Lycan Legacy - 4 - 5 - 6: Princess - Progeny - Paladin: Book 4 - 5 - 6 in the Lycan Legacy Series

by Veronica Singer

  The warm tingle of pure magic, the base force of the universe, flooded through my shoulders, filling up a void I hadn't known existed.

  "Thanks, Mason," I said. "Now, no more talking—and especially no more jokes. This will take everything I have to finish."

  Water solidified on the inner surface of his skull to form into a temporarily solid brace to push bones into position; Earth electromagnetism urged the bones to heal quickly and added density. Then the liquid brace returned to normal with no harm to the patient. I urged the fragments of his fractured cheekbone into place and fused them together. I noticed the new cheekbone was slightly larger than the original, so I added to the original to balance it out while toughening the bone. Mike would look slightly different, more like an older brother than himself.

  I worried about that, then decided that he could probably use a new identity. I'd let him and Mason decide later.

  Next, his spine. Damn, that was complex—all those individual vertebrae, several of which were crushed. Once again, I used water magic to solidify fluids into a form to hold the vertebrae in place while I upgraded them.

  While working on his spine, I noticed he had several worn-out and burst spinal discs. His long career as a weightlifter and a SEAL had damaged his back, above and beyond what they had broken in the attack. I fixed those with a mixture of water and spirit.

  Now I was down to the shattered vertebrae. Having practiced on the intact sections, these were not so hard. Every splinter of bone was teased into place and the fusion completed.

  I examined his spinal column closely, relieved to see that the electrical signals from his brain to his lower limbs had started to flow again. I had fixed the damage in time to save his spinal column.

  Mike had probably gained two inches in height from my ministrations. I hoped he wouldn't mind.

  Shoulders were complicated, but I used mine as an example and made them as perfect as possible, eliminating the rotator cuff damage from his weightlifting and military career.

  Broken arm? No problem—that was simple compared to his spine. I toughened up his wrists and all the bones of his hands. He could hit like a pile driver now. But there wasn’t much I could do for the skin over his knuckles; that was still human.

  The cracked ribs were next, and it gratified me when Mike's breathing eased once his ribs no longer interfered with his mechanically assisted breath.

  I was starting on his fractured pelvis when Mason tapped me on the shoulder.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I noticed you're using your skeleton as an example for Mike's healing. Please don't give him a female pelvis."

  "Leave the healing to me, dear," I said. "He'll walk straight when I'm done."

  "Not that I don't love the way you walk—"

  "Enough," I interrupted. “Let me work.”

  I spent a long time working on his knees; they were in bad shape. How could humans keep walking around with all that damage? I fixed it all, making the joints smoother, the menisci tougher and more resistant to tears, increasing the number of attachments for the ligaments. Mike would be able to outjump any Olympic athlete and land safely from a two-story drop.

  When his legs were finished, I removed the traction apparatus and pushed it away. I pulled his catheter after checking that his kidneys were functional and bladder empty.

  Then I started on his feet. Complicated, but at least they were unbroken. By this point, hardening bones and upgrading ligaments was routine.

  I came out of my healing trance and looked around. The light of dawn was coming through the window. I had spent almost eight hours working on Mike.

  Mason dropped his hands from my shoulders and slumped into the nearest seat. His hair now had gray streaks and his face was sunken. He had transferred an enormous amount of energy to me to assist in Mike's healing.

  I was tired, more tired than I had been in years. I probed my moonstone, the source of my extra werewolf energy, and found it nearly drained. No way to recharge the amulet until moonrise later tonight.

  If we were attacked now, I would be no more dangerous than a highly trained human. The same squad I had beat so easily last night could now wipe me out.

  I looked at Mike, still comatose, and decided that I wouldn't be able to heal anyone until after my children were born. It had been a close thing—any more energy spent could have endangered the cubs.

  15

  "How is he?" groaned Mason.

  "I repaired the major damage," I said. "I couldn't do much for his cuts, bruises, and sore muscles. Some things have to heal at human speed."

  "Is it safe to move him now?"

  "No," I said, "we have to wait for him to wake up. I did as much as possible for his brain, but he needs to wake up on his own."

  We waited fifteen minutes, but Mike remained comatose. Mason couldn’t keep the ‘Stay Out’ bubble going for much longer. We needed to get Mike up and out of here. One look at Mike and there would be a parade of doctors to see the miracle recovery.

  "So how do we get this Sleeping Beauty to wake up?" asked Mason.

  Damn Mason and his jokes. But it gave me an idea.

  "Dad always said coma patients could still hear and react, even while under," I said. "He told me stories of patients who recounted everything they had heard while they were out. I bet he’ll wake up for me."

  A flash of jealousy crossed Mason's face, quickly suppressed. "So you’ll wake him with a kiss?"

  "No," I said, "I'm just going to ask him to wake up."

  I stepped over to Mike, leaned down close to his ear and whispered, "Mike, it's Luna. I need you to wake up now."

  Mike's eyelids fluttered open, and he focused on me. There was pain and confusion in his eyes.

  "You're okay, Mike," I blurted. "You've been in an accident, but you’ll be fine."

  He looked down at the respirator and shook his head, as if to ask if this was normal for 'fine.'

  "I’ll remove your respirator now," I said. "Once I pull, I want you to breathe out hard."

  I waited a moment for the respirator to inflate his lungs, then pulled the tube out. I then peeled off the electrodes stuck to his body. The monitoring equipment started beeping wildly. I slit the straps on his splints, freeing all his limbs.

  Dr. Emory came into the room, accompanied by a nurse. They both looked wiped out from the events of last night. A twinge of regret, quickly quashed, flashed through my mind.

  I continued pulling the IVs from Mike's arms.

  "Call security," said Emory to the nurse. She scurried away.

  I pulled Mike up to a sitting position. He was still woozy but could at least sit up without assistance. I used a fingernail to strip the bandages from his head, revealing a patchwork of shaved patches where they had been working on his skull. He had a black eye on the right side, swollen almost shut.

  Mike's mouth was working, but he wasn't making any sounds. I handed him a hospital sippy cup, and he took a drink of water.

  The sight of Mike using his previously shattered arm without pain confounded the doctor the most, I thought. He stepped around the bed and hit a button on the monitor, and silence descended.

  Dr. Emory leaned close to Mike and ran his hands up and down his spine. "That's not possible," he said. "You had fractured vertebrae, broken arms and legs. There's no way you can move."

  Mike coughed and sipped more water, ignoring the doctor. Finally, he could talk. "Luna, Mason," he said, "what are you doing here?"

  "They called us after your accident," said Mason.

  "Do you remember anything?" asked Emory.

  "Just going to work yesterday, then something about a meeting," said Mike.

  Emory came back around the bed and stared into Mike's eyes. "Post-traumatic amnesia is common in head injuries" he said. "Don't worry, your memory should come back with time."

  At my look, he added, "But you might never get some parts of those memories back. What do you remember?"

  "I remember Luna and Mason praying
for me while I slept," said Mike.

  I opened my mouth to correct him, but Mason shook his head. If Mike wanted to believe in the power of prayer, we shouldn't interfere. Hell, even some magicians believed that their abilities were divinely provided. Maybe they were right and could see the elephant better than any of us.

  Mike stood, shaky but determined. He fumbled with his open-backed gown, pulling it off and bunching it in his hands. "Where are my clothes? I want to get out of here."

  Then he realized he was naked in front of me and stuck his bundled gown in front of his crotch.

  Humans and their nudity taboos. "It's okay, Mike," I said. "You've seen me naked; now I've seen you naked. No big deal."

  Which was the wrong thing to say. Both Mike and Mason blushed. Sometimes I don't understand humans at all.

  "Your clothes were cut off of you when you came in," said Emory. "There's nothing left of them."

  The nurse returned, followed by a security guard. Emory looked at Mike, apparently healthy, and said, "It's okay, no need for security." Another example of humans rearranging memories to avoid confronting the impossible, perhaps aided by Mason’s spells.

  The guard left and Emory said, "Are you sure you don't want to stay for observation? Your cuts and bruises still need attention." Mike's body was covered in bruises, now turning purple.

  Mike shook his head stubbornly. Through a combination of the need for this room and his uneasiness with confronting a miracle, Emory just nodded.

  "Nurse, get the patient a set of scrubs."

  Two hours later we were seated at a table in the Blueberry Hill restaurant on Flamingo. Both Mason and I needed desperately to eat to replenish the energy we had used.

  Even Mike had an appetite. He ordered as much food as Mason and me.

  We must have made a strange group; Mason in his button-down shirt and black slacks, me in my cheap T-shirt and skirt combo with crazy hair pulled back in a crappy bun, and Mike in borrowed hospital scrubs and flip-flops, with a patchwork of bald spots on his head.

  Still, we had money, and this was Las Vegas. This restaurant had probably seen stranger groups. And as soon as Mason created his ‘don't notice us’ bubble, the crowd turned their attention away.

  Mike took a sip of coffee, and said, "I'm remembering some things. I was beat up bad. I had dreams of being paralyzed."

  Mike looked down at his empty plate. "How long was I in a coma? How many years has it been?"

  "You were attacked yesterday," said Mason.

  Mike shook his head in disbelief. "There's no way that's true. I've lost like twenty pounds."

  "What we did to heal you burned up a lot of fat and muscle to repair your body," said Mason.

  "Was this another one of your DARPA projects? Like the glasses that fixed my eyes?"

  "Something like that," I said, taking over so Mason wouldn't have to lie. "What we did to help you, if released to the public, would cause damage to national security. The equipment uses classified technology."

  I reached across the table and took his hand to emphasize my point. "So how do you feel?"

  Mike pulled back and shook his head. "The cuts and bruises hurt, I can barely see out of my right eye, and I'm tired as hell. I haven't been this tired since BUD/S training. But I feel both lighter on my feet and heavier in my arms and legs."

  "Your bone density is much higher than before, because of the treatment. That's why your limbs feel heavier. You feel lighter because your joints and muscles are tougher. You'll need some physical therapy to regain your agility."

  Mike was sharper than I expected. "So I was in terrible shape before you treated me?"

  "Not that bad—"said Mason before I interrupted him.

  "Mike, without our treatment, even if you had woken up from the coma, you never would have walked again."

  Mike nodded and said, "Thanks for telling me the truth." His sidelong glance at Mason showed that he knew Mason had not been honest with him.

  "So I owe you two my life," said Mike. "How can I ever repay you?"

  Mason said, "You don't owe us anything. You helped me break Luna out of that compound in Wyoming, then you helped her break out of that Arctic prison. Hell, I still owe you for that."

  "What do I do now?" asked Mike. "I don't think I can work with these WHM assholes anymore. I’m still enlisted. Maybe I can go back to my SEAL team."

  "Mike," I said, "you might not be able to go back. The treatment makes the subject much heavier, with denser bones. It makes swimming a lot harder."

  "The team is my life," said Mike. But he said it without enthusiasm, like the rote answer to a too-often asked question.

  "Join a new team," said Mason.

  That sparked an idea. I took Mike's hand again. "Join our team. You've shown loyalty and compassion, and you're skilled."

  "I still have two years on my enlistment," said Mike.

  "Do you want out?" asked Mason.

  Mike took a long drink of coffee to give him time to think. "Yes, I guess I do. I love my country and the service, but it's changed since I joined."

  Mike put down his coffee and picked up the menu. He would be continuously hungry until his body recovered. After ordering his second breakfast, we continued the conversation.

  It surprised Mike when I also ordered a second breakfast. Mason raised an eyebrow and commented, "It's normal for her. She's eating for three."

  "Twins? Congratulations."

  We chatted about children and families until our food arrived, and we got back to our discussion. Mike cut off a slice of his breakfast steak, popped it in his mouth, and chewed. He swallowed, then I could see his tongue move around as he probed his teeth.

  He picked up one of the shiny napkin dispensers and examined his teeth in the reflection. "Did you do something to my teeth? I could have sworn I had a missing molar before, and my teeth look as white as a kid's."

  I had almost forgotten the changes to his teeth. Mason covered for me by saying, "The process includes upgrades to your dentition and to your skeletal structure."

  Mike smiled at his reflection. "Well, thanks. You saved me thousands in dental work."

  "You're welcome," I said.

  Mike's puzzled look at me taking credit for the dental work was interrupted by Mason.

  "Are you sure you want out of the Navy?"

  "Yes. I'll try to find a lawyer to help me end my enlistment."

  "Unnecessary," said Mason. He pulled out his iPad and typed for several minutes. He finally turned the screen to Mike and said, "Is this what you want?"

  Mike squinted at the document displayed and said, "That looks like a DD-214 with my name on it." He read the fine print, and added, "But this says my discharge is for medical reasons, with a 100% disability. That's not right—I'm healthy."

  "You wouldn't be healthy without our experimental treatment. The bastards owe you much more than a monthly check for the crap they put you through," said Mason. "Your first check should be in your bank account by the end of the week."

  "So I'm really out? I need time to process this. Can I take a few days to think over your offer to join your team?" asked Mike.

  "Sure, Mike," I said. "You should sleep on it before making a big decision."

  Mike shuddered and said, "I'm exhausted, but the thought of going to sleep terrifies me." He gestured to his partially healed body, the meal, and Mason and me. "What if this turns out to be a dream and I wake up in the hospital in a full body cast?" He looked away, ashamed to appear weak. "What if I never wake up again?"

  Mason scoffed but shut up when I looked at him. I remembered the mental attacks from witches that had convinced me all hope was lost, the nightmares caused by the treatments I’d suffered in prison. Dreams can be a trap.

  "Mike," I said, "we'll put you in a room next to ours in the hotel. I woke you from your coma, I'm sure I can wake you up from a nap."

  Mike exhaled slowly, then smiled as if I had told a joke. "Sure, Luna, you can be my alarm clock."

&nbs
p; Mason spent a few more minutes on his iPad while we finished our coffee.

  "Okay," he said. "Mike's room is next to ours."

  He turned to Mike and said, "Our treat. Just watch the room service, big eater. Try to stick to the buffet."

  As we exited the restaurant, I had to ask, "Mike, those patches your guys wore, the little devil emblem. What does the WHM stand for?"

  "Some kind of inside joke," said Mike. "They never told me the story, just that WHM stood for 'We Hunt Monsters.'"

  16

  Back at the MGM Grand, we walked Mike up to his new room on our floor. Mason and I tucked him in with a promise to wake him in for dinner. He zonked out instantly.

  We walked down to the spare room we had rented one floor below, where we found Logan and the major. The major was tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth. Logan was leaning against a table with his arms crossed, glaring at the major.

  "Hi, Logan," I said in greeting. "Did he give you any trouble?"

  "He's been a perfect guest," laughed Logan.

  I reached out and cut the gag with a razor-sharp fingernail. I popped open the mini-bar and pulled out a bottle of water. When I turned back, Logan had untied the major's restraints.

  I handed him the water, but he had to grasp the bottle between two palms, like a baby. Another hour and he might have lost the use of his hands.

  Logan reached over and uncapped the bottle for him.

  Instead of thanks, all I got was a glare.

  "You're welcome, Major," I said. "Now, how are we going to resolve this situation?"

  After a gulp of water, he said, "There's nothing to resolve. You will be executed for acts of terrorism. There's nothing you can do to make me change my mind. I've been trained to resist torture."

  He tried to rise, but his legs gave way and Logan glared at him. He settled back down but his sly look showed that he was biding his time.

  Logan had stripped the major of his flak vest, weapons, and personal items, leaving him in his Army-issue camouflage BDUs.