I take the boxes from the pale guard and hold them out to the lizard.
“Get away from the door,” he orders.
Clutching the boxes to my chest, I take a few steps back.Maybe this walking biohazard is going to help after all?
The lizard opens the cell door and lets out a ridiculous shriek.
I dash forward and see a very large, very human-looking man draped over the bed, covered in blood, and clearly unconscious.
My heart slams against my ribs, and it feels like something is tugging at my spine. I shove the boxes towards the lizard and shout, “Go!” He takes a step back, holding his hands up. “Take these, and help him,” I urge. His face remains unchanged, and I growl in frustration as I turn to the paleguard. “Then you do it. Take the supplies and I’ll tell you what to do.”
The pale guard shakes his head and backs away, but I swear there’s a shadow of a smile on his wide mouth that sends a shiver down my spine.
I glance at Vexar, helpless, covered in blood, and way too close to death. Something in me knows my decision’s already made, but I have to wait for my logical brain to catch up.
This is what I’ve been waiting for, right? A situation worth taking the risk? I just have to break this one law, and I can save a life and possibly end another. Sure, there’s no guarantee, but if there was ever something worth the risk, it’s this. Right?
I tighten my grip on the boxes and dart into the cell, expecting some sort of resistance from the guards. None comes.
‘This is a bad idea’,the voice in the back of my mind says, and I tell it to, ‘Get fucked’. That voice is living in the past, where survival was the goal. But that’s not the goal anymore. Revenge is. Revenge and resistance.
Fuck the Magistrate.
My feet splash in the dark puddle of blood that’s formed on the ground. I drop the boxes, climb onto the bed, and check Vexar’s airways. They’re clear. He’s breathing. I sink to my knees in the middle of the tacky pool, lining myself up with the bleed. Rough stone digs into my exposed flesh. The heavy scent of copper stings my nose. Gauze packets crinkle as I tear them open and start packing the wound.
I shout over my shoulder, asking the guards to get Roveen. She’s a skilled surgeon and far more equipped to deal with a wound like this than I am.
No response.Doesn’t matter.I keep moving. My hands cramp. Sweat drips. And the bleeding slows.
Please be alive.
I press my fingers to the side of his neck. Nothing. Nothing. A thud.
Holy shit, he’s alive.
I let out a raspy breath and move my fingers to the inside of his wrist. Nothing. I slide my fingers up until I find the thud of an artery on the inside of his bicep. His pulse is strong. Slow, but strong.
Using the analog stop-watch on my wrist, I track his pulse against the seconds—or whatever this watch actually tracks—do the math, and get twelve. Twelve beats in whatever this planet considers a ‘minute’. That’s it. Hopefully, that’s in range for him.
I jot the number on the bedsheet in blood and keep moving, pressing a bandage over the packed wound and using a twisted section of the bedsheet to add pressure.
Wishing my arms were longer, I climb on the bed and start my blood-sweep. As much as I’d prefer to do this on my feet, the placement of this bed was chosen by a moron who thinks medical care can be completed by a mountain goat.
Seriously, who puts a medical bed in a corner? Up against two walls?
My fingers slip over Vexar’s scalp, between his massive, curling horns, and through the thick locks of his braided hair. I move down the back of his muscled neck and to his shoulders. His skin is warm and surprisingly soft—not that I’m paying attention to how his skin feels or anything.
Everywhere I touch, I come back with black blood on my hands. It’s not his blood. His blood is red.
As I work my way down, it’s clear I won’t be able to wriggle my hands beneath him. He’s too heavy. So, I check what I can and keep moving. I don’t find any new injuries, but I do find scars. Lots of scars.
When I reach his legs, I groan in frustration. His pants are made of a thick type of leather. They won’t absorb blood, and there’s no way I can remove them. I run my hands over the material, searching for cuts in the fabric or temperature irregularities. Nothing. I pull his shoes off, and his feet seem fine too.
The last thing I do is check the underside of the mattress. The only blood I see is on the edge, where I already knew he was bleeding.
Finished with my check, I lean my forearm over the layers of gauze and bandages on his side and use my bodyweight to apply even pressure. Thank god he’s not conscious right now. He’s massive, and I have no doubt this level of pain would have him bucking, thrashing, and screaming at me. That’s my least favorite part of being a medic. When someone’s screaming at you to stop, but if you stop, they die. It makes you feel like a monster, and there’s no way around it.
“Any luck on getting Roveen down here?” I ask over my shoulder, hoping the guards are still close enough to hear.
