Mercedes Lackey - Wintermoon

The bloodred light cleared. I slithered down the last few steps into the garage, stickiness trickling from my ears. Sheila’s face appeared above me, round eyebrows drawn down with concern, long black hair tucked behind her ears. She had her hand pressed over her stomach, fear narrowing her green eyes. Rushing clouds whirled behind her head, and I managed a tiny smile.

Relief swept her face, her lips shaping words I couldn’t hear. I said, “Thank you,” feeling the words vibrate in my throat even if they didn’t echo in my ears.

Then her face blurred into Thor the Thunder God’s, and I decided that was as good a time as any to pass out.

I woke up to a weirdly silent world in which Morrison’s face was hovering worriedly over mine. Morrison worried was distressing. Much more distressing than Morrison yelling. There were certain constants in my world.

Hearing, for example. Up until this very moment, hearing had been one of those constants. Now there was nothing. No ringing in my ears, no ocean of blood thrumming, no background traffic noises or cops arguing over topics ranging from doughnuts to politics.

One missing constant I could deal with. Two was too much. I frowned at Morrison and said, “Why aren’t you yelling?”

At least, I think I did. I never realized how much I depended on hearing myself to know I was talking. I mean, I could feel my voice box working, but the astounding silence into which the words fell really, really made me want to begin shouting. I didn’t, but only just barely. I thought shouting would look a lot like giving in to panic, and since it appeared that half the precinct was standing behind Morrison, I didn’t want to come across like a wussy girl just because of a little thing like shattered eardrums.

I felt very much like a wussy girl just then. It was possible I owed Billy a very small apology for being bent out of shape over the one-of-the-guys comments. A very small apology. Minuscule. I closed my eyes, cleared my throat—another thing that I could only feel, not hear—and said, “I’m okay.”

I got my eyes open again in time to see everybody sag with relief. Even Morrison, although he covered it nicely by scowling magnificently and, judging from the color of his face and the fact that I could see his uvula, yelling.

It made me feel a lot better about not being able to hear, actually. I sat up very slowly, not at all sure that broken eardrums didn’t equate to a broken sense of balance. It didn’t seem to, which was nice. Vomiting on my boss after all this fuss would have been embarrassing. Especially since he was being nice, and had a hand between my shoulderblades, keeping me steady as I sat.

“I’m okay,” I repeated silently. “I just, ah…” Something tickled along my jaw. I reached up to scratch it and came away with sticky, drying blood under my fingernails. “I can’t hear,” I said to nobody in particular, especially myself, since I couldn’t hear me, “and the thing we’re after looks and sounds a lot like Munch’s Scream .”

I suspected I was glad I was looking at the gook under my nails instead of the gathered crowd. “I’m going to need a little time,” I said, still to my icky fingers. “And maybe a sandwich.”

The room cleared like I’d fired a shot. Ten seconds later the only people left were Morrison, Thor, and Billy, the middle of whom looked like he’d rather be somewhere else. “I’m fine,” I told him. “Thanks for, um. Whatever you did.”

He gave me a tight smile, nodded, and followed the rest of the crowd like he’d been given a reprieve from the firing squad. I wondered why my mind was wandering down the aisle of shooting similes. I’d never been completely deafened by firing a gun.

Billy looked at Morrison in a way that made me look, too. The captain said something I didn’t catch—obviously—and Billy cast me a worried glance, then nodded and left the room. I finally figured out I was in the broom closet, which was nice. It was the station’s flop room, kept meticulously clean for cops who’d been on the job too long and needed a rest break. I hadn’t known it was big enough to hold more than two people, much less the eight or so that’d been in there.

Morrison touched my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin, then drew in a sharp breath through my nose and turned to face him, eyes wide. Not hearing sucked a lot. He said something and I focused on his mouth, concentrating.

“If you think,” he said, slowly and clearly enough for me to read, “that you’re getting out of work today just because you collapsed with blood running from your ears, think again.”

I had never heard—or not heard—such reassuring words in my life. I split a grin that turned into laughter, and leaned forward to give the police captain a hug. A tiny dimple that I’d never noticed before quirked at the corner of Morrison’s mouth, and he returned the hug somewhat gingerly. I sat back, still grinning, and felt my face fall long and googly with dismay. “Oh, shit.”

Morrison’s eyebrows shot up and he followed my focus to his shoulder, where his formerly impeccably white shirt was now stained with sticky red residue. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Walker,” he said, and he didn’t even have to say it slowly for me to understand. I wrinkled up my face in apology. He sighed explosively and waved it off. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I ran into the bad guy.” I was trying so hard not to shout that I suspected I was barely more than whispering.

“In the garage? ”

It was amazing how easily I understood him. Amazing, and somewhat alarming. I frowned at his mouth and nodded, then shook my head. Not being able to hear made me feel like I wasn’t able to talk, either.

“In Ireland. In the garage. It’s complicated. Morrison, I’d really like to get my ears fixed before anything else happens.”

“You think something else is going to happen?”

“Something else always happens.”

His eyebrows rose and fell in an acknowledging shrug. “Do you need a doctor?”

I shook my head. “Just some time and some food.” I felt like somebody’d turned me upside down and shaken every last bit of energy out of me. Thinking about it made it worse. Morrison’s hand found its place at my spine again, supporting me, and it took everything I had to not lean over, curl my fingers in his shirt, and snivel on him for a minute. “I’m a little tired.” That time my voice felt so low I wasn’t at all sure I’d spoken out loud. Morrison tipped my chin up so I could see what he was saying. It struck me as an unbelievably intimate gesture, and I felt myself blushing. Morrison ignored it, which was somewhere between relieving and insulting.

“Lie back down, Walker. You’re white as a sheet.”

I felt white as a sheet. I felt like all the energy that I usually ignored had been bleached and left out to dry. Part of me wanted to argue, because Morrison was the one telling me what to do. The other part thought falling asleep for the rest of the day sounded like a good idea. I started to nod, but Morrison’s finger under my chin kept my head from dropping.

“I sent Holliday to get your drum. That’ll help, right?”

I nearly kissed him. Instead I closed my eyes and bit my lower lip, nodding. “Yeah. Thank you.” My nose prickled with embarrassing tears. “Thanks.”

I didn’t hear him answer, but I felt the rumble of his voice through his touch.

“I’ll just lie down until Billy gets here, or food does.” I didn’t need to hear my own voice, either, to know that it was full of stings and thorns; that was how my throat felt. I hoped I just sounded tired, not angry or about to burst into tears. Morrison wrapped a strong hand around my biceps and helped me lie back down. I pulled a pillow over my head and knew nothing for a little while.