by Elle Thorne
“That would be how it works.”
“Okay, then I’ll work through dinner.”
“I’ll bring you a meal at eight. With dessert.” He opened the door to leave.
“Say, Wheeler?”
“Yes, Doctor Morales?”
“What if I want to leave the lab for a bit. Since you don’t want me wandering around, how can I reach you? No cell phone and all that.”
“I’ll be right back.”
And he was right back—before she’d even gotten to dessert—carrying a walkie-talkie. Quite a sophisticated one, nothing like the ones she’d played with when she’d been a kid.
“Use this. I’m the only one on this channel. It goes straight to my phone.” He handed her one. “And remember, Doctor, no roaming around.”
“Right. Got it. Or I’ll be shot on sight.”
“I don’t make the rules.”
Somehow, she wasn’t convinced he didn’t enjoy the rules, though.
After her meal—a working lunch during which she studied the notes she’d made so far, which was that nothing seemed out of the ordinary, yet—she put the tray on a counter in the corner and set up the next slide, then took a moment to readjust her bun, which had turned into more of a pony tail, what with all the errant hair that had no will to be restrained.
She put her eye to the scope. Blinked. Blinked again. Pulled away and rubbed her eyes. She returned to the scope. Something was wrong. The cytology was off. She…had she screwed up the sample somehow? Had she contaminated or corrupted it?
She grabbed another sample from the kit the tech had assembled and meticulously—but damned fast because curiosity was getting the best of her—slid the new slide into place and took a look.
And another look. Then another.
Okay. So she hadn’t screwed anything up with the sample. The name on it was Cliff Harrigan. Maybe the tech had done something wrong? She’d take a sample of blood herself. Maybe the syringe the tech used had been contaminated with… What could cause this idiosyncrasy?
Slipping on new gloves, she grabbed another syringe and doublechecked the name on the clipboard.
Cliff Harrigan.
Okay, this was it. She slid the needle into his forearm then chided herself. She knew better. Blood wasn’t usually drawn from a corpse in a peripheral draw. Those didn’t do as well. What was called for was a direct cardiac draw.
And yet—
She froze. The blood was flowing into the syringe. How damned strange. This couldn’t be. His heart wasn’t pumping. The blood should have settled. Okay, maybe it wasn’t unheard of—she’d have to research it—but she’d never encountered this.
She pulled the sample and stepped back to the microscope. Now, she’d get a reliable sample she could check off as being normal. Exactly like the other four were.
She dropped down and peered into the microscope at the slide she’d just created.
What the fuckery fuck was this shit?
She adjusted the focus, kept adjusting it. No change.
Same damned thing. Same odd cytology presentation. She sat back in the chair, questioning everything she knew, and everything she knew she should do. She should contact Wheeler. Have him call his people. But…
You didn’t become a scientist without having a rebel attitude. An entrepreneurial spirit. A burning desire to discover something. To be the first to identify it. To be the first to present it to the science community. Hell, to be the first to have it named after you. And that rebellious mindset in her said this was her find. She wanted to know more. Lots more, before she would consider sharing any information with Wheeler, et al.
With that frame of mind, Meri made a decision. New gloves. Mask. Safety glasses. A heavier lab apron to protect her clothing.
Scalpel.
She approached Cliff Harrigan. His arm was still exposed. And so was that of Dunnigan Youngblood. And the difference in color was quite pronounced. Cliff must have died well after Dunnigan Youngblood. His color looked too…fresh. And yet, the paperwork said otherwise.
“Cliff Harrigan. Cliffy-Cliff. What secrets are you keeping?”
She pulled the sheet away from his face. And once more thought, what a shame for such a good-looking man to be in a morgue.
She wanted—my, how she wanted—to open him up. To start with the Y-incision, from each shoulder to the lower end of the sternum then downward in a straight line over the abdomen—such abs on this man!—to the pubis. She averted her eyes from that area. But she’d already seen. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Naturally, that didn’t matter now. The poor man was dead. God, how she wanted to crack the breastplate and peek at his organs. To weigh those organs. To take cross-sections of them and examine them. But she couldn’t. The list had him to be autopsied last.
Yet, she could—and would—take a tiny bit of him, including some of his cells so she could see if the same anomaly in his blood was in the cells. Suddenly, getting back to her research at Notre Dame didn’t seem near as important as this potential discovery.
The best place to get a sample—and not get caught doing it—would be if she took it from the bullet hole wounds. Anyone checking behind her would not know if she’d done that. Just a slice. Something tiny to put under the magnifying lens.
She glanced at the clipboard.
Two bullet wounds. First one: Abdomen. Not presenting as immediately fatal. Second one: Thigh. In and out.
She’d check the one on the thigh first. See if that one offered a better opportunity for a collection. She noted one healed-over bullet wound on his leg. Must not be this one. It wouldn’t have healed before he died. She moved over to the other leg. Nothing on the front. She put the scalpel down and moved his leg aside—no small feat on a man as big and muscular as him—and searched for the wound.
Nothing. Wait. What? How could this be? She checked the clipboard. Left thigh. Yup. Through and through. Also affirmative. But this wasn’t a fresh wound. It was mostly healed. Maybe the technician got his facts mixed up. Maybe there was only one bullet wound, and the tech screwed up. She hadn’t met the tech. She’d only seen his signature on the paperwork.
Meri turned her attention to Cliff’s abdomen. Should she get a sample—
She dropped the clipboard. It landed with a loud smack, scaring her even more than what she’d just seen.
She stared at the sight before her.
Another bullet wound. Also mostly healed. How could a tech make this kind of mistake?
She picked up the clipboard and looked at the notes again. He’d clearly written that Cliff had two bullet wounds. And he wasn’t sure if he’d died from them, that they didn’t seem immediately fatal. She scratched her head with the end of the pen.
“Cliffy, Cliffy. What secret are you hiding? How did you die? Why is the tech recording what are clearly not fresh injuries?”
Then she had a thought. What did it matter if she went out of order? Who cared if she cut Cliff first or last? It had to happen. And she was curious about it now. Curiosity killed the cat. She knew that voice. The au pair that had taken care of her when her father had been transferred to Switzerland. God, she hated that nanny. Probably more than any other. And Meri had plenty of nannies. She grew up all over the world, no mother, and a father who was too busy at embassies and functions. Or so she’d thought back then.
She picked up the scalpel and twirled it. Might as well cut him in a Y. No point in playing around with taking a tiny sample. She’d tell them she got the order mixed up. It wasn’t the end of the world. Yeah, she was good with that.
She placed the scalpel against his shoulder, barely touching the tip to flesh, then held her breath to steady her hands. Why were they shaking so? Because you’re breaking the rules, that damned au pair’s voice said. No, I’m not. I’m bending them. Just moving the timeline up a bit. She stopped herself. Why was she talking to a person who was now nothing more than a distant memory? A figure long gone from her life.
She held the scalpel tighter th
en pressed it into the flesh, drawing a line down.
Blood beaded.
What? No. Blood didn’t do this on dead people. She drew the scalpel through the flesh a little more.
A hand snatched hers. She jumped back but couldn’t escape the iron grip.
“What the fuck are you doing?” a voice not much louder than a whisper said. A very male voice coming from a very dead man who was now very, very much alive.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She yanked her hand from his. “You’re dead.”
He sat up, put his hand on the cut. “Something to staunch the flow, please. Clearly, I’m not dead.”
She felt lightheaded for the first time in her life. She felt herself swaying. No. She was not the type to faint. She didn’t pass out. This wasn’t happening. She gritted her teeth to keep herself conscious.
“You’re—” He leapt forward, catching her. “You’ll be okay. Just a little shock. Where the hell am I? Where are my clothes? I need clothes.” He glanced about. “Holy shit. I’m in a damned morgue.” He peered down at his chest. “Autopsy? You were going to autopsy me?”
She shrugged. “You were brought in as a dead body, Cliff. I mean, Mr. Harrigan.”
He led her to a counter. “Lean on this. Don’t pass out on me. I’ve got to stop the bleeding.” He made his way toward the paper towel dispenser.
Damn if he didn’t move like a predator in a forest. Okay, a very stiff predator, with his muscles all cramped. But still, a predator. All sure of himself, all male, all… And look at those glutes. I’ve got to snap out of it.
Chapter Five
Dunnigan Youngblood stared at the woman holding the scalpel.
Cliff. She’d called him Cliff Harrigan.
Every step he took was painful. He’d not had enough time to recuperate from the rigor that had set in when he’d taken Cliff Harrigan’s death. He’d also taken Cliff’s badge. Which seemed to have worked because, instead of killing or capturing him, they’d… Where was the real Cliff?
He made his way to the paper towels, one agonizing step after another. He’d better recuperate quickly because how the hell could he escape if he could hardly move?
“How are you alive? You were dead,” the woman whispered.
It occurred to him how lucky he was she wasn’t a screamer. Heaven forbid, if she were a screamer, she could have fucked up his whole day by bringing in a crowd.
“I’m sure someone must have made a mistake. Surely, people have come back from the dead? Been in such a deep coma that medical experts thought they were dead?” He studied her as he grabbed a wad of towels. Probably a pretty girl, if it weren’t for the blanched, pinched, scared-to-death look on her features. A thin nose turned up at the tip, a full bottom lip, not so full on top. Curvy, dark hair framed her face. Hair that clearly at some point of time had been pulled up, but now had won the battle and was loose.
She nodded, but the way her mouth was hanging open, it was clear she was still in shock.
“Have you seen a guy named Dunnigan Youngblood among these bodies?” As he wiped at the already congealing blood, he noticed the cuts were starting to heal, but there as a pang of pain in his abdomen and his thigh. Glancing down, he found two bullet holes. Damn. They’d gotten him before he’d managed to bend death and take on Cliff’s death, fooling them into thinking Dunnigan Youngblood had been killed.
The woman pointed to one of the gurneys. “He a friend of yours?” Her voice sounded so hollow.
Dunn stepped closer to her. She flinched. “Hey, I’m just—”
“I should let them know they brought a live one down here. That you—”
“No.” He reached for her. She pulled back. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You’re naked.”
Shit. He’d not even thought of that. “I’m sorry. I guess, well…”
She laughed nervously, handing him the sheet. “This will do until they can get you some clothing.”
“Who’s they? Who are you?” He wrapped the scratchy, low-thread count sheet around his body.
“I’m Meredith Morales. Doctor Meredith Morales.”
“Doctor Morales. Meredith? Where am I?”
“You’re…” She laughed nervously, putting the scalpel on the counter near the examining table he’d been on. “God, you’re not going to believe this.”
“Try me.”
“I don’t know where we are.”
When he’d said try me, he hadn’t actually expected she would. “You work here, right? You’re a medical examiner?”
“No. I mean, yes. It’s…” She peeled off her latex gloves, shoved her hair behind her ears, then as though just noticing it had come loose, she fixed it into a messy bun.
“It’s what?” He sat on the same gurney/examining bed/whatever it was he’d been on when she’d sliced into his chest.
She frowned. Her dark eyes became darker. “Your chest—it’s healing.”
Great. Now he’d have to explain it without explaining he was a shifter, and he still had no clue where he was. Windowless room, that didn’t help matters when it came to identifying his location. Best thing to do would be not explain it at all. Go on the offensive. “Doctor Morales. You haven’t told me where we are.”
“I don’t know where we are.” Her tone was sincere, and her eyes screamed trustworthiness. Most importantly, his shifter senses picked up no deception whatsoever. And his bear was reliable. If there was anyone Dunn had faith in, it was his bear. Okay, his brother Slate, too, but Slate wasn’t here.
But still, he couldn’t help the laugh that came out. And this wasn’t a laughing situation. Yet he laughed. “How do you not know where you are?”
She started to pace, back and forth, back and forth. Muttering unintelligibly beneath her breath. Her voice grew louder. Not loud, per se, but loud enough for him to understand what she was saying. “I shouldn’t have done it. I should have told Dr. Broussard no. I should have told Wheeler no. Why am I here? This damned secret, covert project—” She whirled around, pinned him with a glare. “I wasn’t told where I am. It’s a long story. I do projects in exchange for research, for funding.” She threw her hands up, rant-mode on. “I don’t even get it. Okay? Okay.”
He nodded. But no, he didn’t get it. Not in the least.
She looked at the clock on the wall. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Wheeler’s going to be here in ten minutes.”
“Who is Wheeler?” He went into a full-on panic.
“He’s my warden. More or less.” She grimaced.
“I can’t be found. I can’t—” Shit. Shitshitshit. “Will you help me?”
“Help you what?”
Escape, he wanted to say. But he didn’t know what he was escaping. Or where he was escaping from. “Hide.” He glanced around the room. There wasn’t anywhere he could hide.
“I don’t understand. Aren’t these your guys? Aren’t you one of them? I thought all of you were their agents.”
“I’m not.”
She sank into the desk chair. “I don’t know what you want me to do. This whole damn thing has been so fishy.”
He choked. Was she actually sitting there analyzing shit when he could be found in the next few—he glanced at the clock—five minutes? “Do we really have time for this?”
She snapped to attention. “No. We don’t. I want a full explanation. I’m guessing you want some information.”
No shit, Sherlock. His turn to pace.
“Get back on the table. I’ll cover you with the sheet. Head included. You be still.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He hastened to the examining table he’d been on and pulled the sheet over his head. He felt her rearranging the thin cloth.
Seconds later, it seemed, he heard the sound of the door opening.
“Dr. Morales?” a man’s voice said. “Dinner.” The door closed with a soft click.
Had he left? Dunn used his shifter senses to listen for heartbeats. He picked up two of them. No, three. Was someone with th
is Wheeler guy she was expecting?
The scent of food filled the room. Dunn closed his eyes and tried not to breathe. Especially since when he usually woke up after deathbending he was famished. And true to form, he was starving. Don’t growl. Don’t growl. Do not growl, he beseeched his stomach.
“Thank you, Wheeler. Can you put it on the desk, please? I’m in the middle of this sample.”
The sounds of footsteps and things being shuffled and set down followed.
“Have you found any anomalies?” Wheeler asked.
Shuffling of papers, footsteps, then Dr. Morales said, “What kind of anomalies?”
“Do we need to define the word anomalies for you?”
What a prick.
Dunn’s bear roared in agreement.
“I’m on the same page. We should jump up and kick his ass.” Dunn rethought that one. “Doing so would guarantee us captivity. Or worse, death.”
Cooler heads needed to prevail. He reined his bear in.
“How late will you be working, Doctor?” Wheeler asked, his voice tight, words clipped.
Definitely a d-bag, Dunn surmised.
“Well into the night.” Her voice betrayed her nervousness, quavering, hesitant. “I can call you when it’s time.”
The room was silent for several long moments.
“What is it, Wheeler?”
“There’s blood on those paper towels.”
“What?” she said.
Oh, boy, her voice was giving shit away. She’d never make it as a poker player if her face did what her voice was doing.
“Yes. Well, there was a tiny incident.”
“Incident?” Wheeler repeated.
Chapter Six
Really? Why the hell was it so hard to get rid of him?
Subtly, Meri felt for the extra blades that were next to the microscope and picked one up, hoping Wheeler couldn’t see her from where he stood not far from the door. He’d walked all the way there then turned around suddenly. Now, he was interrogating her about the bloody towels.
She slid the blade along the length of her palm, not too deep, then held up her hand. “I cut myself. It keeps opening up.”