Forged in Ember

by Trish McCallan

  Or her own mind, for that matter.

  “How’s your son?” Beth asked after another few seconds of face scrunching and tense muscles.

  Watching her, Amy didn’t think that Beth’s cramping had lessened much.

  “His temperature is creeping up again,” Amy said tightly. “So are his liver and kidney levels. His doctors are talking about bringing One Bird and William in later today to try another healing.”

  Beth looked surprised. “I didn’t think their healings worked on Benji.”

  “They didn’t last time.” Amy’s gut clenched. She doubted it would work this time either. The suggestion felt like a last-ditch effort. “Dr. Zapa is hoping that since there is some actual damage to his kidney and liver, the healing might work this time. Last time there was no damage anywhere, so there was nothing to heal.”

  “Oh, Amy, I’m so sorry.” One of Beth’s hands lifted from her stomach and reached for Amy. “I can’t imagine how awful this must be for you. I’m praying Kait can bring Embray back and he can save your boys.”

  So was Amy.

  Amy looked to Beth’s other hand, the one clinging tensely to the fetal monitor. Considering her own panic over the welfare of the child she was carrying, Beth probably had a very good idea of how Amy was feeling.

  Stepping forward enough to grasp the offered hand, Amy gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Nothing has climbed to a dangerous level yet,” Amy murmured, trying to remain positive even though exhaustion and fear kept cycling up, swamping her, only to be beaten back down again.

  Had they reached Embray yet?

  Had Kait healed him?

  The cooling blanket and fan, along with the drugs they had Benji on, were still working to keep his temperature down and his liver and kidneys working. But their effectiveness was wearing off far too rapidly for her peace of mind. At what stage would Benji pass the point of no return? When would his organs shut down?

  At what point would Leonard Embray’s antidote make no difference whatsoever?

  She was terrified they were on the fast track to that occurring. Even if Embray did know the antidote, would he be able to process it in time?

  She returned to Benji’s side and dipped a washcloth in the plastic basin on the stainless-steel cart beside his bed. After wringing it out, she gently wiped his face and chest before draping the cloth across his forehead. The cold baths didn’t seem to be helping anymore, but at least wiping him down beat the heck out of just sitting here, staring and worrying.

  “Shh, you’re okay, baby. You’re okay.” She soothed him softly as he stirred fretfully at her ministrations.

  She ran the wet cloth over his face, chest, and arms a few more times. After a spine-popping stretch, she sat down and picked up the laptop. She’d been wanting to research sexual assault and how to recover from it but hadn’t had an opportunity. Between Brendan, the nurses, doctors, and SEALs, someone was constantly joining her in Benji’s room, and this particular subject wasn’t something she wanted an audience for.

  Scrolling through the dozens of articles her Google search called up, she quickly discovered that most of them didn’t pertain to her situation. She didn’t blame herself for what had happened. There had been eight men, and they’d kidnapped her children before they’d come after her. If she hadn’t acquiesced, if she’d refused to go with them, they would have killed the boys. She’d taken the only course of action open to her. Nor did she feel shame or dirtied—like the experience had somehow soiled her. Sex wasn’t suddenly shameful to her.

  What she did recognize were the symptoms they listed for rape-induced post-traumatic stress: the hypervigilance, the rage, the insomnia, even the flashbacks.

  Her chest tightened until it felt like her old friend—that five-thousand-pound elephant—was sitting on her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Anxiety churned through her belly. A rush of helplessness and panic worked to break through the barriers she’d erected.

  The research was dredging up those ugly, unbearable feelings she’d buried all those months before.

  She took the advice of one of the articles and practiced deep, even breathing until the tension and panic eased. That blog post, she suspected, was going to be particularly helpful. It even gave tips on dealing with flashbacks.

  Several of the other articles gave illustrations of the common ways women dealt with the trauma of rape. Some women buried the experience, pretended it had never happened, and went about their everyday lives as though nothing had changed. That certainly resonated with her. It was exactly how she’d dealt with it.

  But then she hadn’t had time to process it. She’d been dealing with John’s murder, grief at his loss, helping Benji and Brendan adjust to his death. Plus, there had been so many details she’d had to handle: the funeral, the insurance, the bank accounts, the reams and reams of paperwork. Then there had been the investigation into his death, followed by the toxic crap the NRO had injected into her boys, which led to the current crisis.

  She’d barely had a chance to breathe over the past five months, let alone work through the aftermath of what those bastards had done to her.

  She reread the articles again, paying particular attention to the one with actionable tips for dealing with post-traumatic stress symptoms.

  When the curtain slid back, she instinctively closed the link she was reading before looking up.

  “Mrs. Chastain?” the tall blonde nurse said, her gaze scanning Benji’s hot face and then zipping up to the machines’ displays. “The pilot checked in. They’re on their way back . . . with Leonard Embray.”

  Amy’s heart skipped a beat and then started beating harder . . . faster. “He’s alive?”

  “He’s alive,” the nurse confirmed, looking away.

  That was good news. Great news, even. So why wouldn’t the nurse hold her gaze? Alarm bells crashed through Amy’s head.

  “But?” Amy prompted when the woman fell silent.

  “The information coming in is spotty. There’s been a lot of radio interference. They’ve reported that they have Embray and he’s alive. However . . .” She hesitated.

  Amy bolted up from Benji’s bed and took a threatening step forward. “What?”

  The nurse retreated, caution flashing across her face. “Apparently there was an incident, and Commander Mackenzie was wounded.”

  Wounded.

  Her chest tightened. Wounded could mean anything. A splinter. A broken arm. A graze or flesh wound.

  Or . . . ?

  She stared at the nurse, at the sympathy on her face, and her scalp tingled. Her skin alternated between hot and cold.

  “How bad?” she asked hoarsely.

  “I don’t have the specifics. The pilot said they were pumping a lot of blood into him. Warned us to have a crash cart at the hangar and units of AB positive on hand. We lost the chopper after that, but it doesn’t sound good,” the nurse said.

  A crash cart . . . blood on hand . . . but they were hours away. Hours away. It wasn’t like they’d be arriving any second so the ER could provide the treatment he needed.

  “Why didn’t Kait—” Amy broke off, realizing even as the question parted her lips why Kait hadn’t healed Mac.

  She couldn’t heal both men. Even if Mackenzie was in the 30 percent of the population Kait could heal, she couldn’t do two major healings at the same time. She simply wouldn’t have the energy for two. She would have to choose: Mac or Embray.

  The fact that Embray was alive and headed to Shadow Mountain was a clear indication of who she’d chosen.

  Had Mac had anything to do with that choice? Or had Kait’s gift simply not worked on him?

  “What they should have done,” the nurse said, her voice sharpening with accusation, “is take him to the nearest ER. It wouldn’t have taken long to fly in and drop him off. Why in the world they would fly him all the way back here instead of seeking emergency treatment is beyond me.”

  Because if they’d taken him to an ER, any ER, his
gunshot would have been reported and investigated by the local police. All gunshot wounds had to be reported. Before he even made it out of surgery, the police would know who he was. He’d be arrested.

  She thought back to that night in March when Jillian’s brother had kidnapped Beth right there in the Enumclaw hospital. Hospitals were not safe. They were particularly dangerous when the monsters behind this whole damn conspiracy had people in the FBI and local law enforcement. If Mac wasn’t killed outright while he was cuffed to his hospital bed, he’d be killed after processing in jail.

  But were his chances of surviving any higher on the chopper, hours from home and help?

  “How are they giving him blood? Do you have units on the chopper?” Amy asked. Were transfusions so common on these kinds of missions that they had minifridges full of the various blood types?

  “I have no idea,” the nurse said.

  “Please let me know if you hear anything else.” Amy raised her voice as the nurse turned around and walked away.

  As the curtain closed behind her, Amy stood there trying to beat back the fear. Mac would be okay. They’d get him here. Get the healers on him. Get the blood in him. He’d have the best of both Western and Arapaho medicine.

  He’d be fine.

  He had to be.

  To distract herself she looked around the room. Benji was still in the same position he’d been in an hour ago, two hours ago, maybe even three. It seemed like she’d been sitting by his bed forever—singing to him, reading to him, wiping him down. Beth’s admission next door had been a welcome diversion . . . not that she’d wish what Beth was going through on anyone. Which reminded her. She eyed the wall that bordered the two cubicles.

  How much of the conversation had Beth heard? The cubicles were right next to each other.

  It wouldn’t do Beth’s anxiety any good to be over there all by herself after hearing the latest round of news. After one last look at Benji, she slipped out of his cubicle and over to the next, relieved she’d decided to check on Beth when she found the woman’s purple eyes locked on the curtain, obviously waiting for Amy to arrive with an update.

  “How much did you hear?” Amy asked.

  “Most of it,” Beth responded immediately. “Embray is alive and on board. But Commander Mackenzie was injured?” At Amy’s nod, Beth hesitated before bursting out, “They didn’t say anything about Zane? Right? He wasn’t hurt too.”

  Amy shook her head. “He wasn’t mentioned. I’m sure if he’d been hurt, the nurse would have said so.”

  Or not. If Zane had been hurt, they might not tell Beth for fear the news would stress her and the baby even more. They probably wouldn’t even tell the nurses or doctors at the clinic in case Beth overheard a couple of them talking. If Zane had been wounded, they wouldn’t find out about it until the chopper landed.

  Time seemed to inch forward unbearably slowly while they waited for more news from the chopper. The Eagle, with Mac on it—fighting for his life, from the sound of it—was at least four hours away. Which gave Amy way, way too much time to think. To guess. To bargain.

  The thought of Mac dying, of the chopper landing without his larger-than-life personality on it . . . the thought of never seeing that scowl or bristling acceptance or that glitter of hunger light up his black eyes . . . the thought of him being lost to her broke something inside her. Something fragile and new and hopeful.

  It also brought memories of loss and grief and unbearable anger. Benji’s hospital bed was hard enough to look at sometimes. The last time she’d been in a room with a hospital bed, she’d been in it. She’d been lying there trapped, helpless when Clay and her parents had told her about John. When they’d told her that her husband was dead and nobody had any idea who’d done it.

  The echo of sorrow, grief, and longing rose. John was always in the back of her mind. It was a sense of emptiness that never quite went away—except when she was with Mac. Mac filled the room so completely, there wasn’t room for ghosts.

  But now he could be dying. Killed by the same bastards who’d stolen her husband and her children’s father.

  She still didn’t know who’d killed John. Oh, she knew who it was in general—that the NRO had been behind it. But she didn’t know who it was specifically—the monster who’d stabbed John over and over and then left him to bleed out all over the floor.

  Although since confronting Clay, she’d begun to suspect she knew the specific who now. The monstrosity who’d killed John. Clay would have had access. He had knowledge of where to stab for maximum damage. He’d been in the marines and trained in hand-to-hand and knife-to-knife combat. Since they’d been friends, best friends even, John would never have suspected him. Wouldn’t have been on guard. Would have been easy pickings.

  The knowledge brought a wave of nausea. The thought of her brother, who she’d loved, murdering her husband was unbearable.

  The idea drew her mind back to Mac. He’d been suspicious of Clay from the beginning . . . and now he might be dying. Dead, even.

  Enough. She took a deep breath. This morbid remembering and worrying was doing nothing. She turned back to Benji, dipped the cloth in water, and began to wipe him down again while reciting his favorite book to him. It was a book she’d read so many times she’d memorized it.

  Sam the Cat

  Just wanted to say

  Thank you so much

  For the tuna today

  She’d recited the book several times, along with a few other books from Benji’s list of favorites, and washed Benji from face to toes at least a hundred times when the sound of boots pounding on the linoleum floor sounded from behind the curtain.

  As she shot up from the bed, the curtain was yanked to the side, and Rawls stepped into the cubicle. Vaguely aware of voices in the cubicle beside her, she froze at the sight of his haggard gray face and bloody clothes.

  Oh God. So much blood. Way too much blood.

  Mac must have died.

  She plunged into darkness, desolation.

  Not again. Not again. To lose another so soon.

  Rawls mouth was moving, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. The ringing in her ears blocked out everything. The ceiling started to spin, and the floor too. Even the walls around her whirled until she was spinning apart into a billion separate pieces.

  Nobody would be able to find all the pieces of her again.

  There was the sensation of moving. Of her butt hitting something hard. Of her shoulders and head being pressed down. The ringing in her ears subsided.

  “Breathe, darlin’. There you go. Breathe.”

  Amy tried to comply. Tried to force her lungs to move. One breath—exhale. Two breaths—exhale.

  The ringing in her ears disappeared.

  The third breath came easier. And then a fourth.

  Her body stopped spinning.

  “There you, go. That’s it,” Rawls said, patting her shoulder.

  He was patting her shoulder, for Pete’s sake. Like she was some poor old lady in the middle of a fit of hysteria.

  A bubble of laughter swallowed the breaths. Why, she had no idea. Nothing was funny. Nothing was even close to funny.

  “Easy . . . easy. Deep breaths now.”

  He sounded worried. It was enough to stifle the laughter.

  She chanced another inhale and then another.

  She needed to straighten, to face the world again.

  A world without Mac in it.

  Nausea stirred, but she forced it aside. Centered her mind on her son. Benji still needed her. She couldn’t give up. She couldn’t give in to the darkness.

  She focused on Rawls. His face looked so gray it blended into the walls. Losing Mac must have devastated him. Did he blame her? For the choice between Mac and her son?

  They didn’t even know for sure if Mac’s sacrifice would save her son.

  Maybe Rawls knew. Maybe Embray had given him the antidote on the trip back or told him how long it would take to create it.

  �
��Embray?” It was all she could manage. Her raw throat didn’t want to voice the rest of her questions.

  “He’s alive.” He stepped back from her to shove tense white fingers through his hair. “Hell, I’m sorry, Amy. The pilot was supposed to let you know that we grabbed Embray. Got him off the machines. He’s alive.”

  “I know. They told me. Has he said anything?”

  “No. He’s alive. Breathing on his own. Brain waves are there.” He swayed but quickly stabilized himself. “But Kaity quit working on him when Mac got hit.”

  “Mac,” Amy repeated, the grief rising so fast and thick it darkened her gaze. Everything in the room looked dimmer, darker, dirty. “She couldn’t heal him.”

  “No, she—” He suddenly broke off, a startled look of realization in his eyes. “Ah fuck . . . I’m an idiot. Mac’s alive. It’s a miracle. He’s one stubborn son of a bitch, but he’s alive.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Her focus dropped to his chest and legs, the huge swaths of blood covering him.

  He followed her eyes down. “I should have cleaned up before I came to see you, but I wanted you to know we have Embray and why he is still out.”

  Amy paused. “They’re alive? Mac and Embray?”

  The world brightened.

  “Yeah.” He swayed again, his face even grayer than before. “Kaity couldn’t bring them both back to one hundred percent, so she healed Embray enough to get him off the machines and Mac enough to close up the holes and stop the bleeding. She gave them both a chance to make it to base, where One Bird and William were waiting for us.” He shuffled over to lean against the wall. “Mac’s was harder, much harder. Wiped out Kait and Cosky completely. But she did it. Got them both on the chopper . . . alive.”

  Enough to stop the bleeding.

  The words echoed through Amy’s mind. Her vision sharpening, she scanned Rawls’s face. The pilot had said Mac had lost a lot of blood and that they were pumping a lot of blood into him.

  Rawls’s haggard face and unsteadiness suddenly made much more sense. When he started to slide down the wall, she sprang forward and shoved an elbow under his shoulder.