch somehow.

  I’d left Mouse and Tai in a heated discussion about how they’d be treating my illness if they were my doctor, which wasn’t exactly a fair debate. Mouse knew way more about the situation than he did, and his response to everything seemed to be “there must be some kind of medication they can use.” I sensed he wasn’t just going to let it go, but I really hoped he would. I didn’t want to deal with it every time I saw him, and I didn’t know him at all but I still didn’t like the consequences of him sticking his nose into things that concerned me. He was way too pretty to be terminated, and I hoped Mouse would tell him to dial it back. If she didn’t, I would.

  I got back to the west entrance and had to wait at the door for a mail pickup. They had already unlocked the box and one man in full body armor was rolling the bin over to the armored truck while his partners stood nearby, assault rifles at the ready. I texted Rachel (“off 2 skool,” which I knew would annoy her) while I waited the few minutes it took for them to finish up and drive away, hoping to hear more about the mystery men. Reggie released the lock from inside his security cage and I was allowed to exit just as I got back her “Thx. Have a good day.” Grrr.

  Reggie grunted in my direction when I passed through the revolving door to the outside, then went back to his tablet. I threw on my sunglasses and strapped on my backpack, told Reggie to have a super day! in my most sincere fake voice, and headed off to school.

  It was a mile between the medical complex and the high school, my route skirting around the downtown area to the north. Even this early in the morning, there were quite a few people on the streets: shops were opening, people were running — lots of people running, it was a popular pursuit here — and the diner and the coffee shop were both full.

  Everywhere I looked were healthy people carrying out their day to day lives, as if nothing had changed. As if there was no sickness or death in the world. I let my pedal assist do most of the work, my energy already fading, and waved at the patrolling guards as I passed them at an intersection. They’d give me a ride if I asked, but I liked my solitude.

  My music was playing through only one ear again, allowing me to keep tabs on my surroundings, and its a good thing I did: at an intersection a few blocks from school, a truck turned on red and almost hit me in the crosswalk.

  It was not one I’d seen around before, a massive behemoth of a lifted pickup, rolling along with a growling engine disappointed at being held back. The windows had the super dark tint that everyone seemed to have these days, now that no one cared and privacy was paramount, and I couldn’t see anything but maybe some vague shapes as I reached out and whacked the rear panel just inches from my front tire, shouting “Open your eyes, asshole!”

  The truck ground to a halt — still blocking the goddamn crosswalk! — and I half-lifted, half-rolled my bike back to be able to maneuver around the back bumper, glaring at the blank windows the whole time. Once I got free of the obstacle and kicked down on my pedal, I shot around the back end and smacked the tailgate again, wishing I had something harder than my hand, like a baseball bat. Or a wrench. I should start carrying a wrench.

  As I hit the sidewalk on the other side, I heard a shouted “Hey! Wait!” from the truck, and held up my middle finger behind me without looking back.

  The next intersection, the truck was there, idling with no small amount of frustration, waiting to turn right to get back onto the main road. I rolled along the front grill, holding my arm up high enough to make sure the driver could see my message just in case he missed it the first time — and this kind of truck, I knew it had to be a he.

  He turned behind me, creeping along at my pace. As an intimidation tactic, it was pretty effective. I felt vulnerable and exposed with this unknown threat at my back, and I focused on getting to the school as quickly as possible.

  I heard another summons, but kept my eyes locked on the electronic billboard the school had at the road, announcing an upcoming performance of the drama club, ignoring everything around me. The truck sped up, pulling parallel, and I saw a body half-hanging out an open window from the corner of my eye. I flinched, expecting something to come flying at me, but nothing did.

  Whoever it was called out again, but then I was turning onto school property and kicking down again for a burst of speed that would carry my all the way to the bike racks, while the truck accelerated and then turned into the student lot on the other side of the main entrance where the busses were doing drop-off.

  I didn’t damage the truck when I hit it, but that wouldn’t matter to some men. The adrenalin surge I’d felt was fading fast, leaving me even shakier and my arms and legs feeling like they had lead weights attached, but I had to hurry to get inside before the truck occupants made it over to me if that’s what they were going for. I was also late, the first bell ringing while I was still out on the sidewalk, and I had to rush to homeroom.

  If I saw the truck again, I’d just call a patrol over and not deal with it myself. I was too confident in my own righteousness, forgetting that it didn’t matter to some people, and I could get hurt. I had to be smarter, I have responsibilities.

  I already knew it was going to be a bad day.

  I wasn’t wrong.

  Homeroom was fine. It was always fine, there wasn’t much that could go wrong there because Clarissa Wegner and Marina Thomas were alone in our section and they need at least a full pack to do anything more than make snide comments. Even better, they were too busy gossiping about something super exciting to give me any shit, so I relaxed and considered reviewing my Stats homework but instead stared out the window for the twenty minutes it took to check attendance and hear announcements.

  It was during my first class of the day, British Lit, that things started getting weird.

  There were new boys in the class.

  It isn’t completely unheard of, but it is rare, and these boys… well, let’s just say they were a cut above what we’ve seen in the past.

  No wonder Clarissa and Marina were too busy to torment me, they had fresh meat to discuss. Really fresh meat.

  I wasn’t really paying attention when I got to the room, not even noticing that the majority of the class congregated in a clump right in the center until I couldn’t get down the aisle to my regular seat. I grunted at Adrian Nakamura to move out of my way then had to physically push past Olivia Servo, who growled at me with her high-pitched voice like an angry chipmunk. It wasn’t until she moved that I saw what the fuss was about, the two new faces.

  Two new faces that were so very symmetrical and unusually easy on the eyes — and not just because they were shiny and new and different, these were just fuckin’ handsome guys by any definition of beauty.

  And if I keep referring to their appearance in abstract, almost critical terms, then I won’t have to acknowledge how looking at them felt like getting slapped in the ovaries.

  Even sitting down, one was visibly taller than the other, though I think even the shorter one was close to six feet if not slightly over. The taller one had lightly tanned skin with dirty blonde hair that was short on the sides and longer on the top, and startlingly light eyes of an indeterminate shade of gray or blue with a black rim around the outside of the pupil. Despite the clean lines of his haircut, he was sporting scruff on his jaw and chin like he hadn’t bothered shaving that morning, or the one before. Or possibly the last week given how challenging it seemed to be for the boys in my class to cultivate any kind of facial hair. He was wearing a snug black t-shirt that showed off some damn fine muscles despite being a bit wiry and slim compared to the other boy.

  The other, shorter boy was dark: dark hair shorn close to his skull, dar
k eyes that finally made me understand the term “bedroom eyes,” olive skin, and muscles. So many muscles… he had broad shoulders, thick arms, a chest that any of the soldiers on base would be satisfied with, and he was almost — but not quite — as impressive as Tai. He was wearing a heather gray t-shirt declaring allegiance to a sports team I’d never heard of, and dark olive cargo pants I could see because he was lounging sideways in his chair, facing Bella Zubeck.

  Bella was sitting on top of the desk across the aisle, her already short skirt riding up enough that I’m sure he had a nice view of her panties. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess they weren’t cotton bikinis printed with glow-in-the-dark bat symbols like the ones I was wearing, although maybe I’d suggest that to her because nothing draws the eye up into the darkness under a skirt like a glowing beacon summoning the Dark Knight. Total missed opportunity.

  The first boy, the blonde one, noticed me staring. Not sure what exactly caught his attention because I was just standing there contemplating Tom Hardy as Bane, then Tom Hardy in general, and then the experience of being in close proximity to Tai…

  Maybe it was my dazed expression or that I wasn’t openly drooling over him and his companion, but regardless, his eyes locked on me. One eyebrow arched upwards as the corner of his mouth curled up, and it was a little too self-satisfied for me. I pointedly looked between them, shrugged one shoulder dismissively, and continued to my seat. I’ve seen better. Just this morning, in fact.

  A low, rumbly chuckle left silence in its wake, but since Bella had never met attention she didn’t want, it was very quickly filled with an exaggerated, false outrage. I assumed it was directed at the dark haired boy regarding his view up her skirt — really need to talk to her about the bat symbols, she wouldn’t have to try so hard or protest so vehemently — but I didn’t bother to look. I heard another low voice respond, too soft to make out the words, but it caused her some very real offense judging by her shriek and the laughter from the crowd still surrounding them.