by Bonnie Lamer
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogue and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright ©2012 by Bonnie Humbarger Lamer
All rights reserved.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express written permission of the copyright holder.
Other Titles by Bonnie Lamer
The Witch Fairy Series:
True of Blood
Blood Prophecy
Blood Lines
Shadow Blood
Blood of Half Gods
Blood of Destiny
Blood of Dragons
True of Blood: Kallen’s Tale
Blood Prophecy: Kallen’s Tale
Blood Lines: Kallen’s Tale
Shadow Blood: Kallen’s Tale
The Eliana Brennan Series:
Essence of Re
Exposed
For Gary Bigler, my second dad, you will forever hold a place in my heart
Rest in peace
I love to hear from fans! Contact me on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bonnie-Lamer-Author/129829463748061
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Dawn Truskowski for reading and rereading this book to make sure that my sentences make sense, my characters have depth and the situations I put them in aren’t too ‘hokey’ (one of her favorite descriptions). She also made sure that I didn’t scrimp on the details when the characters are…intimate. (She’s blushing right now. You should see it. Beet red.) Just kidding, Dawn!
I always have to thank my kids for understanding that just because Mom’s home, it doesn’t mean I’m not working. They are very good about giving me the time I need to write. That may have something to do with the fact that Christmas is just around the corner and Santa is keeping a tally on the fridge of who is being naughty and who is being nice; but I prefer to think of them as my little angels who would be good anyway. I may be delusional, though.
I would like to thank my daughter Xenia for providing me with yet another beautiful cover. You are a very talented artist and yet you still manage to get A’s in organic chemistry as you study hard to be a pharmacist. You are amazing.
I do not thank my pets. Loki, my five month old English mastiff is still learning that he’s not a lap dog; especially if that means sitting on my lap top when I’m trying to work. Piper, my goldendoodle, loves to help by laying her head on my keyboard, adding various letters and numbers that she feels help move the story along. My tiny cat Midnight, un-affectionately nicknamed Barnacle, performs stealth maneuvers to somehow end up on my shoulder while I’m working without me noticing. She then digs her back claws in to make sure she doesn’t fall off. I’m pretty sure I need a pet trainer whom I hope to be thanking in the next book.
Most importantly, I thank my fans. You are the reason I keep writing. Your thoughts, comments and opinions that you share with me are crucial to my success as an author.
Prologue
I always thought the devil’s eyes would be red, not blue.
That is the only thought that penetrates the haze in my mind as I watch my car split down the middle to accommodate for his sudden, enormous presence in the middle of the road. Metal and plastic peel back as if it’s made of paper; the sound echoing through the quiet night as my black Civic is destroyed. But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t move as my car collapses on either side of him, moving around him like air around a stationary object. My concept of reality is being warped beyond recognition.
I keep expecting the airbags to release; blinding me against his grotesque figure. Protecting my head from the impact. But it’s as if the car is as shocked as I am.
My brain is processing all of this in slow motion, taking in every detail of how I’m going to die. His black hand reaches out to me, ready to wrap around my neck as the windshield shatters into thousands of tiny pieces; the tempered glass no longer offering its protection. Nothing will keep me safe from him now. Is this really happening? I don’t understand how it could be. The devil’s long black nails riding on gnarled fingers will pierce my skin in seconds. Grabbing hold of me so he can take me to whatever hell he came from.
I am vaguely aware that the streetlights that had penetrated the darkness only a moment ago have gone out. As if his dark body is absorbing all of the light around us until it becomes difficult to see where his body ends and the dark night begins. Under the sound of crunching metal and glass, I can hear him speaking words in a language that I have never heard before.
My fight or flight instinct finally kicks in. I don’t know what’s happening, or why, but I know with a clarity that scares me that if he can grab hold of me after uttering those unfamiliar words, I will be his. Forever. Instinctively, I slap his hand away as hard as I can with my forearm and my skin sizzles and bubbles where we touched as I snatch it back.
The devil’s dark lips curl up into a snarl. The blue of his eyes deepens until they are the color of the sea at dusk. A beautiful dichotomy to his otherwise wretched appearance.
Before my eyes, his shape begins to shift. Mocha colored skin spreads up his arm and then out over his entire body. Whereas he seemed ten feet tall only a millisecond ago, he is now merely the height of an average man. The devil is gone. He is replaced by a human male with a sharp nose, thin lips and black, greasy hair that lies limply on his scalp and down to his shoulders. A scream echoes out of him as he falls backwards; wrenched from the bottom of his soul.
I realize the car is still moving. It was bending around him just a moment ago; now it’s an obstacle his human body can no longer penetrate. Blood bubbles up to his mouth and wounds all over his body start to gush red ooze. The momentum of the car pushes him to the ground and in an instant his screams quiet. I can’t see him but I know that he’s dead.
I imagine his cold, dead body under me and that’s the thought that follows me into the darkness of unconsciousness.
Chapter 1 - Rounds
I hear a man’s deep, calm voice from what sounds like a million miles away. I can’t see him because I can’t get my eyelids to open. I want to call out to him; tell him I’m awake. I want to tell him my body feels like it’s on fire. I can just barely make out what he’s saying but I know he’s talking about me.
“We’ll start our morning rounds here,” he says. “The patient is Skye Rowan, a twenty-three year old unmarried woman who was involved in an MVA last evening around midnight. She was discovered shortly afterwards by another motorist who called 911. She has contusions to her head, torso and thighs. She has road rash covering a third of her body, all on the left side. Several layers of skin are gone and nerves are exposed similar to a burn patient. Vital signs are stable at this time. Labs are all within normal limits with the exception of elevated fibrinogen levels. She will need to be closely monitored for DVT and will wear compression stockings until her levels decrease. She will remain on Propofol until adequate pain levels can be maintained in a conscious state. Dr. Vanderveen’s team has been consulted for skin grafting. Infection control will be following her closely, rounding on her every other day starting today. Physical therapy and occupational therapy will be consulted when patient is awake. She will likely need to follow up with plastic surgery outpatient. The plan is to keep her sedated, monitor labs and symptoms and follow up with Dr. Vanderveen’s team.”
He’s still speaking but an upsurge of pain is too much for my conscious mind. My brain shuts down and I’m on
ce again lost to the darkness.
Chapter 2 - Investigation
“I’m Dr. Palis. I understand you have some questions for me.” I hear him again. His voice penetrates my mind and brings me back to the surface of consciousness.
“Detective Peterson, nice to meet you. Has she woken up at all?”
“No, she’s being sedated. She would not be able to tolerate the pain otherwise.”
A frustrated sigh from the detective. “That’s unfortunate. We have some questions about the accident. Namely, how the hell she was able to rip her car apart down the center. It doesn’t make sense. We also can’t find any next of kin. We’ve spoken with her neighbors but no one really knows her. Apparently, she’s either in class or at work. No social life whatsoever. Surprising that a pretty blond like her has no friends. Even her coworkers don’t know much about her other than that she’s a medical student. She keeps to herself. Doesn’t make any waves but doesn’t let anyone too close either.”
“Detective, I appreciate your need for answers but if you don’t have any questions concerning her medical condition, I really can’t help you.”
“Have her toxicology reports come back yet?”
“No, we won’t have those for several days.”
The detective says something but I can’t stay awake to hear what.
Chapter 3 - Agony
The doctor’s back and he must be rounding with the interns again. His voice is in teacher mode. I think he’s answering a question. “She has lost a considerable amount of hair due to her head scraping along the pavement. Some will grow back, some won’t. The areas that will be grafted will not grow hair.”
I guess I’m getting that haircut I’ve been considering. I really hope no one shows me a mirror anytime soon. Am I going to spend the rest of my life looking like a monster? A wave of pain sweeps over me like the tide coming in, reminding me that my appearance won’t matter if I don’t survive my injuries. I would gladly spend life as a monster if they can make this pain go away.
“How did her car turn on its side?”
“I heard she literally broke it in half wrapping it around a tree or something.”
“Did her toxicology reports come back? I can’t wait to see what her blood alcohol level was. She’ll definitely be looking at some time for killing that guy.”
These new voices are swirling inside of my head. One almost indistinguishable from the next amongst the bursts of pain that explode in my mind. Even the gender of the speaker is getting lost somewhere between my ears and my brain. The pain however is not. I try to open my eyes to let them know I’m awake but I can’t make my eyelids move. I try to scream but my vocal cords refuse to cooperate since there is a large tube shoved down my throat. The drugs they’re giving me have shut down every part of my body except my brain and its pain sensors. I’ve read about this happening to patients in one of my med school books. I never even considered the idea that one day it would happen to me.
My arm is lifted painfully from the bed. Are they blind? Can’t they see that I’m hurt? “Instead of worrying about what ‘time’ she will be doing, perhaps you should be concentrating on her treatment plan.” This is the first voice again and he’s closer now. He must be the one trying to tear my arm out of its socket while rubbing salt in my wounds. When I’m a doctor, I plan to have a lot more bedside manner than this. I want so desperately to wrench my arm out of his tortuous grasp but all I can manage is making my fingers move slightly.
That’s enough to elicit a softly muttered oath as my arm is lowered back to the bed. I think it was supposed to be gently. It wasn’t. A second later, my left eyelid is pulled up to my hairline and a bright, white light is shined into my eye. If I could speak, it wouldn’t be a softly muttered oath I’d be saying.
“What is it?” I hear a voice say from somewhere else in the room. I can tell it’s a female voice this time. My mind must be clearing a little bit.
“I believe she’s awake.” As the deep, smooth voice says this, he lets my eyelid drop closed. Only to wrench the other one about halfway around my scalp. I hear gasps around the room but I can’t see anyone. The light he’s shining at me is too bright. “I don’t understand. She has enough Propofol running through her to keep a man twice her size under. Up her dosage by another ten cc’s and I want an EEG. I want to know why she keeps waking up.” I’ve woken up before? I don’t remember that.
The people he’s speaking to must not be responding as quickly as he wants them to because he growls, “Now!” I hear people scurrying from the room as he drops my eyelid back in place.
“Who are you?” the man’s voice says quietly. More to himself than me because he must know I’m not really in a position to answer him. “We’ve already increased your meds dangerously higher than should be possible in a person your size. Your body can’t withstand this much longer. Your organs are going to start shutting down.”
He’s saying this to me as if I’m intentionally fighting the medication. I’d take offense if I had any way of showing it. Instead, I’m going to lie here and be grateful that he figured out that I can still feel the pain. There’s a promise in his voice that he’ll make it go away again. A warm rush of fluid through my arm a moment later proves this to be true as the higher dosage blessedly brings an end to my consciousness.
Chapter 4 - Conscious
I only seem to swim to the edge of the darkness when I hear the deep voice of my doctor. “As you can see, her tissue is well on its way to recovering on its own.
A voice that makes me think of a rat speaks. “How can she be healing this quickly? At this rate, she won’t even need one skin graft let alone the seven we originally planned on.”
“Are you impressed with her ability to heal or disappointed that you will not be able to add that new dock at your summer home?” I hear the disdain in this second voice. I recognize it as the doctor who figured out I was conscious before.
“Are you implying that I operate on my patients solely for profit?” the other voice growls.
“I believe your surgical record speaks for itself.” More disdain. Laced together with a healthy amount of disparagement. Obviously this guy is not out to make friends.
“If you have a problem with my record then be my guest, bring it before the review board.” This other voice is a little higher now with its false bravado.
“I just may do that, but not today.” I think he means it. And he agreed to let this guy operate on me? So much for my warm and fuzzy feelings for him. If my pain wasn’t much better, I’d probably dislike him. “For now, it appears that your consultation on this patient is no longer needed.” Yeah!
I hear a puff of air expelled angrily and then footsteps walking to the door. If hospital doors could slam, I’m pretty sure he would have slammed it. I sigh in relief that he’s gone even though I have no idea who he was. The air just feels cleaner now.
“You’re awake again. Unbelievable.” A depression in the bed tells me that the doctor has sat down on it. I don’t think these things are made for two. “I’m not quite sure what to do with you. We couldn’t keep you intubated because you kept gagging. If we give you any more medication to keep you unconscious, we’d probably kill you.” I, for one, think we should skip that option. “You have no living next of kin. What do we do with you?”
My parents died in a plane crash a few years back when I was doing my undergrad out of state. My dad was the pilot and must have had engine trouble. The plane went down in a fiery blaze, killing them both. I flew home to take care of things and almost let my grief keep me from going back to college. Until I realized that my parents would be furious if they knew that. So, I went back to my classes and drowned myself in school to help me forget the pain.
The doctor has stopped talking. If he’s waiting for a response from me, I don’t have one for him. I’ve never been sick before let alone hospitalized. At least, not that I can remember. My memory of my childhood is sketchy since I almost drowned in the Atlantic when I w
as sixteen. My father rescued me, almost killing himself in the process. He was the one who ended up in the hospital for weeks fighting pneumonia. I barely had a cough.
Picking my hand up gently this time, the doctor strokes my palm softly with his thumb. “I think your wounds have healed enough that we can manage the pain with you conscious. I’m going to gradually reduce the anesthetic while maintaining the pain meds. You should be fully awake with muscle control in a few hours. Then we can discuss your treatment plan more thoroughly.”
Now that I am more aware, his voice glides over me like silk, leaving goose bumps in its wake. But not all of them are the good kind of goose bumps. I have never reacted to anyone like this before. It’s a strange cross between craving his touch and wanting to tear my hand out of his and keep it out of his reach. I’m glad I can’t talk; otherwise I’d probably be blathering something stupid right about now to cover up how I’m feeling. I sure hope my ability to blush is also paralyzed.