Prophecy Awakened: Prime Prophecy Series Book 1

by Tamar Sloan

  With my ear against his chest, I can hear each breath flow in and shakily out, choked by helplessness. “I wish I could have been there, Noah.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done.” Another shuddering breath rattles through his blazing chest. “There was so much blood, Eden. So much blood.”

  I hear everything he doesn’t say. Noah would have had to carry his father out of the Glade, to the car. Then driven him out to the highway, protecting the location of the Glade, calling an ambulance as he went. As his father continued to bleed. Was he conscious and in pain? Or unconscious and silent?

  “It took so long for the medics to get there,” he whispers.

  All I can do is hold him tighter, fueling the scorching blaze between us.

  He clears his throat. “They’ve taken him to hospital. Mom went with him. Mitch and I are getting some stuff together and meeting her there.”

  “You need to go.” Although I don’t want to, I shuffle back, my fingers brushing across his chest, the area where his tattoo is scorching hot.

  Noah takes my hand and we walk to the house. Mitch meets us on the veranda; a tear-streaked Tara is tucked into his side.

  “Let’s go.”

  Mitch nods, and heads for the truck, a duffel bag over one shoulder, Tara under the other.

  Noah turns to me. His brilliant blue eyes are shining. “Thank you for coming.”

  “There’s nowhere else I would have been.”

  His hand comes up to brush my cheek. Like all the times before, when so little stood between us.

  Then he’s jogging to the truck and climbing in. Noah reverses and, in a spray of gravel, shoots down the road. Tara waves a small hand in the window.

  I hold my own up.

  It’s only once the truck has rounded the bend that my own legs give out.

  26

  Noah

  I don’t really remember the drive to the hospital.

  I don’t remember if there were stairs, or an elevator.

  I don’t remember asking for directions.

  I must have, because I find myself standing at the glass sliding doors, a white room on the other side.

  I’ll always remember finding my mother. Hunched over, arms crossed and clasping her elbows. A smear of blood on her cheek.

  We walk in, and she doesn’t move. I walk up to her, and she doesn’t move. I stand in front of her, and I can’t find my voice.

  She looks up. “Noah. Mitch.”

  And she’s in my arms. For the first time I’m taller than Mom, and her face buries in my shoulder.

  “What’s happening?”

  She slips from me to Mitch, and they hold each other for long seconds, dark heads close. “They’ve taken him into surgery. I haven’t heard anything else.”

  Mom takes a seat, and I sit on one side, Mitch on the other. Tara reattaches herself to Mitch’s side. The waiting room is all white and pale blue. Someone probably thought the color scheme would be soothing. They were wrong. The white walls are a glaring reminder you’re in a hospital; the pale blue lino and pastel blue chairs leave you waiting in a vast ocean, an endless sky, with very little to hold on to. I shove helpless hands into my pockets, my head falling back onto the wall behind me.

  Why do they call this a waiting game? It’s the worst thing I’ve ever had to endure.

  Endless hours later we all turn, each shooting to attention, when the door opens. A woman enters, bronze skin in blue scrubs, her dark hair obscured by a gauze hospital cap, her dark eyes somber.

  She puts out her hand, and Mom steps forward to shake it. “Good evening, I’m Dr. Martinez. I was the head surgeon operating on Mr. Phelan.”

  Mom’s hands rise hesitantly, palms up. “How is he?”

  Dr. Martinez hands fold in front of her. “I’m sorry it took so long Mrs. Phelan. Gunshot wounds are unpredictable, and require exploratory surgery to track the path of the bullet. In Mr. Phelan's case, the bullet entered the chest wall and punctured his lung, before exiting through his back. Luckily, most other organs were left relatively intact, although there was some damage to his aortic arch and trachea.”

  Mom’s hand flies to her mouth.

  “We were able to repair the collapsed lung, and we didn’t find any complicating bone fragments. But with the massive blood loss and the trauma to his chest, Mr. Phelan went into cardiac arrest.”

  Mom collapses onto her seat. “The partial disruption in the supply of oxygen to his brain has left Mr. Phelan in a coma.”

  We’re all silent. Maybe waiting to see if Dr. Martinez has anything else. Hoping there couldn’t possibly be more.

  “I know it sounds overwhelming, but remember he’s young and healthy. The bullet missed most of his internal organs, and there’s no structural damage to his heart. We will be providing him the best possible care.”

  It feels like she’s parceling out the good and the bad onto a set of scales. A reality where no one really knows which side they will tip to, leaving Dad’s life hanging in the balance.

  Mom looks up, eyes large and face pale. “Can we see him?”

  Dr. Martinez nods. “He’s in the intensive care unit. At this stage visiting times are very strict: one at a time, for five minutes only. You will have to be prepared. Mr. Phelan will be unresponsive, with a lot of medical equipment keeping him stable.”

  After more lifts and corridors, we come to another waiting room, this color scheme earthy browns and creams. The ICU one is designed for longer stays; plush chairs surround round tables in groups, magazines clustered on each one. A small kitchenette is set up in the corner. Boxes of tissues are strategically propped around the room. I’ve watched enough medical dramas to know that only half the time they’re used for happy tears.

  Mom is the first to go in. She returns short minutes later, her cheeks now wet, eyelashes glistening, arms clasped so tightly, her knuckles are white.

  And it’s my turn. I enter the room where Dad is the centerpiece, surrounded by myriad complicated-looking machines. It looks both cluttered and barren.

  I stop beside the large man, bandaged chest bare beneath a white sheet, a ventilator hanging from his mouth, tubes in his arms, wires taped everywhere.

  Dad has always been big. Big in size. Big on life. Big on love.

  But now he looks small. The room dwarfs him as he lays so still, surrounded by white. The damage that a projectile has left to his insides, the complex medical procedures to try and repair it, diminishes the man that has been my rock. The massive blood loss that left his brain starved for oxygen leaving behind a shell.

  I take his hand and squeeze, just like the pain does in my chest. His hand doesn’t move.

  Machines are bleeping constantly. Sounding out Dad’s heartbeats. His breathing. His life.

  My knees go a little weak. Please don’t let it be a countdown.

  Within half an hour we’ve all been in. One at a time. Mom, me, Mitch. Each coming out pale and silent.

  Now we’re in the ICU waiting room. Waiting. Mom in one of the plastic seats, arms cradled again. Mitch, with Tara curled into his side, beside her. I’m pacing, wishing Eden was here, when a question starts to formulate.

  How did we get here?

  My side aches where a scar should have been. Two shots. By the Glade. This just stepped up from coincidentally unlucky to bloody suspicious. For the first time anger starts to simmer. More questions start to surface.

  The door opens again to frame two uniformed police officers. We all remain where we are. I don’t know why we’re surprised. Cop families get to know these drills, learning about them vicariously. And Dad was shot.

  I walk forward, realizing I know these two men. Geoff, the older, grizzled man whose middle age has started to expand his waist, has known Dad for years. The tall, skinny one is Stan, a more recent recruit.

  Geoff ducks his head. “Beth, I’m so sorry. Everyone down at the station is praying for him.” Stan shifts from one foot to the other, looking a little uncomfortable. />
  Mom looks up with wet eyes, a small smile tipping up her lips. But she doesn’t respond. I step to the side of the room, indicating for them to follow. Mitch joins me, leaving Tara with Mom.

  “How is he, Noah?”

  “In a coma, but stable.”

  Geoff ducks his head. “We need to ask you some questions.” He pulls out his little blue notepad, his pen clicking in the silence.

  He clears his throat, his tone becoming businesslike. “Can you tell me what happened in the lead up to your father being shot?”

  “We went for a hike, south of the national park. Not far from the hunting reserve. We were heading back when he just dropped.” I manage to start with complete honesty.

  “Did you see anyone, hear any strange noises?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t see anyone, hear anyone.” Unusual in itself, given we were both in wolf form.

  “What happened after he was shot?”

  “I carried him to the car.”

  “You, carried your dad, to the car?” Geoff’s tone is dubious.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why would you do that, Noah?”

  I shrug. “No phone reception.” Which could be true, but the truth is slowly being stretched.

  Geoff makes some notes.

  “He would have been bleeding, needing immediate medical attention.”

  “I phoned the minute I could.” Desperately hoping I had done the right thing. Knowing we need to keep the Glade a secret. As I watched my father bleed out before my eyes.

  Stan clears his throat, shifting a little on the spot. “Has your dad had any altercations recently?”

  I frown, thinking. “He went out to Riley’s a week or so ago. I think it was a drunken argument between a couple of guys.”

  Geoff scribbles again.

  “It sounded like pretty routine stuff.”

  “Has anything suspicious happened that would be relevant to this?”

  A flash of heat streaks down my side. “Not that I can think of.”

  “Can you think of anyone that would have a vendetta against your father?”

  “Geoff, he’s a cop. You know there’s lots of people out there that aren’t happy with the calls he’s made.” Wife beating husbands, drug dealers, delinquent youth.

  Geoff grunts. He looks at me with shrewd, grey eyes. “Is there anything else that you could tell me that would be relevant to this investigation?”

  “Investigation?”

  “Noah, a cop has been shot. We’re going to need the location he was shot for forensics.”

  That could be a problem. “We were just hiking, Geoff. Dad wasn’t in uniform. I’m guessing an idiot missed then didn’t stick around to see what damage he’d done.”

  He looks at me, pen poised over the notepad. “The location?”

  I rack my brain for what I’ve already told them. “Not far from Jensen’s trail.” The truth has now left the building.

  Geoff takes some more notes. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

  “No. But I’ll let you know if anything else comes to mind.”

  “We’ll be in contact once we’ve been out to the scene.”

  “Dad would be glad you’re taking this so seriously.”

  “Adam is a good guy. We want to make sure this is done properly.” I hold out my hand to shake theirs. “Tell him we’ll see him when he wakes up.”

  “Will do, Geoff.”

  Once they are gone I fall into the nearest chair, hands in my hair.

  Mitch flops beside me. “Nicely done, Noah. Although forensics at the location is going to be tricky.”

  “I didn’t give it to them.”

  “Smart move.”

  Mitch gets up to go back to Tara, squeezing my shoulder as he goes. I stay in the seat, feeling alone, and a little bit dirty after all the crap I just fed Geoff. His questions start to move through my mind, burning open trails. I’m starting to get angry again.

  “Dad?”

  I look up then stand. Kurt has come through the door, stopping just inside. He scans the room, his gaze pausing on Tara, wrapped in Mitch’s arms.

  “I came as soon as I heard.”

  Tara stands up, Mitch following her.

  “How is he?”

  Mom’s hunched back stays in her seat. “He had a heart attack during surgery, leaving him in a coma. The doctors are optimistic, but there’s nothing to do but wait.”

  I come to stand by Mom, and she grasps my hand.

  Kurt moves into the room, standing before her. “If there’s anything you need, Beth, I’m here.”

  “Thank you, Kurt, your support is appreciated.”

  “Adam is a fine strong man. I’m sure the wait won’t be long.” Kurt’s eyes slide to Mitch and Tara, before coming back to me. “Noah. Can I have a word?”

  “Sure.” I don’t move from Mom’s side.

  I think Kurt’s lips tighten, but it’s hard to tell in that bushy beard. “I know this is a difficult time, but with your father…recovering, I’m conscious your pack will need an Alpha.”

  Someone else as the Phelan Alpha? I can’t imagine it. “I doubt it will be an issue for long, Kurt.”

  He smiles a little. “I’m sure it won’t be. But with important events coming up, it’s best the pack has someone to lead it.”

  He means the bonding. Mom straightens in her seat. “Surely you don’t mean for the bonding to go ahead?”

  “Of course I do, Beth. It’s very important that the alliance be formalized. Noah knows this.” His chin drops, his beard brushing his chest. “So did Adam.”

  His hand comes up to rest on my shoulder. For some reason I want to shrug it off. Concerned eyes look at me from his lion-mane face. “We’ve always been there for the Phelans, and I want to do what I can to help. I’d be happy to oversee the pack until Adam is back on his feet.”

  My first instinct says I don’t think so. Actually my tired, fried mind says “No way!” But then I pause. What would Dad want? What would he do? I could sure use an instruction book right about now. Once again I have to go with my gut, although even I’m not sure that has been right up until now.

  “I think we should be fine, Kurt.”

  “Noah. This is a tough time for you, and you’ve been the Alpha heir for such a short time. And with such little training.”

  Each word feels like it’s sucking the false bravado out of me. I’m not sure I can support the weight of the arm on my shoulder.

  Mitch stands, and comes to my right. I lock my knees, my head coming up.

  Kurt ignores Mitch’s show of support. “You can’t leave your pack without a leader at this time.”

  “You’re right. That’s why I’ll do it.”

  Kurt steps back, arm falling down. “You’ll be Alpha?” His tone shows exactly what he thinks of that idea. “Think this through, Noah.”

  I can feel Mitch crossing his arms behind me. I’d like to do the same, but I don’t. “I’ll be the Phelan Alpha, until my father recovers.”

  Mom stands too, and we form a triangle. With me at the apex.

  Kurt smiles, taking another step back. “I understand. I’m sure it won’t be for long.” He turns to Tara. “We should let these guys have some space.”

  Tara opens her mouth, and Kurt’s big chest fills with a breath. Tara’s mouth shuts.

  She gets up, her fingers brushing Mitch’s as she goes. When she reaches me she looks up, her hazel eyes telling me she wants to stay. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.”

  Once they’re gone I look at Mitch. Mitch looks at me. We’re both asking the same question.

  What just happened?

  Mom squeezes my shoulder. “You did what needed to be done, Noah.”

  Needed to be done? I just stepped myself up to Alpha.

  I don’t feel the need to pace anymore, so I sit beside Mom. I wish I could talk to Dad. Ironically, the situation where I need Dad the most, is the situation that has left him una
ble to give the guidance I need.

  Mom sits again, arms crossed, each elbow resting in the opposite palm. I suspect this is going to be her holding pattern. For the waiting game.

  In that moment I realize what she’s cradling.

  Hope.

  27

  Eden

  I stop. These are the last few trees before they open out like a river mouth to the cultured lawns of the Inn. Our cottage, a lovely little island in a sea of lush grass. But I don’t want to go back yet. I’m pretty sure my mother is home.

  Caesar stands beside me. I feel guilty that my mood is ruining his walk. We’re usually exploring the forest, wandering amongst the pines, rambling through the undergrowth—Caesar unearthing new sights, scouting out new scents and chasing after curious sounds. Even if it means a sprained leg, just like it did a couple of weeks ago. Certainly not enough to stop a curious canine.

  Now he walks alongside me on the path, occasionally brushing my leg, a silent companion. I don’t know why, but I don’t stray from the familiar, safe track.

  “Why don’t we sit down for a while?”

  I step to the nearest pine, sinking down into the soft bed of needles. Like a rag doll I flop backward, lying on my back. Caesar is the only one to sit, eyes searching, ears twitching. I stare up at the fractured sunlight reaching through the branches, casting dappled shadows down on us, any warmth progressively filtered out through each layer.

  Leaving me cold and dark at the bottom.

  Images move through the boughs: Kurt, barrel chest inflated with his ambitions for Tara, no matter the cost for his daughter, Mitch, having to sit back and watch, hands tied by an Alpha’s command, and Beth, husband and mate in a coma, her two sons in pain.

  Because I know Noah is hurting. Every day I can feel his burden, his regret. His sense of duty tearing him apart. At school. At home. In my short-lived, tear-filled, nightmare-riddled sleep.

  His pain only compounding my own, making it overwhelming.

  I wish I could run, get rid of it, shut it down. Anything to avoid the raw agony that’s so close to the surface. Escape this jagged ice carving up my heart.