Anger filled her. “You aren’t even going to stay in the vicinity? If you’re already overloaded, why did you start these guys on stage one?”
“I have medics and healers here—your guys are in the best hands I have on this ship.”
“Yes, but we don’t know anything about this procedure.”
“Neither does anyone. You know it’s experimental, which by definition means no one has ever done it before.”
“But you’re the expert! What if something goes wrong?”
Alarms began to sound, and the room switched from orange to red.
“Jaffete, I don’t have time to argue with you.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a wrist device. “Take this com,” he said, throwing it on her lap, “and put it around your wrist. Beep me if anything changes.”
“How do I do that?”
He was already gone, taking his knowledge with him.
“Give the other elf a wrist com and make sure she can use it!” he shouted at the second medic on the way out the door.
The medic from the bay beside her stuck her head around the partition. “To use the com, just press the button before you say his name and then your message. It will go to him instantly.”
Fayelle attached the com to her wrist, hoping she didn’t have to use it. She walked to the end of the bed and stuck her head out, checking the timer over the door. Eighteen hours and twenty-seven minutes left.
She simply had to focus on getting through the next five and a half hours, making sure Mordjan survived stage one.
She move to his side and tentatively placed one hand on Mordjan’s head and one on his heart, feeling the tingle of magical awareness go through her. She knew he was unconscious, but touching him felt so . . . personal. Yet, it was the best way for her to keep the connection between them.
She kept her magic at a very low, steady level, not really sure he needed it yet. And she wanted to conserve her energy just in case he needed it later.
Time passed slowly, giving her plenty of opportunity to think about the screams that occasionally filtered down the hall from other med bays. The healer part of her wished she could be out there, actively healing the wounded and learning any new healing techniques they may have, but the other part of her wanted to stay right where she was in case Mordjan needed her.
She didn’t know the time, and was beginning to measure it by the timer counting down the minutes to the Ardak attack over the door. At seventeen hours and thirty minutes left on the countdown, the first bag was empty.
As if she’d been watching the time as well, an elven nurse she hadn’t seen before came into the bay. Her apron was covered in blood. “How is it going in here?” The words were short and clipped.
“There’s no reaction yet.”
She nodded. “Good.”
Before Fayelle could blink, the first bag was gone, and the new, full one was attached.
“I’m sorry we can’t be in here,” she said. “There are too many critical injuries in the other bays.”
Fayelle glanced down the wing to see that the second medic was also gone. She was infuriated that they had left eight cyborgs in a highly technological experimental procedure without high-level supervision from someone who understood the technology.
“I’ll see you in another hour,” the medic said. “Remember to buzz if you need us.”
Fayelle nodded, trying to keep her composure, and then she was alone. She brushed a hand across Mordjan’s forehead, relieved to find it still cool, and then perused the tiny bay. There was something about this situation that she found unnerving, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
She’d done thousands of healings in her time. This should be second nature to her. Perhaps it was his unnatural stillness. Perhaps it was the overcleanliness of the med bay. Perhaps it was the strange, overly pink-and-blue fluids going into Mordjan’s arm. But whatever it was, it didn’t feel natural, and she had to fight the feeling to keep her magic going.
Changing to the third bag went much like the first change had: the same healer came in, switched the bags, and left.
About halfway through this bag, Mordjan began to grow warmer.
She increased her magic slightly, trying to remember if this was one of the warning signs they had mentioned.
As the fever rose, so did her worry. She glanced at the wrist com but didn’t think it was urgent enough to pull the high medic from a critical case. When his body temperature stabilized, she allowed her magic to level out with it, and then she waited.
Nothing more happened, and the high medic himself reappeared to attach the fourth bag. “How are we doing?”
“Fine. He’s developing a fever, but I didn’t know if I should call. It stabilized not too long ago.”
He checked Mordjan’s forehead. “Slight fever is normal for beings that receive major transfusions or transplants, so it’s probably normal here, too. If it rises rapidly or if he starts convulsing, has heart palpitations, or stops breathing, give me a buzz.”
None of those things sounded good.
“Are you joking?”
“No, those are the side effects of blood rejection. Since we are replacing so much blood so rapidly he may experience some of those things even if his body isn’t rejecting it. So keep your eyes open.”
When he left, Fayelle glanced out at the timer again. Fifteen hours and twenty-one minutes left until the Ardaks arrived, and Mordjan would be finished with the first stage in just over an hour.
About halfway through the fourth bag, one of the other cyborgs started to scream.
The lights overhead began flashing, and the sounds of thrashing and moaning grew louder. Then there was another high-pitched scream, and Fayelle strode to the end of the bunk again, glancing out of their tiny bay toward the sound.
She saw Bradan standing in the middle of the med bay, his chest heaving. The cyborg’s eyes were hard as he strode to the bay next to hers where his brother was receiving blood.
The healer shrieked, “No! You can’t do this!”
“You will not alter our cyborgs!” Bradan said in a strong, monotone voice. “Now they must be nullified.”
What the hell is that? It sounded foreign—not like something he would say. Could that be the control from the Ardaks that Ruith had spoken of?
The sounds of a brief struggle, then a gurgling noise came from the bay and an alarm began to sound.
Whatever it was, she was never going to let Bradan come for Mordjan. She glanced around, diverted her magic to a defensive shield, and then grabbed Mordjan’s knife from his armor.
While they had sparred, Mordjan had said that she wouldn’t have survived his blow if he used his full strength. So, she needed to be smarter than Bradan. Focusing on magnetizing her feet, she ran up the metal wall and hung from the ceiling.
When Bradan came around the divider, knife in hand, she thrust her knife downward into his skull. He collapsed to the floor, but his knife caught on Mordjan’s tubing on the way down.
She had just jumped to the floor again when the high medic burst in, kneeling next to the downed cyborg. “What a damn waste,” he said as his eyes moved from the knife to her.
“I wouldn’t let him hurt anyone else.”
“You did well.” He went to Mordjan, quickly checking the tubing and then swapping it for a new one. “It’s all right, Mordjan is fine.”
“Help!” an elf yelled from the next bay, and the high medic sprinted to the next bay, which was a chaotic storm of elves trying to save Jadan.
“The healer is already dead,” someone said.
Tassarion’s voice rose above the din. “The damn cyborg cut the tubing and stabbed him several times! Get me a heart pulse device, now!”
There was a flurry of orders and activity as one was brought into the room. The commotion went on and on, there was beeping and deep sounds from different machines, and she wished she knew what was happening. Due to the diversion of her magic, Mordjan’s fever was high enough that she didn�
�t dare leave his side. Her palms had grown sweaty with fear, and she exchanged a worried glance with Irielle, who had stuck her head out from the other side of the bay.
By the time the high medic called Jadan’s time of death, she was ready to stop the machine pumping the evil stuff into Mordjan. Whatever it was had triggered the rage that had caused Bradan to kill his own twin brother and a healer.
She looked up to see the bag was empty.
And Mordjan’s heart still beat.
He’d made it.
Chapter Seventeen
Mordjan
Mordjan awoke to his entire body cramping. He leaned over the side of the bed and vomited.
Instantly, Fayelle was there, holding a container under his mouth. Once the wave of nausea passed, he collapsed back onto the bunk, and she placed a cool washcloth on his forehead.
“I guess it didn’t go so well,” he said, his teeth chattering.
He checked the timer on the wall. He’d been under for five and half hours.
“It went better than it could have. Something happened to Bradan during the surgery, and he killed his brother. He tried to kill others, but he was stopped.” She crossed the floor to the personal room and rinsed the container, then returned.
“Why—why did he kill his brother?”
“I’m not sure. I heard him say something about not altering our cyborgs. It was kind of like the Ardaks had taken control of him again.”
Mordjan’s brows rose. “That sounds like the Ardaks. What stopped him?”
She looked away, turning back to the washcloth.
He froze. “Did you stop him?” She was probably capable of it, but he didn’t even want to think about her fighting an enraged cyborg.
“Well, he was coming for you next, and I couldn’t let him. So, I used my magic to walk on the ceiling and surprise-attacked him before he could get close.” She shrugged. “I think I was only successful because he wasn’t expecting it.”
Oh gods. He had been threatened by something other than this experiment and she had protected him.
He covered her hand with his. “Thank you.”
She turned her hand over and squeezed it. “You would have done the same.”
“Damn right I would have.” He tried to smile. “How are Simban, Borian, and Nordan?”
“All of the cyborgs were doing fine when they assigned us to these smaller rooms.”
“That’s good. With Jovjan, Chihon, and myself, six of us made it. It can only get better from here, right?”
“No. There’s the second stage. And then the third.” She glanced down at her hands. “High Medic Tassarion says that we’ll proceed with stage two in one hour.”
“An hour?” He’d been trying to ignore the pain coursing through his body, and the nausea. For the first time, he felt a wave of real concern.
“Yes. That stage will take only four hours, and they want you to have time to rest before you get the suit.”
Another cramp hit him, and he folded into the fetal position. “Why does it hurt so much?”
“The high medic says that the new cells could cause abnormal muscle contractions until your body gets use to them. They are something that doesn’t belong and, until you acclimate to them, stuff like this is going to happen. The reaction could continue for several hours, if not days.”
His teeth continued to chatter. He didn’t have days. He had an hour.
“It isn’t the cramps that concern me. It’s the fever. We really should get you into an ice bath.”
“I’ll do what I have to.” For the first time, he looked around and realized he wasn’t in the med wing. “Where are we?”
“Your bunk was rolled in here after stage one was complete because it has more privacy. We are down the corridor from the med bay. Are you okay enough to move?”
He tried to analyze his body. He’d never been so cold in his life. It permeated his very bones, all the way to his core. And he felt weak, every muscle in his body cramping with pain. But beneath that, there was a current of energy that was strangely empowering. “I feel like the new cells in my body are humming with energy, but my old cells are tired.”
She tilted her head to the side thoughtfully. “That is an interesting assessment. And perhaps to be expected. Your body is going to have to ramp up to deal with these new upgrades. The good news is that you’ve made it through.”
He gritted his teeth as she drew the bath in the personal room and requested ice using a wrist device. Part of him was embarrassed to be so sick in front of her, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, and she was a healer, after all.
When the bath was ready, she came to the bed and helped him rise to his feet. He was unsteady, swaying a little and grabbing for the bunk, holding on to it as he made his way toward the personal room. As he reached the end of the bunk, she helped steady him as they made their way into the small personal room.
His upper body was still bare, so he dropped his pants but left on his underthings, and then he stepped into the icy water. The pain of the ice hitting his feet and legs made his knees buckle, and he ended up completely submerged before he had anticipated it. He sucked in water and Fayelle had to slide her hands beneath his armpits so she could haul him back up against the ledge of the tub.
“No drowning on my watch.” She chuckled. “And I definitely don’t want to get in there with you.”
Mordjan frowned. The thought of her in the icy water too was not a bad idea. It might actually make the bath bearable. He glanced at her chest, which had been splashed with water. He could just see the outline of her nipple.
Then he realized the direction of his thoughts and redirected them to focus on his own physique. He couldn’t believe the weakness in his body, couldn’t remember ever feeling this way. His hands slipped as he tried to grip the sides of the tub.
I’m going to drown in my own damn bathwater!
She finally came to kneel behind him and hooked her arms beneath his to keep him afloat.
The ice was brutally cold on his skin, and he sucked in breath after breath, forcing the pain down. Not many knew it, but he didn’t have a pain-numbing function on his chip as the other cyborgs did. He’d been one of the first cyborgs made, and he hadn’t lost his memory, so he’d always figured it was an even trade, but this was forcing him to rethink that.
He stayed in the water for fifteen minutes and then forced himself to rise. His fingers and toes were slightly blue, but the pain had diminished enough for him to realize he was standing almost naked in front of her.
She looked up at his expression and a brief smile crossed her lips. “I’ve seen it all before, you know.”
He supposed she had, and the things she’d seen during her long life had probably been worse than this. It made him wish he had the power to take away that pain. “Don’t brag . . . about all the others,” he said, taking a towel from her.
Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean . . . I meant as a healer.”
When he caught her eye, he made sure she could see the humor in his expression. She gave him a slight smile in return, and his breath caught in his lungs.
She helped him dry off, and he took the opportunity avail himself of the toiletries they had, which was little more than the most standard brush for his teeth and some white gummy paste that tasted of mint.
Once he was settled back beneath the covers, his teeth still chattering slightly, she sat quietly beside him.
“Perhaps I should let you get some sleep.”
He patted the bed beside him. “I’m not tired. Would you . . . stay with me?” He winced at the tone of his voice. The words were hesitant, unsure.
She pulled a chair from the side table. “Mordjan, I need to tell you something, and I’m not exactly sure how.”
He clasped her hand with his own. “Now is not the time to hold back. Just tell me.”
“The first time I touched your hand, my magic awoke, telling me you were my mate.”
A rush of emotion—mostly
anger at the hopelessness of it all—hit him, overriding a distant dream that maybe somehow they could live through this and they could be together. He couldn’t believe she was admitting it. “I know.”
Her gaze met his. “You do?”
“Yes. I also felt something, and I’ve been around the others enough to know what it was.”
Her eyes widened. “Really? I’ve never heard of a non-elf being able to feel our magic before.”
“But they did feel it, and so did I.”
“That’s why you were so angry in the sparring room.”
“Yes.”
She grew serious. “Then you’ll understand more of what I’m about to say. Since they’ve put the new blood into you, the tingling has diminished.”
He frowned. “By how much?”
“I’d say by half.”
He didn’t speak.
“I think you know what this means. I don’t want to believe it, but I’m afraid that the more artificial you become, the less you will be my—”
“Mate,” he finished for her.
“Yes,” she agreed.
There was a long, awkward silence.
Then she swallowed. “In over seven hundred years, I’ve never had a mate. Never felt my magic awaken like that before. I feel like I should fight for that. For you.”
He held her hand more tightly. Guilt, grief, anguish, and loss went through him in a wave, the undertow so strong he could no longer separate the emotions.
“Fayelle, if only I could . . .”
She shook her head wordlessly, took his hand, and put it against her cheek, and he brushed her skin with his thumb. She was impossibly beautiful. Her eyes were liquid pools of gold, and he found himself sinking into them.
Something at the center of his being shifted. It opened, and he ended up enfolding her in his arms. She was beautiful, capable, curious, and brave. Brave in the face of imminent danger.
In that moment, he knew he loved her. He couldn’t take it back, couldn’t close what had been unfolded. Wasn’t sure he even wanted to.
“Two cyborgs have already died. More could die in the second or third stages.” Her words were muffled against his chest, but he still heard them perfectly.
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