“Not like one I'd ever seen. Hey,” Dr. Hoyt said. “Have you ever seen anything other than...well, anyone killed by something...other? Other than mutt or man? Never mind. I imagine such information is as classified as the Pope's bedfellows. I probably don't want to know anyway. Would you like some coffee? I'll bring some.”
I nodded while my head reeled with the possibility of more—other—monsters to kill.
I should have predicted he wouldn't be fetching coffee. The nurse returned, tight-lipped, bearing a large cup. Without looking at me, she left it on the bedside table and turned on her heel.
“Thanks, sweetie,” I called, simply to be an ass. It was expected at this point.
Approaching Davey to reach the coffee put me close enough to hold his hand, if I wanted to. That sort of thing was supposed to be comforting. I wished Zelda or Vanessa were there. They would be so much better at this.
I blew on the coffee and wondered if the nurse had vengefully added castor oil. Would serve me right. I tentatively sipped. Fresh. Yeah, she dug me. Something so normal, in all its lovely simplicity, bettered my mood.
I enjoyed the coffee and examined the patient.
Davey's pale skin looked like soggy dough. His hospital gown was damp. I swept his unruly forelock back from his face and tried to read the motion of his eyes. Struggling through REM sleep or wading through a nightmare? Panic? Deeply sleeping in a cloud of painkillers? I sighed, daunted by a guessing game sure to last until he was no longer in my life.
Pain snatched his breath mid-rush. The awful sound made me want to adjust his morphine drip and sit out in the hall. I pulled the chair nearer to the bed and drained the coffee in steady stream until it was gone. He didn't wake or stir, so I closed my eyes to rest.
I couldn't say how much time passed before his gasp of pain jolted me awake. I gripped my hands into fists as hard as rocks, and agony rocketed through my tender bones. The discomfort was quickly forgotten as Davey's blue-gray eyes claimed my attention.
The slit of color widened as he became fully aware. His keen of pain and confusion spread across the room like the distant call of a swan. My entire body ached with the desire to run away and find a doctor instead of trying to talk to him. Apparently I had the courage to sign guardian papers but lacked the strength to follow through.
I cleared my throat. “Do you remember me?”
He squinted, looked disappointed, and tossed his eyes around the room to see who else was there. His gaze returned to me but he didn't answer the question.
“I'm Kaidlyn.”
He shook his head and cried harder. I scrambled for something to say or do. The kid must have been dying of thirst, so I stood to pour him some water. He flinched, lips mashed tightly together, eyes alert with fear. Trauma residue. I ignored that, poured the water, and sat down again so I'd look smaller than my two meter frame. I offered him the straw.
“What happened?” he croaked.
“My partner and I pursued a suspect involved with a kennel incident a few weeks prior. The mutt—sorry, the lykos—rampaged through the neighborhood. He chose to enter your house. If it helps, he's dead now.”
Sometimes that helped.
Davey leaked tears, silent ones which magically didn't contort his face. When I cried, it was ugly. He was picturesque, like a beautiful lamenting angel. He cleared his throat.
“I meant, what happened that you're here now?”
“Oh. Right. I'll be watching after you for a while.”
“Of course,” he murmured. He frowned, his lips almost a sneer.
“What?”
“I mean, why wouldn't you?” His tone was snide.
“Why don't you get some sleep?”
Maybe he'd be in a better mood next time he woke.
Not likely. Life sucked. Why shouldn't he be surly?
“They're all dead, right? I didn't dream that.”
“They're dead, Davey. I'm sorry.”
He turned his head and stared at the opposite wall.
“If you want to bury them, their ashes have been saved.”
He shrugged, staring at the wall. I imagined he was crying. A hug was in order? But that would be all sorts of awkward, hugging half his body because of his injury, practically laying on him to do it because he was reclined. I gave up on the hug-idea.
“Can I get you anything?”
“How long have I been here?” he said.
“A little while.”
He frowned at my unsatisfactory answer. I wasn't about to tell him he'd been in a death camp, especially if he didn't remember. His ignorance would be one of life's little favors.
“Are you hungry? Do you want some juice?” Anything to make him happy.
“No.”
Jesus. This was hopeless. “Get some rest. When you're healthy enough to leave this joint, you'll feel better.”
What a stupid thing to say. His family was dead. He wasn't going to feel better any time soon.
“I live in a nice neighborhood. Tall fences.” I had a feeling I was making it worse. “You've practically got a grandmother already, she’s so happy about the prospect of baking for you. And trust me, she's a marvelous cook.”
“What does your mother think about you adopting a grown kid?”
“My mother is dead,” I returned, tonelessly. “I'm speaking of my neighbor. Zelda. She made you soup.”
I gestured to the cold dish on the bedside tray. He devoted his entire attention to it and then put his naked arm over his face and cried. I sat, struggling with what to do, rotating an empty coffee cup in my hands. I tried to say something comforting, instead I reached out to lift the blanket higher on his chest. He flinched and the gesture sent pain from his mutilated arm. His face grew so wan and drawn I thought he'd puke.
“I'll get the doc,” I said, leaving the room.
Jesus, Durant, I schooled myself, don't touch trauma victims.
The nurse loitered in the station.
“He's in pain,” I nearly shouted. I was shaking a bit, too. Christ, I sucked. She blinked, went into action mode, called the doc, and gathered a dose of whatever. I followed her into the room, standing against the wall, arms crossed, squeezing the doomed coffee cup into a lump and dropping it into the trash. She murmured soothingly under her breath, telling him that everything was okay and she'd be giving him something to relax him.
It was not okay. He had no reason to relax.
Dr. Hoyt returned and bustled over Davey, bending over the bed, employing the stethoscope. Davey whispered to him, talking too low for me to hear. The nurse stiffened and retreated a step.
Something was wrong.
Hoyt draped the stethoscope around his neck and gestured for us to step outside. The nurse came with us and closed the door.
“What's happening?” I said.
“He's asking for euthotabs,” Hoyt said.
“What?”
“It's commonplace for victims with this extent of loss and trauma. Trust me, it's not unusual. Also, it's cheaper in the long run.”
I grabbed his collar, yanked him onto his toes, and hissed, “Cheaper?”
He threw up his hands. The nurse stared, wide-eyed, like she might call security.
“You're his legal guardian, Ms. Durant. We have to bring the option to your attention—”
“Watching Davey wither and die—or simply give up—is not an option. No euthotabs are ever going anywhere near him. Now, go away before I punch you.”
I pushed Hoyt and released his jacket. When the doc scampered away, I glared at the nurse to guarantee she received the same message. Her eyes lit with admiration, and I knew I wouldn't have to worry about her trying to euthanize Davey behind my back. After a moment of staring at each other, she realized we were doing nothing but staring at each other. She turned and went to the nurse's station, busying herself.
I strolled up to her, leaned on the counter, and watched as she fought between acknowledging and ignoring me. Finally, she looked me in the face with an
impatient, what! of a stare.
“He needs hot chocolate,” I said. “It’s a family ritual. Trust me, it will make him feel better. Marshmallows, too. My dad always puts plenty of marshmallows in it.”
“Naturally,” she said, startled. She quickly scrounged for a packet of instant cocoa.
“What's your name?”
She gestured at her name tag. Precious. I resisted saying anything snarky.
“Look, you seem like you could use a break from being mad at me. Let's get coffee. At best, we have a good time. At worst, I'll give you some brand new material to fuel that hatred engine.”
She paused a second and handed me the cocoa. “I get off at three.”
“I'll be back.” With a quick smile, I winked.
I took the cocoa to Davey’s room.
The boy on the bed cried quietly and refused to look at me. He knew he'd been tattled upon. I pushed the rolling tray over his lap and set the cup, heaping to the brim with marshmallows, directly under his nose. Surprised, he glanced up. I folded my arms.
“This is how it is. You will be living with me. You're going to rehab that arm, finish school, and return to teenager-type activities. You're going to become a successful, educated adult, despite my haphazard supervision, and you're damn well going to find a way to get on with your life, despite all the crap the world dropped on you. You're going to grieve and then you'll get a little better. I'm going to take care of you while that happens. It'll suck until you find something worth living for, and then life will go on. End of story. ‘Out, out.’ Follow?”
He squinted, trying to see through wet eyes and painkillers.
“Paint,” he said.
“Yep. You're going to paint again.”
If it's the last thing we do.
His head dropped into the pillow and drifted away. Eyelids clanged down like shutters in a storm. I sank down in the chair, feeling like I went three rounds at the dojo. All in all, things could have gone worse.
Sarakas called. Eagerly, I picked up the phone.
“How's everything?” he said.
“Life goes on,” I promised. “Where's the nearest art supply store?”
The Exalted Series
Over three days, a crazed series of events sparks the apocalypse. A long-lost vampire matriarch returns to claim her throne, and her madness ripples through the supernatural world. The regime change causes a religious revival and unleashes a rabid disease on the modern world.
Follow the hunters like Simon as he tries to save his best friend—and all humanity.
The Exalted books precede the Muttopia novels.
Muttopia
Ten years later, the Muttopia series explores a post-apocalyptic world full of the supernatural. Think gunslingers and werewolves in a 1984-type society. The protagonist, Kaidlyn Durant, is a weathered hunter when the story begins, but a sudden shift in werewolf behavior opens her eyes to a beautiful world beneath prejudice and fear.
About The Author
Native to Northern Michigan, Elizabeth now resides in the blistering heat of Phoenix with her carefree mastiff puppy and snobbish cats. She has a tendency to drink too much coffee and read too many books.
Connect
Website: www.ElizabethBlakeWords.com
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Twit: www.twitter.com/BlakeElli
Please feel free to contact the author and/or review the book on Amazon.
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