Kelly Meding - Requiem for the Dead

Fucking fantastic.

My leg wasn't bleeding heavily, but the wound hurt worse than most stab wounds I'd received. Made me worry the bullet had hit bone, especially since there was no exit wound. The city blurred around me during the drive home. Kismet made use of the rule that cars could only drive down the wide mall corridors when delivering seriously injured people to the infirmary, so we didn't have far to walk once we got there.

Once again, though, I didn't walk. Dr. Vansis was a were-bear and strong enough to carry me right into the infirmary and deposit me on an exam table. Paul ended up on one next to me.

"How come whenever you and me battle goblins together, people standing close to me get shot?" I asked. The last time had been a big battle at a nature preserve. Before the battle against combined Halfie and goblin forces began, Paul had accidentally shot Wyatt in the arm.

The comment seemed funnier in my head. Paul gave me a weak smile before Dr. Vansis pulled the curtain between our beds and went about his doctoring. I stared up at the ceiling and tried to ignore the agony in my leg, which seemed to get worse as my body's instinct to heal itself was thwarted by the piece of metal still stuck inside.

At some point, somebody gave me a couple of pills for the pain. My head got very swimmy after that, and by the time my system worked those drugs back out and I became aware again, Dr. Vansis was standing over me with a scrap of metal clutched in a pair of super-long tweezers.

"You're lucky this didn't shatter your femur." He dropped both bullet and tweezers into a basin, then reached for some bandages. "I already anticipate you saying that you'll heal so don't bother, but I'm bandaging you anyway. Deal with it."

I snickered and let the grumpy doc do his job. He might have been abrasive and abrupt, but he was a damned good doctor of humans for being Therian himself. After another mild dose of painkillers, he left my cubicle. I checked my phone and discovered two new texts from Wyatt.

We think Vale is the shooter. Still tracking.

The second text made me smile: Healing yet?

I texted back that I was bullet-free and healing, even though the familiar itching sensation of my body's healing power hadn't kicked in yet. It didn't always start immediately, though, especially with serious wounds. My tumble out that fourth-floor window had taken a few days of unconsciousness to finally fix. So I dozed until the itching began, and then it was so intense that laying there started making me crazy. Like a million tiny ants were crawling in and out of my leg, all at once, on razor-sharp feet.

Autumn appeared at the foot of my bed, her eyebrows furrowed with worry. Her arm was in a sling, and she was giving me a funny look. "Evy?"

"I need to get off this bed. Like, now."

"But your leg—"

"Is healing, which is why I need to get up and move around. Can you find me a cane or something? Please?"

She didn't look convinced, but she left in search of a physical prop so I could limp around without falling over. She managed to produce an actual crutch. We adjusted it to work with my height, then she helped me stand. Blood rushed downward as soon as I got vertical, and throbbing pain joined the itching. I let out a long, unhappy groan.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asked.

"Yes." The infirmary seemed bizarrely quiet, considering how many of us were injured. "Where is everyone?"

"Joining the search for Vale."

"A lot of people are going to be looking for that cat today."

"True enough. Do you need anything else?"

"No, thanks. How's your arm?"

"I dislocated the shoulder. Dr. Vansis reset it."

"Ouch."

"Quite. I only need the sling for a few hours, though, until the discomfort passes."

After she left, I amused myself with a quick tour of the exam cubicles. Partly for the exercise and partly to see who else was still around. The beds there were empty, so I limped my way into the private area. Paul was asleep in the first room. An IV stand pumped blood and fluids into him, and while he didn't look like he was on death's doorstep, he still looked…fragile.

So often I forgot how young we were. Paul was only eighteen years old, and he lived with the cynicism and anger of someone twice that. He'd been badly wounded tonight, but he'd never backed down, never looked scared.

"You did good tonight," I whispered.

In the hall, I paused when a familiar voice rumbled out from the half-closed door two down from Paul's room. I shuffled over as quietly as possible just to make sure I was right.

"—blame yourself. I know you."

Milo. Awake.

Thank God.

Milo's voice was thick and rough, someone in pain speaking through heavy doses of medication, but he was talking. He was awake. My heart leapt with joy at such a simple thing.

"I blame myself because it's my fault," Marcus replied.

Guess he was healing from his gunshot, too, if he was making bedside visits to other patients. I felt guilty for eavesdropping—not guilty enough to actually walk away from the door, though.

"Vale was going to hurt someone, Marcus. Just happened to be me this time."

Marcus growled. "I hate what he did to you."

"I'm alive."

"If I hadn't kissed you, Vale would not have targeted you."

"Maybe, maybe not. Rather it was me. I'm tired of seeing people I care about get hurt."

"You think I don't feel the same? I care for you, Milo, perhaps more than is advisable."

"Fuck that. You know my one regret about that kiss? That I was too startled to kiss you back."

Someone mumbled something. Fabric shifted. Okay, time to stop being a bad, eavesdropping friend and announce myself. I counted to ten in my head, then took two steps forward and knocked on the door.

"Yeah," Milo said.

I limped inside on my single crutch. Marcus had taken over a small chair next to the bed, and he was bare-chested except for the swaths of white bandages around his abdomen. He seemed alert and rested, unlike the owner of the hand he was holding.

Milo looked terrible and the sight of him made me want to cry for his obvious pain. A wide, blue-black bruise covered most of his throat, and his arms were littered with more bruises. A sheet covered the rest of his body, but I could imagine what his legs looked like. Both of his eyes were blackened, the pupils so spider-veined from burst capillaries that I saw the red from across the room.

Somehow, though, he managed a small smile.

I crutched my way over to the other side of the bed. I'd have hugged him if I didn't think it would cause him all kinds of additional pain. "You scared the shit out of me, buster."

"Sorry." His red gaze dropped to my crutch. "What'd you do?"

"Got shot in the leg. Same bullet that got Marcus."

"Huh?" He turned his head with effort and squinted at Marcus. Marcus scowled at me. Oops. "You're shot?"

Marcus cleared his throat. "Yes, but—"

"Where?"

"Just below my ribs."

For all the painkillers and muscle relaxers he was probably on, Milo looked impressively pissed. "You didn't tell me. You should be resting."

Marcus had the good sense to look contrite, and I had to hide a smile. Even horribly injured, Milo didn't want to be handled. "I'm sorry, Milo. I didn't want to add to your distress. You need your own rest."

"I'll rest if you rest."

He hesitated, then said, "All right. I'll check on you in a few hours."

"Okay."

Marcus couldn't hide a flinch as he stood. Therians healed pretty quickly, but not as fast as me, and not from a bullet wound. He leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Milo's forehead. They didn't say anything as he left. I stared at the empty doorway, impressed by the hitherto unseen tender side of Marcus Dane.