Bonds

by Susan Copperfield

  Then again, if she wanted to kill me, there were worse ways to go. Death at the hands of a stern but beautiful woman didn’t seem all that bad to me. It beat death through being thrown into a vat of acid, tossed out of a helicopter without the benefit of a safety line, harness, or parachute, or burning to death on board a flaming oil tanker.

  “If I did it, I’m sorry,” I said, as I figured apologizing for my sins, of which I could think of many, might spare me from a world of hurt later.

  That caught her attention, and she raised a brow. “You should be. You, sir, were quite the challenge.”

  Yep. I needed to get a collar, hook myself up to a chain, and escort myself to the nearest dog house. “I’d do it again.”

  Wait. That was not right. Damn it, while it was the truth, I would piss the doctor off even more.

  “I figured as much when I looked over your medical file, Mr. Alders. I acquainted myself with it on the flight here. Your medical record is better than average for a search and rescue operator, but when you get yourself into trouble, you get yourself into serious trouble. Your file also mentions you tend to disregard the severity of your injuries, preferring to think of them as minor inconveniences getting in the way of your work.”

  The woman must have contacted other doctors around Europe for more information on my medical history for all she sounded like an import from the Royal States. She lacked a New York accent, although she sounded like she’d come from somewhere along the east coast. “I won’t deny those accusations.”

  “Well, that’s better than what I was expecting. I’ll be blunt, as I’ve been told that’s the best approach for men like you. You came very close to death. Would you like to guess, or would you like the lecture?”

  “If I guess, will you lecture me on what I got wrong? I’m all right with that.”

  Her scowl eased although she didn’t quite smile. “I’ll consider limiting your scolding to a certain degree should you demonstrate substantial knowledge about your situation. I’m satisfied with your motivations for your actions.”

  Well, that was different. While I knew a few doctors who respected what we did, too often they grew tired of patching us back together after rescuing idiots who’d endangered others needlessly. I understood their point of view, but I’d made a vow to rescue even idiots—just like the doctors had made a vow to do no harm, even to idiots.

  While she’d used the word satisfied, I liked to think her tone conveyed something more than mere satisfaction. I didn’t know why I valued the respect of a woman I’d just met, but it likely had something to do with my status as a living man rather than a dead one.

  “Can I start with the complicated one first, working under the assumption I’m aware I’ve stepped in it really good this time? After, I’ll quietly listen to a lecture about anything I’ve gotten wrong.”

  She laughed, hooked her ankle around a wheeled stool, and swung it to my bedside. “Most of my patients lack your sense of humor. Then again, most of my patients are keenly aware they’ve dodged death by a hair. That’s the only time I’m called into service. You’re the first patient I’ve had interested in testing your medical knowledge while also issuing an invitation to be corrected.”

  “Well, my work does require medical knowledge.”

  “That it does, although I’m under the impression you’re a diver.”

  “I’m also usually the first person to a victim, so my knowledge is often the difference between life or death. There are better folks on the team, but I try to do the patch work the best I can as required.”

  “Too often, people do not give first responders the credit they deserve. We work off what you accomplish in the field. And yes, your work is often the difference between life and death for a patient. First responders are also the first to tell me I have no idea what I’m doing and should go back to babysitting or doing womanly tasks.”

  I grimaced at that. “Those first responders? Complete and total idiots. As are any doctors who give you that same shit.”

  “I think we’re going to get along just fine, Mr. Alders. I’m Dr. Melody Kismoff.”

  I’d heard of the Kismoff family. Anyone with a thorough knowledge—or appropriate upbringing—knew of Maine’s Royal family. Where a Kismoff walked, even death made way, although at a price. Every last one of them gave part of their life for another, permanently tying themselves to a patient facing death at its door.

  When that person finally died, so did they, ultimately paying for the life they’d once saved.

  Their magic took an even darker turn; they courted death every time they brought someone back from the brink. The Kismoff Royals died in one of two ways: their bond died, or they were dragged into the grave with someone they’d tried to save.

  I supposed they could be murdered or killed in an accident like anyone else, although I hadn’t heard of it happening before.

  In my line of business, on a bad day, we wished for a Kismoff to come do what we couldn’t.

  “They brought a Royal here to treat me?”

  She smiled. “After you were sent to recovery and stabilized, I got to hear all sorts of opinions about what you search and rescue types think of members of my family. That one bloke about had himself an aneurism, tripping over his own feet because he’d finally ‘gotten someone half decent’ to take care of one of his boys.”

  Bloke? My brows raised at that. “You’ve been in England.”

  Her brows furrowed, and she wrinkled her nose. “That’s where I was before flying here. It seems bloke slipped right on into my vocabulary.”

  “Could be worse.”

  “Could be. I could’ve gone all formal on you.”

  Royalty lived and breathed formal. I remembered that much from my childhood. Once upon a time, we’d been royals, too, but magic had faded from our bloodline, and we’d escaped into obscurity. One name change and a move to a different kingdom before returning to Florida, and we’d disappeared from history.

  Being borderline elite was bad enough. If I ever crossed the line, someone would dig—and someone would find what I wished would remain buried.

  “Now that’s quite the potent threat,” I quipped to cover my dismay over being stuck in the same room with someone who could, at the wave of her hand, turn my life upside down on me. Then again, perhaps she could abuse her status as a royal and coerce the Florida royals into reissuing my passport without forcing me into returning home. “I don’t suppose one of your magic tricks is convincing Florida to reissue my passport without returning to the Royal States? I ran out of pages.”

  She laughed, and when she smiled, I could readily understand why an entire kingdom might want someone like her in their bloodline. To my knowledge—and relief—Maine usually kept their royals within their borders, ignoring the tradition of strengthening relationships with other kingdoms through marriage. “Yes, I’m aware of the issue with your passport. Your condition is serious enough you’ll be transferred to Maine until we’re certain you’re recovering properly. While I’d rather avoid lengthy travel, it’s necessary. France lacks the equipment we have in Maine, and we’d have to transport an entire facility here to monitor your progress.”

  Her words confirmed what I’d suspected when I’d begun wielding ice in desperation to save the sinking ship and its volatile cargo. “Talent exertion leading to a burn out, or what some call accidental nullification, would be the top issue.” I took a moment to consider the place she’d mentioned. “The facility is probably a talent evaluation center, to—assuming my talent hasn’t been completely nullified—determine what safe levels of usage there are. Possibly with suppressors to prevent any unexpected flares.”

  “It seems like you’ve been paying attention. Good. I was told you’d informed someone on board the NYS Triumphant you were experiencing talent exertion symptoms. Do you understand how serious this situation is for you?”

  “If I lived and worked in the Royal States, yes. However, there’s no talent requirements for working in s
earch and rescue in Europe; training, knowledge, and general skills are sufficient. While my talents are—or perhaps were—considered an asset, losing them doesn’t bar me from continuing my work.”

  The princess regarded me with narrowed eyes, and I suspected she was seeing me for the first time, as an individual rather than as a challenging patient out to test her skills and her patience. “You viewed the risk of losing your talent to be acceptable.”

  “With the volume of crude that tanker was carrying, yes, I did. If all that oil hit shore, it would have been an environmental disaster.” If she didn’t know about the explosives on board, I wouldn’t be the one to tell her. “Desperate times lead to desperate measures, and a middling talent like mine is worth the price of preventing that spill.”

  “Your talent, should it recover, is hardly middling. First, the ability to manipulate the amount of ice, water, and crude you did during your operation puts you at an upper elite to royal ranking alone. That you can manipulate ice on the scale you did indicates you have a royal level talent. You’ll be reevaluated in Maine, and Maine will be footing the bill for the evaluation and all care.” Her expression softened. “And, should your ‘middling talent’ prove to fall in line with the ranking we expect it to, you’ll be offered a chance to sweep it under the rug, so to speak. It’s common knowledge among your team that you have a rather strong distrust of the elite and royalty.”

  Well, shit. I always clammed up about the elite—and especially about royalty—but I hadn’t thought people assumed I distrusted the higher castes. I’d hoped they’d assumed I thought of them with the wary regard most of my rank did. “Why are you offering me that? It goes against everything the Royal States stands for.”

  Talents ruled all there. It ruled everywhere, but Americans liked to take things to extremes, and it had embraced the caste system of the second civil war without reservation. The rest of the world had, mostly, followed.

  I didn’t understand why.

  I figured no one really understood why.

  She laughed. “While true, it benefits Maine to keep your identity and general involvement with the tanker incident quiet. It benefits Florida, too. For political reasons, mostly. Right now, France is being credited with the recovery of the crude and prevention of the spill using the entirety of your search and rescue team as a front. At current, the media is claiming that the right talents at just the right time resulted in a special form of magical synergy. Maine has no desire to dispute that. France has no desire to dispute that. Florida likewise has no desire to dispute that, as they have zero interest in becoming involved with an international affair despite one of its citizens being in the heart of the matter.”

  “Florida has a known dislike of Florida Man headlines,” I muttered. “My stunt with that tanker counts.”

  “Florida’s loss. My family will be handling the issue of your passport, and if they do not wish to cooperate, Maine is willing to offer citizenship and a passport to streamline your return to Europe.”

  While I struggled to believe any royal family would be so accommodating without good reason, I acknowledged granting me citizenship and issuing a passport was far cheaper than replacing an entire tanker of crude oil. If anything, their offers were cheap in comparison. “That would be really appreciated, Your Highness.”

  She snorted. “In the hospital, much to my relief, I’m just another doctor. No titles here, Mr. Alders.”

  Since when did any member of royalty not want their prized rank flaunted around? I considered her request and nodded. “I’m Jack. I’m not all that keen on titles, either. If you don’t like doing the first name thing, Alders is fine, too.”

  “I was rather startled to discover your first name is really Jack and not John.”

  “My parents enjoy confusing people, I think.” I hadn’t appreciated everyone automatically assuming my first name was John, James, Jacob, or some other name shortened to Jack. “I’m actually Jack, and I can’t even claim it’s an Americanization of Jacques.”

  “Melody is short for Melodia. I’m not a fan of Melodia. At all.”

  I filed that tidbit about the princess away so I wouldn’t anger her. Doctors could fix people. Doctors could, thanks to their extensive knowledge of the human body, rip them apart, too. “Would you prefer Melody, Dr. Melody, or Dr. Kismoff?”

  “Whichever you’re most comfortable with. For the moment, what you need to know is that you’re recovering nicely so far. You were in critical condition when I arrived at the hospital. While nullifying a higher talent is possible, death isn’t uncommon, especially following exertion like yours. In short, your physical injuries and strain coupled with your excessive use of magic resulted in organ failure. I’ve since reversed most of the damage, although we’ll need to do several more sessions to ensure you recover without impairment. Other members of my family will likely handle the treatment.”

  “Because of how your talent works.”

  She nodded, and she sighed. “Yes. It mitigates the risk to you. Unfortunately, as I have yet to bond with a patient, you’ll need to be monitored in Maine. While I’ll be overseeing your care, other members of my family will do additional treatments. I was the closest, and I determined the risks of waiting for someone else to arrive to be unacceptable.”

  Well, triple shit with a shit cherry on top. I had to give the woman credit; she had more courage than I expected from a princess. “That sounds like the death throes of my career in the making.”

  “Maine always has a need for search and rescue experts, and your work history is impressive. This is your first real close call.” Her brows furrowed. “We all die eventually, and no matter what people say, not all deaths are created equal.”

  “May I ask how people in Maine handle the risk of bonding to a member of the royal family?”

  “It’s an honor. They receive compensation from the royal family and are assigned RPS agents. The RPS agents typically guard them from a distance unless there is an active security issue. For most, there’s no change in their lives. My father is only bonded to my mother because of a car accident. She was visiting Maine to discuss a potential marriage with him, and following the accident, once it was discovered they were bonded, she decided she’d toss her lot in with him. She didn’t need to, of course. My father’s the first in the line to marry the person he’s bonded to. My brother is bonded with a man ten years older than him, who is married with children. My sister is bonded to a little girl who’d been in a schoolyard accident.” Melody smiled, and some of the tension eased from her expression. “The rest of my sisters are too young to bond yet. They’re still in medical training. Elizabeth starts her residency next year. She’s going into pediatrics. As far as bonding risks go, it’s minimal in pediatrics; she wants to be a general practitioner, so it’s likely she won’t bond at all. My youngest sister wants to be a teacher, and my father has given his approval. She’s in love with the idea of coming to Europe, and she’s got her eye on a Brit.”

  “Their young prince? He’s what, eight or nine?”

  “Thereabouts. But yes, him. That’s actually why I was in England. Brittany wanted to issue an invitation, and my father decided it would be worthwhile to send someone rather than call. I was picked. Turns out the British queen also wanted full health exams of her entire family by my family, and I won the draw.”

  According to her tone, she hadn’t known there was a draw, and she’d picked the bad lot. “That sounds worse than jumping out of an airplane to deal with a sinking oil tanker.”

  “It was routine, so yours was most definitely worse. It would not have been fun if I’d found anything, but I didn’t. They’re in good health, and part of my job is to help spread word they’re fit and healthy. His Royal Majesty of England can bench press his wife. How do I know this? They showed me.”

  “Remind me never to get into a fight with His Royal Majesty of England.”

  “Smart move. Don’t get into a fight with Her Royal Majesty of England, either. She’
s a hell of a lot meaner. The only person those two are afraid of is His Royal Majesty of Montana, and with good reason.”

  Everything I’d heard about His Royal Majesty of Montana indicated that while he could be a scary bastard when he wanted to be, he was a family man who’d rather dote on his wife and children. “Pardon me if this comes across as brutish, but isn’t about the only time he gets upset is if something calls him away from his wife?”

  “Yeah. Nothing pisses off His Royal Majesty of Montana more than being separated from his wife and kids. He’s adopted a policy of ruthless efficiency, and if we could be sensible people and stop making him neglect his wife and children, he’d be very appreciative, thank you.” She grinned. “I like him. Whenever there’s a new royal born, he’s first in line to bring his kids over and plan play dates, which means the entire Texan brood is hot on their heels, and the Texan brood tends to bring entire orphanages with them when they come nowadays.”

  “Orphanages?”

  “Yep. It helps encourage socialization between the castes and gives the poor kids a chance to go home with someone who’ll love them. It’s brilliant, really. A real case of put your money where your mouth is. It’s become trendy, and it’s working. Adoptions are up just about everywhere, and most kingdoms are offering major tax incentives for adopting kids, especially ones from the lower castes.”

  I hadn’t heard, and I blinked. “Huh.”

  “You haven’t been back to the Royal States in a while, have you? You have a lot of stamps in your passport.”

  “No, I haven’t. I like working in Europe.”

  “You’ll need to be monitored for a few weeks. You could flare. It’s actually pretty common. An over-exerted talent can go one of three ways. Nothing can change, the talent can grow and flare, or the talent can weaken. In extreme cases, the talent is completely burned out. I’m confident this is not the case with you.”

  “You are?”

  She pointed at my wrist. “Move your hospital tag.”