In the Heart of Darkness

by Reinke, Sara

  “You come,” Sofiya said. She hadn’t said a word to him earlier during the amputation surgery, and he was surprised to discover her voice was husky for one so small, as if she channeled the spirit of a 40-something year old blues singer who had smoked a pack a day, chased with a fifth of gin, for more than half her life. She spoke so softly, little more than a raspy growl that he blinked in surprise, wondering if he’d heard her right—if she had really addressed him in English.

  “You come,” she said again, tightening her grip on him so he couldn’t break free, and giving his arm an imperative little tug. “You doctor, yes? You come now with me.”

  “I…I’m a doctor, yes,” he said, nodding. She pulled again and he pushed the covers aside, letting her draw him clumsily to his feet. “Alright. I’m coming.”

  As she led him to his bedroom door, he wondered if something had happened to Piotr. Despite the confidence Nikolić had expressed on the phone regarding the young man’s chances of survival, Mason knew the truth was that this likelihood was slim. Andrei had told him to give him until the morning, that he’d make a few phone calls and see about getting some antibiotics they could run intravenously, but even if he could, Mason wasn’t sure it would be enough. If he’d been too late, if the amputation hadn’t been performed in time, then the infection could have already spread elsewhere inside of Piotr. And as it grew, his body would go septic, his organ systems shutting down one by one, in rapid-fire—and quickening—succession until he died.

  And there’s nothing I can do to stop it, he thought as Sofiya first cut a glance in either direction down the hallway outside of his room, and then led him by the hand toward the staircase. I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake, not a miracle worker.

  As they descended the stairs, they heard a loud burst of raucous laughter from below, and Sofiya froze in midstep, her eyes flying wide. Her breath caught sharply in her throat, and her fingers tightened, vise-like, against his. He could see movement from the landing below, shadows darting past, and then they were gone, the laughter fading along with them. From somewhere, a door slammed, and then relative silence fell once more. Sofiya lingered for another moment or two, as if trying to reclaim her courage.

  Is she helping me escape? Mason wondered. Before he could give this idea too much thought—never mind hope—he reminded himself that she’d asked if he was a doctor. She needed him for something; someone was sick or hurt. Maybe one of the girls here, one of her friends. God knows Nikolić probably doesn’t give a rat’s ass about condom use or birth control.

  Sofiya started downstairs again and he fell obligingly in step behind her. He was barefooted; Nikolić’s men had abducted him fresh from the shower in his hotel room, and he hadn’t been given anything by way of shoes or socks. He grimaced at the crunch of hard-edged plaster beneath his heels, at splinters from the worn stair treads that scraped the soles of his feet.

  At the third floor landing, she looked anxiously around, then hurried forward, yanking on his arm. She led him all the way to the end of the corridor, stopping in front of a closed door. Reaching beneath the neckline of her Hello Kitty T-shirt, she pulled out a scrap of yarn. She wore this like a necklace, but instead of a locket or pendant, a set of keys dangled from it. Sofiya sifted through these now until she came to one she’d clearly been searching for, all the while shooting nervous glances over her shoulder toward the stairs.

  She unlocked the door and pushed it open a brief margin, only wide enough for them to pass through single-file. She ducked inside, looking back at him from the darkened room beyond the threshold. “You come,” she whispered, and there was urgency in her voice that hadn’t been there before, a frightened sort of insistence.

  Mason stepped into the room and she closed the door behind them. Everything was dark, but all at once, the hairs along the nape of his neck stirred. He felt the prickling sensation of spiders dancing along his skin, but this time it wasn’t Sofiya’s light caress bidding him to wake up. It was the neurological awareness of another Brethren close at hand—someone like him in the room.

  “What the hell?” he whispered, then Sofiya switched on a table lamp behind him. The sudden yellow light was a bright enough contrast to the previous darkness that he closed his eyes reflexively, tightly against the unexpected glare. He heard someone breathing—or more specifically, panting; a hoarse, labored sound, shallow and swift, and the pounding cadence of a rapid, straining heartbeat.

  And it wasn’t Sofiya.

  He opened his eyes, blinking and squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light. And even then, when they did, he couldn’t believe what he saw—or more specifically who.

  “Julien?” he whispered, stunned.

  It couldn’t be Julien; there was no way on earth, never mind in heaven or hell. It had been two hundred years, and yet he still looked the same. His hair was short now, his arms adorned with tattoos, but otherwise there was no mistaking him, face or form. The man lying unconscious in the cot directly across from him was Julien Davenant.

  And he was dying.

  * * *

  “Julien…”

  Julien groaned, his eyelids fluttering open as a soft, familiar voice breathed his name. He was dreaming; he knew he must be. He felt like shit; his condition had seemed to worsen, his struggle to breathe intensifying to the point that the sheer effort had exhausted him. Stripped completely of his strength, feeling as frail as a newborn kitten, he realized that he must be dying. He was suffocating from the inside, and now his mind had abandoned him as well, because there was no way in hell he could hear the voice he thought he had—no way that Mason could be there with him in that shithole bedroom.

  He saw a dim, blurred figure at his bedside and felt a cool hand press against his flushed cheek, the light stroke of someone’s thumb across the seam of his dry mouth. It was a trick his mind played on him, heartless and hurtful, and with another soft groan, Julien closed his eyes again.

  “Please…stop…” he croaked, talking to himself, begging his own mind and memories to leave him alone, to stop tormenting him.

  “Julien, it’s me,” the man beside him said, and goddamn if it wasn’t Mason, then he sounded enough like him to only add to the cruel illusion. “It’s Mason.”

  Again, Julien felt gentle hands touching him, caressing his face, brushing his hair back from his brow, and it had been so long since anyone had touched him with anything like tenderness, he began to tremble. “No,” he whispered, but when he opened his eyes again, his vision swam into murky view and he could see Mason’s face almost exactly as he remembered him. His dark eyes gleamed with tears, and he smiled at Julien so gently it nearly broke his heart. “No, you…” He shook his head, clamping his eyes shut as his own tears welled. “You can’t be…”

  “It’s me,” he heard Mason say again, pressing his hands to either side of Julien’s face. Julien shook his head again, even as he felt Mason’s lips light against his own. Even though it had been two hundred years—even though it was only in his mind, a hallucination—Julien lifted his chin to meet him. He let his lips part as Mason’s tongue prodded lightly against them, and whimpered as he touched it, tasted it with his own. God, if he was going to die, this was how he wanted it to happen—lost in this wondrous, impossible dream, imagining himself reunited with the only man he’d ever loved.

  * * *

  When Julien slipped back into unconsciousness, Mason felt his lips relax against his own, his body sinking back against the bare, stained mattress beneath him. For a moment, though, he’d been awake; those stunning blue eyes—exactly as Mason remembered—had opened and settled upon him. He’d known Mason was there. He’d responded to his voice, his touch, his kiss.

  “I’m here,” Mason whispered, his eyes burning with the dim heat of tears as he drew away. “I’m right here, Julien. I’m right here.”

  Julien was in critical condition. Mason could tell just by looking, never mind the ragged sound of his breathing. His chest was bare, and Mason saw a bandage taped
just below his right nipple.

  “What happened?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Sofiya. She remained near the door, her eyes round and anxious. She’d seen him kiss Julien, and there would have been no mistaking that moment of passion for anything less. Once upon a time—hell, even five minutes ago—Mason wouldn’t have ever dared to be so bold. But when he’d seen Julien, everything else in the world had completely faded. He hadn’t felt fear or shame or anxiety; instead, his heart had swelled with such powerful, visceral emotions, if he hadn’t acted upon them—if he hadn’t touched or kissed Julien—he would have gone stark-raving mad.

  If having seen Mason kiss Julien offended or upset Sofiya, she gave no outward indication. When he spoke, she blinked at him. Her brows crinkled slightly and she shook her head.

  Mason peeled back the dressing covering Julien’s chest wound. Beneath it, someone had placed a small square of petrolatum-coated gauze over the puncture site itself. “What happened to him?” he asked. “Do you know?”

  When the girl shook her head again, he realized she didn’t understand. Pointing the door, he said, “Go get Andrei. Please—get Andrei!”

  At this, Sofiya nodded. She turned on the heel of her careworn flip-flop and hurried out of the room, ducking through the door and closing it behind her.

  After she’d gone, Mason grabbed hold of the chain binding Julien’s right arm.

  He’s tied up like a goddamn animal, he thought, as with brows furrowed and teeth gritted, he pulled against the steel, trying to rip one of the links apart. But it was no use. Nikolić had used thick enough chains to withstand even the preternatural strength of the Brethren. The pipe around which the chains had been wrapped was cast iron; sturdy as a redwood trunk, and likewise impossible to break. After a few fervent but futile yanks, Mason staggered back, winded.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered. For the first time, he noticed Julien wore a collar like his own, one with the electromagnetic devices that stymied their telepathy. In that moment, Mason hated Nikolić even more—a feat he would have thought impossible before he’d fallen asleep earlier.

  He couldn’t even call for help. Nikolić chained Julien up and left him alone to suffer, that son of a bitch.

  Even without X-rays, Mason knew whatever had caused Julien’s puncture wound had also pierced through his lung. The Vaseline gauze had been used to seal the site, to keep air from being sucked into his lung cavity as he’d labored for breath. Someone—he assumed Andrei—had known what they were doing.

  Even so, in all likelihood, the trauma had caused bleeding inside Julien’s chest and around his lung. This was the same condition that had killed Julien’s brother Victor in 1792. Victor’s bleeding had been far heavier, however; an artery had been undoubtedly hit. Julien’s blood loss appeared less severe, but judging by the rapid, ragged measure of his breathing and the frantic racing of his heart, he was still in bad shape. Mason knew he needed to act—and fast.

  “Good—you’re here,” he said to Andrei as soon as Sofiya led him by the hand into the room. “Do either of you have the key to these chains?”

  Clearly, the medic had been asleep when Sofiya found him, and from the looks of things— the smutch of lipstick on the corner of his mouth, in particular—he hadn’t been alone, either. His hair stood out in disheveled spikes, and he wore only his boxer shorts, a pair of boots unlaced and hastily donned on his feet. His eyes widened a little as Mason spoke, and he shook his head.

  “Uh…no, Dr. Morin,” he said. Thankfully, he’d grabbed the large duffel bag containing his medical supplies, and he dropped it on the floor now, rubbing the back of his neck. “That one…he belongs to Nikolić…”

  “He’s not a goddamn pet. He doesn’t belong to anyone.” Mason shot him a look that must have clearly imparted the murderous ferocity he suddenly felt, because Andrei shrank back uncertainly. “Now where are the keys?”

  “I…I don’t know. Nikolić must have them,” Andrei stammered.

  “Then we need to get them—now. This man needs medical attention. Let me see your stethoscope.” He held out his hand expectantly, and as Andrei drew it out of a side compartment in the bag, he tossed it to him. Slipping the ear pierces into place, Mason leaned over Julien, moving the diaphragm in a swift-moving, diagonal pattern down the front of his torso.

  With a frown, he lowered the earpieces from his head, leaving them to loosely encircle his neck. “Is he worse now?” he asked Sofiya. When she shook her head again, looking helplessly at Andrei, he followed her gaze. “Can you ask her for me? Is that why she came to get me tonight—his breathing, it’s getting worse?”

  Andrei turned to Sofiya, speaking to the girl in a swift stream of Russian that made no sense whatsoever to Mason, but she apparently understood loud and clear. Her eyes widened and she nodded urgently. “Da,” she said, looking between both men as she replied. “Da, yes. Much…worse now. Very, very bad.”

  “I think it’s a tension pneumothorax,” Mason said to Andrei. “A build-up of air and blood around his lung. He’s got a puncture wound here…”

  “Da.” Andrei nodded again. “Anna stabbed him a few days ago.” When Mason’s eyes widened in surprise, he added, “He’s the one who shot Piotr.”

  Julien? Mason blinked in new surprise. “A pneumothorax comes on slowly over time. If he was stabbed a few days ago, the pressure could’ve been building up in the pleural cavity all this time, pushing everything in his chest, all of his organs to the side. It’s crushing his working lung, cutting off blood flow to his heart.” His brows narrowing, he added gravely, “He’s not going to last the night unless we relieve the pressure. I need a fourteen-gauge needle and a ten-milliliter syringe.”

  “I think I’ve got that.” Andrei squatted beside his bag, opening another compartment.

  “I also need some normal saline, tape, alcohol, and some sterile gloves.”

  “Da.” Andrei nodded, unzipping more pockets and pulling out supplies. He handed these off to Sofiya, who in turn would scurry with them over to Mason, dumping them onto the bed.

  “Ask her to…” Mason started, then shook his head. “Never mind.” Turning to Sofiya, he held up one of the alcohol packets. “Take this,” he said, tearing it open and pulling out the little pre-moistened pad. “Rub like this.” He leaned over, using his fingertips to palpate along Julien’s ribcage, just past his collar bone, toward the middle of the right side of his chest. “Right here. See?” He demonstrated, then held it out to her. “You do that…” With his free hand, he held up three more alcohol pads. “…with these?”

  Sofiya nodded. “Da, Doctor Morin,” she said, pronouncing his name carefully, as if wrapping her lips around the sounds felt strange to her. Without another word, she took the packets from him and started to work, as efficient and prompt as she’d been during the operation downstairs.

  “Can you draw me up five cc’s of saline in that syringe?” Mason asked Andrei, tearing off several strips of paper tape and affixing them to the bedframe within easy reach. “I’m going to try a needle thoracostomy. Ever done one before?”

  “No. But we could take the dressing off his site instead,” Andrei suggested, screwing the needle onto the end of the syringe. He cut Mason a glance. “He’d decompress that way.”

  Mason shook his head. “I’m going to need to run a chest tube there, try and get that blood out of him. You got anything I can use for that?”

  Andrei held up a small vial of normal saline, inverted, and drew back on the syringe plunger, watching the clear fluid burble down into the barrel. “I can probably rig you up something, da.”

  “Good.” Mason snapped the finger off one of the sterile gloves and threaded the needle through it once Andrei had passed him the prepared syringe. “This is going to be our one-way valve,” he explained in response to the medic’s curious gaze. “Air goes out, but not back in again.”

  He and Andrei stood together on one side of the bed together while Sofiya remained on the other. Mason could stil
l see the last of the alcohol residue glistening against Julien’s skin. Wearing a fresh pair of gloves now, he leaned over and again slid his fingertips along Julien’s chest, confirming his site. The realization that he’d once touched these same places with passion, exploring them with his mouth and hands, gave him momentary, melancholy pause. Then, with his brows furrowed, he shook his head to clear his mind and refocus.

  He’ll die if I don’t do this. And oh, dear Christ, I couldn’t bear to lose him again—not when I’ve only just found him.

  He drove the needle down, punching through Julien’s skin and into the underlying muscles. Julien jerked at this; he turned his head, murmuring fitfully as Mason advanced the needle more deeply into his chest. Without being told, Andrei reached down, planting his hands against Julien’s waist to hold him still. Sofiya simply watched, wide-eyed and stoic.

  When the needle hit its mark, reaching the hollow cavity enclosing Julien’s injured lung, the sudden rush of escaping air through the barrel of the needle caused bubbles to form in the saline Andrei had placed in the syringe. Using his index finger, Mason gently eased the slim catheter tubing forward along the needle shaft. Normally, this would establish an intravenous site in a vein through which medicines or fluids would run. But in this case, it essentially inserted a tiny straw into Julien’s lung—a channel through which the air that was trapped inside, smothering him, could escape.

  Holding the syringe in place with one hand, Mason reached out with the other and snagged one of the pieces of tape he’d stuck to the headboard. Carefully, he wound it around the base of the catheter to secure it, then removed both the needle and syringe. This left the catheter imbedded in Julien’s chest, with only a small plastic port protruding. Mason could see the piece of the glove he’d used for a valve crumple inward as Julien dragged in a breath, and heard air whistle softly through the narrow opening of the port as he exhaled.

  With a shaky laugh, he looked at Andrei. “That got it,” he said, and he hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his own breath until he felt it shudder from him all at once. “Still think you can make me a chest tube? I’m feeling lucky.”