Nurses: Mills of Ice Spire, Harlow, Odell, Laxmi, and Baako. She’d already forgotten where all but one of them were from, but it probably didn’t matter.
Aides: Gola, Udek, Chibueze, Enrian.
There was a mix of male and female staff; most were mated. When the last person finished speaking, Dr. Seagram stood. Though he’d requested brevity, the intros still took at least fifteen minutes. It was a minute miracle that no alarms were sounding down the hall.
Quickly, he explained the shifts, divided as Sheyla had predicted. He read the names of the people who would be on duty first and then said, “The rest of you, relax and get some rest. You’ll need it.”
Since her name hadn’t been called, she’d be on second shift. As the others went off to the ward, she stood up, only to be hailed by Nurse Nervous. Harlow, she corrected herself mentally.
“Do you think we’re safe?” the woman asked.
“More than the people who are fighting.” Her tone was curt because it was an asinine question.
“We might not even be able to get a message out. Did you see the apparatus Dr. Seagram mentioned?”
Until this moment, she hadn’t even looked but her gaze followed Nurse Harlow’s gesture until she spotted the machine in the far corner, near the lift. Perched on a table, it was the oddest piece of “technology” she’d ever seen, with a wooden base and metal knobs attached to a metal wand that sat atop a metal plate and there were the wires he’d mentioned, running from the unit into the wall.
“There’s only one way to find out,” she said.
She went over to investigate, but there was no usage manual, no hint of how to operate the thing. Dr. Seagram should know, based on what he’d said, but it was a poor idea to have only one person trained on such matters, plus she’d always loved puzzles.
He mentioned old books down here…
Near the hallway, she located the shelves in question, haphazardly stacked with books, files, and periodicals. Most were medical journals, unbelievably outdated, some were fiction, including some rather fascinating vintage pornography. Not what she was looking for, but Sheyla did pause to admire some of the pictures.
“What are you doing?” Nurse Harlow hovered behind her, and she stifled a sigh.
It seemed she’d acquired a shadow.
“Looking for documentation.”
The woman seemed puzzled, not Sheyla’s problem. On the bottom shelf, underneath a stack of yellow papers, she found what she sought—a usage manual for the wired gizmo, along with a simple cipher system. It tracked logically that the outpost would have access to these same materials, so she sat down on the floor to study.
Unsurprisingly, Nurse Harlow joined her. “Is it helpful?”
We must live together for gods know how long. I cannot snap at her.
“With sufficient review, I’ll be able to use the machine and send a test message.” She was trying for a nice way of saying, Shut up and let me focus.
It didn’t work.
The nurse chattered on. “I should have volunteered for the triage team, I think. Being underground unsettles me so much.”
“You don’t say.”
Here, for many people, the urge to comfort would kick in. Sheyla just wanted Nurse Harlow to go away. Somehow, she restrained her impatience. “Is that where the rest of the St. Casimir staff went?”
Eager nodding. “There are med tents set up at all borough outposts.”
If things had been less of a mad scramble, maybe she would’ve chosen the triage team too, but Sheyla wasn’t wired for regret. Done was done, and she’d do her utmost to help in the bunker. If he knew, Alastor would probably be glad she was here with Dedrick, at any rate, and sequestered from the fighting.
Offering a longing look at the manual, she tried one last time to distract Nurse Harlow. By offering her the vintage porn. “This is amazing, check it out.”
Nurse Harlow took it, and finally, there was blessed silence.
I am wrath.
I am vengeance.
No, that was the wrong word. Justice. For those who couldn’t fight, Alastor led the Exile infantry. Korin and her two flankers provided enough air support for him to maneuver his unit into position, and he raised both arms in salute, hoping she saw it from her eagle-eye view.
He never felt so powerful as when he changed, even if he was charging straight toward a battalion of his own people. They were coming in hard, echelon formation, and he spotted heavy weapons near the back.
“Rowena!” He only needed to call out and point for her to see what he did from her better vantage.
It was a risk to send her in ahead, but he couldn’t let them hit the Exiles with that artillery. He slowed and roared a challenge, willing the commander to recognize him. If he did, he’d run straight at Alastor, never mind what the winged Gol might be doing.
It worked.
Following their commander, the whole squadron rushed at Alastor. He guessed there must be a bounty on him, dead or alive. How many coins for my head on a stick? That gambit let Rowena swoop in and drop grenades on the back of the line. The weapons and ammo went up in beautiful, fiery explosion that took out at least ten more grunts in pure collateral damage.
Shots rained down from behind, suppressive fire as he’d requested from the city militia. He didn’t have time to admire the fireworks, though, because in ten more seconds he was fighting for his life. Dedrick should be here, at his back, but he only had this scrawny Noxblade. Though Alastor had to admit, Zan was both ferocious and quick with his twin blades, which the enemy knew to be wary of, as they were poisoned.
He blocked a strike and another, then went on offense. We have to hold the line. Bodies slammed together all around him, the stink of smoke, burning flesh, and blood blending into an intense stench that fired his need to kill everyone who came at him.
Soon, he wasn’t thinking at all, no tactics, no strategy, just teeth and claws and deadly spikes. Corpses piled around him, his kills, Zan’s, and still they came on. He knocked three enemies down with a vicious swipe of his tail, and then, it was all butchery: gobbets of bloody meat and entrails yanked through soft spots in armored plating. One by one, he slew them all, until he was simultaneously sick and euphoric at the carnage.
Movement in his periphery, and he spun, narrowly avoiding a strike by the squad commander. Warily Alastor circled; this brute was nearly as big as he was, without the spikes, plating on his chest. By his scars, he’d fought often in the arena.
“You shame our people,” the captain growled.
“Don’t you respect strength? If so, how can you question my decision to challenge my brother? If you had a chance at the throne, wouldn’t you take it?”
Something like respect flickered in the Gol leader’s eyes. “If I was royal-born, I’d challenge and win.”
“Then you understand why I must kill you.” Alastor lunged, a fraction too slow to plunge his claws into the other’s throat.
A gravelly laugh. “You’ll try.”
“Less talk, more dying.” Zan zipped in and slashed, just a slice across the soft skin beneath the Gol’s arm.
A bee sting, really.
“You think…” But the leader couldn’t get his breath; panting and wheezing, he dropped to his knees.
Alastor finished him swiftly, a mercy, as the poison would take ten more minutes to complete its work. Zan was already engaging more nearby. His prey tended to die from minor wounds, contorted and frothing at the mouth. His body count just kept climbing, and he was so fucking fast that Alastor couldn’t keep up.
The initial bloodlust waned as challengers slowed. They’d broken their enemy line, at a cost. Nearly a third of his Exiles lay among the fallen, and more were fighting farther west.
“Fall back!” he ordered.
Rowena repeated the command, calling to the ones who had prowled past the range of his voice. As he’d hoped, the remainders of the enemy squad, now leaderless and frenzied, gave chase. They had the RVAC mounted on
a roof nearby and he waited until just the right moment to fire off a flare to the gunner. On that mark, she opened fire, blasting the ground so that an entire wave of Golgoth invaders went up in red smoke, drifted to dust. Even the earth seemed scorched, darker than normal dirt, and the smell—since they’d deployed the RVAC at long range last time, he hadn’t breathed in the fresh death.
No one should have this thing, let alone use it. If he took the throne, the first thing he’d do was suggest a voluntary disarmament on all sides.
His surviving soldiers rallied around him, blood-spattered and triumphant. The west holds. Now he needed news on how the forces fared to the south. If one side of the phalanx caved in, there would be no stopping the sack and pillage of Hallowell.
His skin felt too small and it was hard to think. Each idea came with too much straining when all he wanted to do was find Sheyla and fuck her through a wall. This wasn’t a new impulse, fortunately, but Alastor paused when he realized how specific the urge had become. Before, after the battle in the forest, he would’ve grabbed Ded or whichever soldier was closest to rut his brains out.
Fuck.
Fuuuuck.
Best not to dwell on it.
“Orders?” Rowena asked.
“We return to the outpost to see how the other units are faring. I’ll decide our next move after the status report.”
“Fall in,” she called to the men.
Borrowed strength from his brute form kept him moving at a brisk clip, but if he kept it up, he might collapse as he had before, unable to hold his shape. I can’t. I’m needed. I have to ration my energy. Still, he’d left his clothes at the outpost and he didn’t care to start wild stories by returning from battle naked and covered in blood. The Animari already nursed enough mistaken lore about his people.
The outpost commander was waiting for a word, but Alastor held up a hand to forestall him. Being unable to communicate easily offered an excellent excuse for him to shift back and dress, doing his best to hide the awkward erection.
At this moment, he could make anyone within a ten-foot radius want to fuck him, and in fact, the outpost commander was starting to look flushed, instinctively moving closer. Alastor took a step back.
“Your report?”
“Yes. Right.” The man rubbed his cheek and then put out a hand, dropped it to his side in eager flutters that might have been endearing, if Alastor had been trying to seduce him. Eventually, he collected himself enough to say, “I’m sorry, we don’t have any information yet. The signal machines are silent.”
“They’re probably still fighting in the south. Should we move to reinforce them…” It was a rhetorical question more than anything else.
“I’m not sure, sir. I feel…” The commander struggled to find a word that wasn’t wildly inappropriate.
“Walk it off. I’ll come back later.”
To aid in that recovery of composure, Alastor moved away to find Rowena. The Exiles had changed as well, but he could tell by their restless movements and febrile eyes that they wouldn’t be able to hold long. Quietly he said, “Find some privacy. Do what you need to. Fast. With each other, no meddling with the locals.”
It might seem like an odd move, but he needed all of them sharp and this was the most efficient way to keep anyone from losing control. That was a fucking disaster on deck, if his own soldiers seduced—or gods forbid, ravaged—the people they were supposed to protect.
Rowena added, “You heard him. This is a hit and quit, not the orgy of champions.”
Joining them would clear his head, but a lean figure was already headed his way. When the man stepped into the light, Alastor recognized Gavriel, visibly stained with his night’s work. Blood dotted his fair features, painted his white hair in streaks of violence.
“Bad news or worse?” the Eldritch asked.
“Surprise me.”
“Then I’ll let you decide which constitutes which. The south can’t hold and St. Casimir Hospital has fallen.”
23.
Twelve hours was a long shift.
Sheyla had worked for days straight in Ash Valley after the bombing, but prior to that, she’d worked normal hours in the hospital. It had been years since her residency. Unlike the others, she didn’t complain. That accomplished nothing and made Dr. Seagram peevish.
She heard him snap at Nurse Harlow, “No, I don’t know what’s going on in Hallowell. I’m not a seer, and I don’t have a magic mirror.”
He stomped out of the critical ward, leaving the nurse to approach Sheyla. Again. If only I had more vintage porn, she thought.
“He’s so mean.”
You’re so annoying. One of the ways she’d learned to pretend—to fit in better—was not speaking every honest thought.
“Did you change patient Li’s IVs?” she asked.
“Of course.” The nurse seemed affronted.
“And you’ve finished all the—”
“Yes. Whatever it is, yes. My list is entirely checked off. Now I’m just counting down the last fifteen minutes of our endless shift.”
Sheyla could’ve pointed out that if the shift was endless, there wouldn’t be a finite amount of time remaining, but that would’ve meant prolonging the conversation. Since she’d finished all her tasks as well, she went over to Dedrick and perched on the edge of the table at his bedside. From experience, she knew people spoke as if their words would be heard, so she tried to imagine what Alastor would say if he was here. She came up blank because he was so much brightness, irreverent and silly and…
Dear.
In the end, she only had her own words to give. “You’re healing well. There will be minimal scarring on your heart. It shouldn’t impact your physical prowess, provided you recover from the poison.”
That was the real threat, not that she’d say so to Dedrick, even in his comatose state. For the first time that she’d seen, his fingers flexed. Hesitantly she reached for his hand; it was warm and scarred, like the rest of him. It seemed to Sheyla that all the marks Alastor’s mother had erased, Dedrick bore them on his body in tribute. Probably he’d taken the wounds defending the prince, and she could not be more grateful.
Encouraged, she went on, “Alastor is waiting for you. I don’t think he’ll ever be the same if you don’t pull through, so you know what you should do, right?”
Another flex of his fingers.
“Good. It’s all right if you sleep a little longer. There’s not much to do down here anyway.”
She held his hand until her shift ended and the other crew shuffled in, no more bright-eyed than she felt. The dry ration packs on offer were essential-protein nuggets, the calories and nutrients required to sustain life, but it offered no savor to grind it up with her teeth and wash it down with tepid water. Already she wanted to shift and run, feel crisp wind blowing over her fur. Even the journey from Ash Valley to the rendezvous site that she’d once judged so awful and grueling shone like an inviting memory.
After dinner—or breakfast, she had no idea what time it was—she carried the code manual over to the signal machine. Using the instructions, she fired it up and was delighted to see the unit respond exactly as predicted. Silently, Dr. Seagram crept to her shoulder, but since he smelled a trifle ripe, she didn’t startle.
“You’ve already got it working.”
A pointless observation. “Is that all right?”
“Yes. Just don’t send any information that would give away our location. I can’t fathom why the invaders would come after us when there are higher priority targets, but it seems better to be safe.”
“Agreed.”
After a moment’s thought, she painstakingly input the code for the letters S-H-A-L-A-I. Only Alastor would understand its significance. Random militia officers would have no clue and enemy Golgoth would only know that it was a flower. In the prince’s hands, it would become a private message, one that could’ve come from only one person.
His heart’s delight.
“An odd choice f
or a test,” Dr. Seagram said.
Sheyla only shrugged. There was no reason to explain her personal life, so long as it didn’t impact her professional performance. After turning off the signal machine, she got a book and chose the most comfortable-looking seat. It was too soon to retire; she would only toss and turn if she tried to burn all her free time in sleep.
This time, the one who interrupted her attempt at reading wasn’t Nurse Harlow, at least. A slight male joined her in an adjacent chair, and with some effort, she placed him as Dr. Mitra. He didn’t smell like anyone she’d ever encountered before, which was enough to pique her curiosity. It was beyond rude to ask, Why do you smell so strange?
He offered a friendly smile. “We haven’t spoken much. What are you reading?”
“The Secret History of Eldritch Queens: A Study in Espionage and Assassination.”
“Not what I expected.”
“Which is?” She wanted to demand the point of this conversation. Social interaction seemed rambling and inefficient, but she surmised that it sprang from a need for contact.
“From what I’ve seen, you’re all business, so I thought you’d be reading a medical journal.”
“Those are all fifty years out of date,” she pointed out. “Whereas this was already historical nonfiction when it was printed.”
“There could be new discoveries in later versions of the text, obviating prior assumptions of historical accuracy.”
“True.” Finally, she had to ask, “What is it that you want, Dr. Mitra? I can’t imagine you came to debunk my choice of reading material.”
“Not as such, no. I was just trying to be polite, get to know you before I request a favor.”
“No need, just ask.” Finally, she could see an end to this.
“I’m quite good friends with a doctor on first shift, and it would make time go faster for both of us if we were on the same schedule.”
“So, you want me to switch.”
“If you don’t mind. I know you’ve just come off rotation, but—”