Linda Robertson - Arcane Circle

Dr. Lincoln turned to Kirk. “Would you fetch some towels from the bathroom? Wait, I-I didn’t say fetch because you’re a … I mean, I would’ve said it that way to anyone.”

The handsome Asian wære smiled and replied, “That political correctness shit is for pansies who can’t stomach the truth.” He left the room.

The doc laid the IV bag on the bed and clasped Johnny’s shoulder. “I can try just stitching it, but cauterizing it first is my recommendation.”

“Just do what you need to do,” Johnny said.

“My stitches aren’t quite as refined as those of a plastic surgeon working on a starlet, but then my usual clients don’t worry much about scarring. Wære healing is good, but I don’t know how the magic will play into this. It could leave a scar. Cauterizing it is even more certain to leave a mark.”

“I don’t care.” Johnny’s teeth were grinding.

I set the lamp back in its place while the doctor dug in his bag and brought out a small tray and what must have been a cautery tool. It looked something like a soldering iron.

When Kirk handed me the towels, I rolled them up and tucked one on either side of Johnny’s rib cage.

The doctor punctured the IV bag. “I just want to make sure you know it’s possible the scar will show in all your shirtless rock-star pictures,” he said, squirting the fluid into the cuts. I lifted the lamp again—and saw a white flash of rib bone as the solution washed out the slashes. Johnny sucked air through his teeth. The doc blotted around the injury with another of the towels, then dabbed the wounds directly with gauze.

The bleeding continued. I might have thought it was just a reaction to the wound washing if Dr. Lincoln hadn’t directed a silent question at me with his eyes.

My icy unease returned, wintry fingers stirring my emotions again, nearly forcing me from hidden fear into obvious panic. He can’t keep on bleeding like this and we can’t take him to a hospital. They transfer wæres to state shelters rather than treat them. State shelters were more like human dog pounds than hospitals.

I wasn’t going to give up. “Let’s try a higher concentration of salt.”

“Easy for you to say,” Johnny grumbled as I charged down the stairs to my second-floor bedroom. From the cabinet where I kept magical supplies, I grabbed a pouch of coarse sea salt. This was already empowered for use in my spells, intended to cleanse the ritual area into a sacred space. Surely this would counteract the magic in the injury, but it was going to hurt like hell.

Back in the attic, I apologized to Johnny and dropped an overflowing fistful of the coarse beadlike chunks onto his chest. Immediately, he growled, writhed once and dug his fingers into the mattress. Concentrating, I visualized the salt foaming like baking soda and vinegar being mixed, and imagined it neutralizing the lingering magic.

When a coastal aroma wafted around me, it was a signal that the salt cleansing was complete. I gestured for the doc to take over. He pierced another saline bag and washed away the sea salt.

This time, the bleeding had markedly decreased. My panic receded.

The doc surveyed the wound again, holding the cauterizing tool ready. He motioned Kirk over. “Hold him down.”

“Not necessary.” Johnny set his jaw; Kirk stayed where he was.

Dr. Lincoln leaned in. “I’ll do this as minimally as possible, but your tattoo is going to need a touch up—”

“Wait!” Johnny grabbed for my arm, jerked, and swore loudly. A fresh spill of blood ran across his chest. “The tattoo.”

My breath caught.

Someone had found out long ago that Johnny was the Domn Lup. Whoever it was had magically locked his power into the various tattoos on his body. We needed to find out who had done this and have them reverse it to un lock that power.

“Will scars on this tattoo keep it from being unlocked?” Johnny asked.

“I don’t honestly know.” The real question is: Can magic in a phoenix’s talons sever the magic in a tattoo?

Johnny’s cell phone rang from the bedside table—the chorus of Ozzy Osborne’s “Bark at the Moon.” It was his ringtone for all the pack wæres. Kirk checked the display and announced, “It’s Todd. Probably wants a status report.”

“Give him one,” Johnny said.

Kirk opened the phone. “This is Kirk.”

The doc waved his utensil to refocus us all on him. “Am I doing this?”

Johnny released my arm and relaxed back onto the pillow, shaking his head. “I can’t risk any more damage. Just stitches. And not where the ink is if you can help it.”

“I’ll do my best.” The doc put the heated tool back on the tray.

“It’s not aching as bad now, Doc, after the salt.”

“But your moving set it bleeding again. Be still.”

“You need to talk to Todd,” Kirk said, offering the phone.

The doc motioned Kirk to stay back. “I need his arms down flat to do these stitches.” To Johnny he said, “Take your calls later.”

Kirk ignored him and said, “It’s important.”

Due to the recent death of the pack’s leader, Todd would have been promoted and given the title dirija if Johnny hadn’t revealed he was the Domn Lup. Todd retained his place as second-in-command, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled about anyone leap-frogging him to gain the position, least of all Johnny.

“Put it on speaker, Kirk,” Johnny half-snarled.

Kirk hit the button, kept the phone upraised. Todd’s authoritative voice demanded, “Who else is in the room?”

“Red and the doc.” Johnny called me Red, as in Red Riding Hood to his Big Bad Wolf.

Dr. Lincoln opened another pack of gauze.

“This is pack business,” Todd barked. “I’ll wait.”

Johnny growled, “There’s no one here I don’t trust. Just tell me.”

Todd’s marked sigh signaled his disagreement with the idea.

Johnny growled again in frustration, adding forcefully, “Now.”

Todd said, “I’ve made arrangements for the two wæres we lost, we’re contacting and counseling the families.” Some members of the pack had volunteered to fight at Johnny’s side in the fairy battle. Most survived, but a few were incinerated by a superheated beam that had melted sand into glossy walkways. There weren’t any remains left to bury. “You’re going to have to meet with them soon. And …” Todd didn’t finish.

“And?” Johnny prompted.

“I got a call from Romania.”

Johnny and Kirk shared a look I couldn’t read.

“Word of the Domn Lup has traveled up the ranks. All the way up. The Zvonul didn’t send word back down and have some bean-counting adevar call. The personal assistant of the Rege called. The Rege is coming to meet you.”

Sounded like the bigwigs of the wæreworld were taking a personal interest in their new Domn Lup. This wasn’t unexpected, but it was fast. Less than forty-eight hours had passed since Johnny had revealed himself to his pack. The wære governing system was unfamiliar to me, so I was listening close, making mental reminders to ask about these new terms and titles.

“When are they coming?” Johnny asked.

“On Wednesday. Unless their travel plans change.” It was now Sunday afternoon.

“Make sure we’re complying with whatever they need. Call me later if you have anything more.”

The phone’s screen faded to black. Kirk closed it and replaced it where he’d found it.

“I’d like to numb the area and give you a sedative so you can relax and rest,” Dr. Lincoln said.

“No,” Johnny said. “No numbing, no sedatives. Just sew me up.”

My duties as light source monitor continued as the doc worked. It was a front-row opportunity I’d rather have missed. Watching him stitch the torn muscle, listening to him remark how the sutures would dissolve slowly, and then discuss the area where the bone had been exposed, was not an experience for the pleasant memories scrapbook. I had to verify which line went where a few times while he carefully aligned the tattoo, sewing in stitches to either side of the lines. After he had tended to all the inked areas, he worked outward from them.