Linda Robertson - Vicious Circle

I had a healing chant on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t dare call the energy and use it on a wære. Erik and Celia were silent in the front seat; Johnny was on his motorcycle, ahead of the Infiniti, leading the way. He’d said he knew where to go, promised it’d take less than thirty minutes.

I smoothed hair off her brow. Why would someone tamper with her car or run her off the road? As I sat there, I gave my first thought to the fact there would be people who would ask those same questions if I killed Goliath Kline. Surely he had friends or lovers or someone in his life…or, rather, undeath…who would mourn him. If I, by some miracle, did manage to kill him, that wouldn’t be the end of it. An’ it harm none…

Being an assassin meant harming far more than just the target.

We hit a bump in the road; Theodora moaned.

“Theo.” I took her hand in mine. “It’s Persephone. I’m here. I’m with you.”

Another bump; she moaned again. “Hurt.”

“Don’t try to talk right now. We’re taking you to get help.” I didn’t want to say “we’re taking you to a veterinarian.” It didn’t sound right or inspire hope. Though going through the change would cure just about anything wrong with a wære, the full moon was weeks away, and keeping her alive until then would be a miracle. But Johnny had said he knew a vet who’d treat wæres, as long as they paid in cash. It was the best we could do for her. “You’re going to make it, Theo. I promise. Hang in there.” Though I had no idea if it was true, I added, “We’ll be there any minute.”

“Seffffff,” she whispered.

I leaned close. “Shhh. Theo. Save your strength.”

“Wasss him. Ran me off…off th’ rrroooad.” She squeezed my hand. “Go-li-ith.” Her grip went slack.

Checking for a heartbeat, I found the strong beat hammering against my fingertips.

I should’ve felt relief, but I couldn’t. She’d said Goliath had run her off the road! She’d recognized him…her sources for background checking must have included photos. More importantly, Goliath knew she’d checked him out and—just like the reverend had said—he had taken deadly offense to it.

And that meant this was my fault.

“She’s stabilizing.” Dr. Geoffrey Lincoln, D.V.M., slipped his hands into his lab-coat pockets. He was an average-sized man, about five-nine and around 190 pounds. Receding short brown hair, brown eyes, glasses. His jaw had a nice shape to it, but his lips were thin like smokers’ lips. When he concentrated, he made a flat line of his mouth. At Johnny’s growled insistence, the doc had been kind enough to meet us at his facility despite the fact it was well after midnight.

“I will loan you the equipment and check on her, but”—he continued with a sincerely apologetic expression—“she can’t stay here. I have people in and out of here every day with their pets, people who love their furry animals but feel completely threatened by the portion of our population who become furry animals. If just one person saw her, the feds would shut me down within an hour.”

Celia crossed her arms. “This is like the Trail of Tears, what the government did to the Native Americans. They can’t just slaughter us, but they can deny us every basic human right to encourage genocide.”

I went wide-eyed, remembering her college paper on Native Americans. Though it had been a good report on a cause she had felt passionately about even before she became a wære, I feared if she started on that subject, we’d be here forever.

Fortunately, the magnitude of the situation must have left her speechless, because the room was silent except for the sounds of the blood pressure machine starting its cycle. The veterinarian’s office had previously been the site of an urgent-care facility, and Dr. Lincoln had inherited several pieces of equipment left behind in a storage closet. Now, in addition to the BP cuff, Theo had an EKG monitor, some kind of suction device attached to her chest tube, and an IV machine.

Between Johnny’s and Dr. Lincoln’s shoulders, I could see Theo’s face. Unconscious, heavily medicated. Almost dead, because I had asked questions and she had searched for the answers.

“My house,” I said. “We’ll take her there.”

Everyone helped. Even the doctor pitched in. He allowed us to transport her in a horse trailer and then carried the monitors behind Johnny and Erik, who had the difficult task of keeping the backboard level as they took Theo upstairs. Preceding them, I wished I’d changed my sheets this morning, but there was no time to change them now.

“Do you have extra pillows? You’ll want to keep her legs elevated, especially the right one.” Dr. Lincoln checked Theo’s toes as he spoke.

“Why are her casts soft?” Erik asked.

“They’re temporary,” the doctor answered. “When the swelling goes down, I can get regular casts on her.”

Nana finally emerged from her bedroom in her nightgown and robe, got in the middle of the throng of people, and demanded, “What the hell is going on here?”

Johnny stepped toward her. “Red, you’ve got to shuffle some things around in your room so the doc can plug in the monitors. Why don’t I explain this to Demeter while you go do that?”

“Perfect.” I was grateful for something to do and even more grateful to have someone else to deal with Nana.

Dr. Lincoln arranged syringes, medicines, and bandages for Theo on my dresser top. He stressed that we must not exceed the dosages he marked on the bottles. “If she wakes and is in so much pain she’s begging for more, call me,” he said. He plugged in the machines and told Celia and me what beeps were good, and what beeps were bad and what to do about them.

“I’ll stop back tomorrow evening—or, I mean, later tonight—and bring a feeding tube and change the catheter bag. I can’t guarantee what time, but you should have enough supplies.”

When Dr. Lincoln left, Celia came to me. “We’re going to go home,” she said, “but we are coming right back.”

“Celia, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, we do. Three weeks is a long time, and you can’t do it alone.”

I suddenly realized what an enormous commitment I’d made in offering my place to Theo. I wasn’t a nurse, let alone a full-time caregiver. The idea of getting help was suddenly a very welcome one. If they helped for a day or two, that would be great; if they helped for a week, even better. I’d open my home to them for the duration, if they were willing. With Nana, a puppy, a column to write, and a vampire to assassinate, I was going to need help with Theo. “Okay.”

“We’re going to get some clothes and our sleeping bags, and we will be back. We’ll use our camping gear and take the third floor.”

After what had happened to them while camping, I always marveled that they continued to find any fun in it. “Celia, it’s a floored attic! Take the empty bedroom.”

“You take it.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch.”

She leaned in closer and said quietly, “Johnny wouldn’t miss an opportunity to spend more time with you, so of course he says he’s staying too. He can have the sofa. You better have your own room. We have an air mattress at home for guests. We’ll bring that for you.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’” She hugged me and I smelled her orchid perfume again.

“I’m so grateful that you guys want to help. I know Theo is too.”

“With four of us, the shifts will be easy. We can make Johnny cook.”

“Johnny cooks?”

She pulled away. “Fantastically.”

“Will my kitchen survive?”

Celia pointed her finger at me. “Be careful, or you won’t want him to leave. I often come home to find the band having a songwriting bash in my kitchen. Stage equipment on one side, simmering pots of scrumptious soups or a roast on the other—well, you wouldn’t want a roast, but believe me, you won’t go hungry.”