by Nicole Snow
I can’t even bear to think what she’s contemplating. Death is a high for her, for too many people in Galentron. Because lives are sacrificed here for the almighty dollar, testing cures for top secret military clients who’d not-so-secretly love to build a disease that couldn’t be cured at all.
And I can’t look at those suffering animals anymore.
I turn away, disgust a thick, clotted thing in the back of my throat. It doesn’t taste like bile.
It tastes like shame, sour and heavy.
“You shouldn’t sound so happy,” I snap without thinking.
“Don’t be soft, Caldwell. This was the mission.” Her voice is cold as steel at my back, with a subtle mocking edge. “We’re here to prevent a human outbreak, remember? Not cause one. Considering where we confiscated the first sample of SP-73, it could have devastating effects if it was ever unleashed Stateside. We need to understand how it works, so we can understand how to stop it. That’s why we’re doing this.”
Bullshit. I don’t believe for a second her motives are so altruistic. Neither are the company’s.
Not Galentron. The hefty nine-figure sums that come with government contracts, and a mandate straight from the military makes it clear where the true motives – and morals – are.
No military organization spends this much testing how to stop a pathogen.
They just want to learn the most effective way to use it against the people of their choosing.
“Besides,” she adds in the laden silence between us. “Once you see it live, you’ll understand why this is necessary.”
Alarm crashes over me in an icy flood. “What do you mean, live? Who could we possibly run live trials on? Or did the CDC give approval for testing on human tissue cultures?”
“We don’t need any of that.” It’s almost smug. I can’t see her face past the suit, but I can still imagine the cold glint in her eyes, the callous disregard for human life. “We have the perfect testing ground in a tiny slice of mountains almost no one ever passes through...right here in Heart’s Edge.”
My blood freezes.
I can’t fucking process what she’s saying. It was one thing knowing in the back of my mind that this 'defense' project was really about offense as long as the potential fallout was theoretical, the victims distant and faceless things, as if I could somehow pretend it wouldn’t happen so long as it was just theory and not reality.
And maybe, one day in the future, if I saw on the news that a city somewhere has been wiped out by a new Black Plague, I could still pretend I didn’t know anything and turn a blind eye like a fucking coward.
But these people – here, in this town that we’ve infested like maggots with our secret lab, this place full of rustic charm and kindness?
It’s too goddamned real.
It’s as real as it should’ve been from the start, and it strips away any layer of denial to tell me I can’t keep doing this.
I never should’ve done it in the first place, signed up to be here, but I’d been young and bought into all these starry-eyed daydreams about making a name for myself in defense medical research.
About making the world better through science.
Better.
That’s a joke now at Galentron.
I can’t stay here. I can’t talk to her.
I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do yet, but right now I need some air.
Without a word, I walk away from Fuchsia, barely even letting myself think until I’m out of the lab, through the clean room, out of my hazmat suit, and outside.
It’s night. I lose track of time deep in that lab, where day and night are governed by whether or not the lights are switched on or off. I’d say it’s fucked up my biological clock, but I’ve always been a night owl so that’s not really true.
And it’s a relief, right now, to step outside into the star-strewn darkness.
The world always feels bigger at night – bigger and quieter. Daylight can be downright oppressive, a crushing thing, a hungry thing that squeezes the world smaller and drowns it out with the fast-paced noise of life.
The night lets the world open up to breathe, soft and slow.
I try to breathe soft and slow myself as I step outside the Paradise Hotel and shake a cigarette out of the pack in my pocket. It’s a habit I’ve tried to break, but I can’t, not since Iraq.
Sometimes I’d be at it for hours – bandaging wounds, inspecting limbs, doing triage to determine who’d live and who’d die, and it felt like I took all that pain inside me and then lit it up and burned it and blew it out as smoke when I found five minutes for a cigarette.
I wish I could do that now.
Just take all this trouble inside me and torch it into vapor, exhale it out through my lips. But I can’t even light up when I can’t find my Zippo.
Then a familiar voice speaks at my shoulder, enough to make me jump. “What the fuck, Gray? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost. Here, buddy.”
Rough, gruff, but still my damned friend, the security guard.
But when he reaches over my shoulder to offer me a light, it’s not the hand I know with a hint of dark tattoos.
It’s a charred mess, blackened skin peeled back from raw meat, the flesh still steaming, bleeding all over the silver lighter in his hand.
It’s a fucking nightmare, I realize as I snap awake, jerking up in bed with my breaths coming shallow in the back of my throat and my heart pounding. The flashbacks from the lab were real enough, pieces from life before the fire.
Despite the muggy, sweltering heat of the night, I’m covered in frozen sweat, making the sheets mat to my thighs and my torso. I press a hand against my chest, feeling my heart slamming against my palm with a dull thud-thud-thud.
Fuck.
I barely remember falling asleep after straggling home from The Nest with Ember on my mind. There’s no denying the nightmares are so vivid I can still smell tobacco smoke, though.
Except that’s not a memory.
The smell of real tobacco infiltrates my nose, drifting in from the living room.
I’m not alone in my house.
Old instincts kick in hard. Alertness. My hand starts to creep toward the edge of my mattress. My gun, hidden underneath.
I hold stock-still...but then deflate as a smugly refined voice drifts down the hall.
“Having a rough night, Gray?”
Everett Peters.
I don’t want to know how he got into my place without tripping the alarm.
All I know is he’s trouble, and I want him gone.
Growling to myself, I swing my legs out of bed and drag on a pair of jeans and the button-down I’d stripped out of just hours ago and left draped over an easy chair. Part of me wants to stomp out there in my boxers just to be rude, but the smarter half of my brain says to leave nothing unguarded.
So I slip my gun into the waistband of my jeans, tucked under my shirt, before I take several wary steps down the hall.
Peters is still just as slick as ever in his five-thousand-dollar suit, with his graying hair smoothed back and his neatly trimmed beard framing the cigar hanging from his lips. He sits in my recliner like he owns the place, patent leather shoes shining flawlessly in the low light.
As he sees me, his brows lift, a slow smile spreading across his lips – one that fills me with total dread and disgust.
“Dr. Gray Caldwell,” he says with pleasure. “Have a seat, please. Let’s you and I have a talk. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
11
Paws for Thought (Ember)
The Menagerie feels strange without Doc.
He’ll be here soon. I just couldn’t sleep this morning. I’ve been restless ever since that night at The Nest.
When I try to lie down, to relax, to drift off to sleep, I don’t have an easy time.
The second my brain goes idle, I remember his hand wrapped around mine. I remember his heat, his gaze, his stern, chiseled face. The way his voice descended to a soft, g
rowling burr when he said, Gray. My name’s Gray.
And the odd intimacy of that silence we shared, him looking up at the stars while I tried not to be too obvious that I was actually looking at him.
Holy hell. That memory has me so restless and stir-crazy that I’m up before dawn every day, and today I decided I might as well put that energy to good use, come in early, and get started on prep for the day.
Everything has to be cleaned and sterilized constantly at an animal clinic. I’ve also got to check the appointment logs for the day to see if any injections or other treatments need to be prepared in advance, especially ones that have to be dissolved in solution.
We’ve got a few residents staying with us for a bit, including Momo, and I spend a little time with the boxer, scratching behind his ears. He’s doing so much better. He still has a lot of bandages that I have to keep sterilized and changed frequently, but he can stand up on his own to eat now and has been moved from a restraint cage into a normal kennel that lets him move around.
He’s a lucky little guy. Not one broken bone, even after a full-speed impact.
I smile because I know he’ll keep recovering just fine.
Slipping my fingers through the bars, I crouch in front of his kennel and smile as he sniffs, then licks my fingers. “Good boy!” I whisper. “You’re gonna be just fine, and then you get to go home to your family soon. They miss you like mad.”
Momo answers with a low, happy whine, ducking his head under my hand so I can get to the good places behind his ears. He should be discharged within a week. Such a sweet baby.
The dog stops, though, ears pricking, at a faint noise from the front. I glance up, looking toward the door.
Pam must be in early, too, probably getting settled in for the day at the reception desk with an iced something-or-other. I think I might go over to The Nest and grab a coffee, too, and I should see if she wants anything else.
With one last scratch for Momo, I stand, dusting my hands off on my lab coat, then slip out into the lobby.
Of course it’s not Pam. Lucky me.
It’s the bitch in black with her sharp, silver-streaked bob and that mouth that seems made for cruelty, waiting impatiently. Only this time there’s no Baxter with her.
She’s alone.
And when her gaze lands on me, her lips curl into a mocking smile, her eyes narrowing, hard as stones. Totally eerie.
I freeze where I stand.
I suddenly feel like a rabbit that’s sighted a wolf, and my heart thumps as hard as a rabbit’s hind legs breaking into a full sprint. She gives me a sideways, lingering look, the amusement clear in her lofty expression, in the arrogant tilt of her chin, before she sweeps a slow look around the lobby.
“My, my,” she says, nearly purring. “Your boss is quite the difficult man to get a hold of these days. Not haunting the back room this time?”
I swallow and force myself to speak – to be professional, even if something about this woman and her connections to Doc terrifies me. She hasn’t actually done anything, though, so I have to play nice.
“He’s not in for the day yet, I’m afraid. If you want to wait, he should be here soon.”
I’m amazed my voice doesn’t tremble when my knees are shaking.
I think she can tell, from the cat-eyed, predatory way she looks at me, like she’s trying to decide if she wants to bat me around a little longer or just gobble me up outright.
“I really don’t have time to wait around for him,” she says with an airy flick of her fingers. I bristle, because there’s an implication there I can’t quite pinpoint but it’s definitely an insult. “But maybe you can take a message for me?”
Ugh. Do I have to? I mean, really?
She steps toward me, and I instinctively step back.
Call it ridiculous or flighty or my own vivid imagination. There’s just something in the back of my mind screaming run.
Something’s not right here. I slip my hand defensively into the pocket of my lab coat, intending to hit the emergency call button and dial 9-11.
This might be a skeleton crew cop town, but right now I’d rather have a single cop here with me than be alone with this witchy, menacing, demanding woman who looks like she could snap my neck with one of her black-gloved hands and then disappear, leaving no evidence.
But I never manage to hit the button because the front door slams open.
I jump with a soft cry, clutching at my chest. Lovely timing.
She goes still, but hardly reacts, a bored but satisfied expression crossing her face.
Doc steps inside, this towering figure vibrating with a fury like nothing I’ve ever seen.
Holy crap.
I’d said before I couldn’t imagine Doc’s Neanderthal side. But I’m seeing it now. He’s huge and bristling, every muscle in his body hardened, drawn so tight their thickness bulges against his clothing, his face so hard he might as well be cut granite. If he came here to chew bubblegum and kick ass like in a silly old movie...well, I think he never had any bubblegum.
There’s something violent, something flashing in those lightning-green eyes. He looks down at the mystery woman, curling his lip something fierce.
No, something frightening.
And something that makes my insides tremble for a wholly different reason. Primal doesn’t begin to describe him like this.
This Gray Caldwell reaches down to some place dark and hungry inside me. Especially when he speaks in a low, seething growl, rumbling with animalistic threat. “Get the fuck out.”
It’s quiet, but absolute. Total. Commanding.
I’m shivering, prickles rippling over my skin, but the stranger remains as cool as ever, turning to face him with a sort of cool, dismissive impatience.
“Honestly, Caldwell? You—”
“No.” He cuts her off in no uncertain terms, his low voice razor-sharp and slicing just as deep. “Get out, I said. Stay away from my clinic—and stay the fuck away from Ember, too.”
This time the woman lifts both brows with a sneer of her lips. “So she’s Ember now? How impressive. You’re very protective of this little mouse of a girl.”
“Damn right,” he says, taking a step closer to her, his entire body a wall of quiet anger, radiating dark, heady masculinity. The fact that he admits it, that he wants to protect me...holy hell.
But he’s not done.
“Think about what I’ll do for the people I want to protect, Fuchsia. Think long and hard.” His bright eyes hint at a few of those merciless, savage extremes.
The woman, Fuchsia, just sighs and brushes her hair back. “So hostile. I see Peters has been feeding you his usual lies about little ol’ me.”
“I don’t need Peters to know you for exactly what you are.” Slowly, Doc’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists. “I won’t tell you again. Out. Now.”
She fixes him with a long, measuring look, then shrugs one shoulder, tossing her head and sauntering past him.
“You’ll come around sooner or later,” she throws back over her shoulder, pushing the door open. But she’s not done.
Because she leans outside and retrieves something.
A shoebox, apparently.
There’s something inside, too, something moving. Beating around frantically enough to make it jostle in her hand, frightened squeaks and shrieks coming from inside, sad enough to twist my heart.
She tosses the shoebox onto the closest chair with total disregard.
“I found this,” she says silkily. “Right out on the walk. Such a fragile, colorful little thing. It’ll be in good hands with you, even if yours are a touch clumsy...right?”
I don’t know why I feel like that’s somehow directed not just at him, but at me.
But whatever heat he’d roused in my blood freezes as her chilling eyes slide over me. A knowing quirk of her mouth mocks me before she slips out and lets the door swing closed in her wake. I feel like I’ve just been through a furious storm.
I only stay fro
zen a minute longer.
Whatever’s in that box is going to hurt itself if we don’t move. It’s flapping around frantically. So much the box is about to bounce right off the chair.
I glance at Doc worriedly. He’s standing there rigid, breathing hard, but finally he nods and joins me, striding toward the chair. I clasp the box and hold it still, and he gingerly lifts the lid off, both of us leaning back slightly just in case something comes blasting out.
Something tries.
The poor hummingbird inside flops on its one good wing, desperately trying to fly.
It takes all of three seconds to find out why. It’s the other wing, hanging at an odd angle, immobile. The bone looks clearly broken close to the main joint.
Poor thing! I nearly whimper with hurt sympathy, reaching in instantly to clasp its body in my hand, spreading my fingers around the broken wing while gently pinning the other wing to its jewel-toned, glittering side so it can’t thrash around and hurt itself more. It stops fighting immediately but opens its long, narrow beak in the saddest little squeak ever as I cradle it in my hands.
“Gray!” I murmur pleadingly, not even thinking about the intimate use of his name.
He lets out a rough sigh, raking a hand back through his dark hair, then nods tightly, rising to his feet. “We’ll fix it up. Come on.”
I want to know what’s happening, want to know why that woman is making veiled threats toward both of us, and how she knows Peters or what Peters might’ve told Doc about her. But this poor little feathered jewel’s life comes first.
He tosses his head toward the back and, cradling the crying hummingbird gingerly, I follow him as quick as I can. This bird’s life is in his capable hands now.
And honestly? So is my heart.
Because every time I look at him over the table as we gently bind and splint the bird’s wing, when our eyes meet, it happens. My pulse races. My breath catches.
My whole freaking world pops a screw loose and comes undone.
I remember him saying he’ll protect me.
Just as much as he’ll protect every small, precious thing that winds up in his care.