Shouldn’t they bandage the other wounds? He needed blood, didn’t he? They had none. Maybe nothing much at all. She’d had all the good supplies used to fix her. They should’ve raided a hospital.
He mustn’t die. He mustn’t.
She’d never felt this helpless as she did watching them take him from the room. The first stairwell began out there but to get him down to Big Daddy they had three more to negotiate.
“How long to get down?” she asked Willow.
“An hour, at a guess. I have to help with others.”
She should be concerned about them too, shouldn’t she, instead of standing here wringing her fucking hands. Why couldn’t she fix this by shooting someone?
She’d missed that stinker. Too busy watching Willow.
If only she’d?—
Someone turned her. Willow again. “Thank you for saving me. I know it was you, your bolt. I’ve got someone to fly you down too, Cyn.”
“Okay. Thank you.” She nodded, trying not to break into tears. “Thank you,” she choked out again. So much for tough girl.
“It’s okay. We have two dead, but the others will make it. We’ll all be flying down soon. Tell Vincent to expect more wounded. Okay?”
She nodded again.
“Cyn. Listen carefully, please.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If Vargr lives long enough… you may have to think about letting Maura do something I discussed with her.”
Lives long enough. That spiked more fear.
“What?”
“Those chest wounds and the bleeding, he may not survive long. Even beasters have their limits.”
“Fuck.” She did not want to hear this. “What is this something Maura can do?”
“Tell her if she has to, to inject your nanites into him. Ihavediscussed it with her, okay, hear me?”
“Yes.” She blinked at Willow. The woman who thought ahead. Of course. If it didn’t kill him. If. If his own nanites didn’t reject hers. It might work. She healed anything.
“Now, go. Him.” Willow pointed at the wing soldier towering over Cyn.
She was going. She strode past the wing-soldier who she recalled was a Jason, snapping at him, “Come!” The blood on her hand, she wiped off on her pants.
The man came. He knew she wasn’t allowing for any laxness.
The flight down was dizzying, harrowing, and it took forever as they trotted from stairwell to stairwell, only to begin another fly-dive-fly spiraling journey to the depths of this quarter. There was blood on the floor sometimes, and on the railings where the wing-soldier transporting Vargr had stopped to catch breath.
A few times, she glimpsed Vargr below, in the arms of his own carrier. She feared the man would drop Vargr, as his flight was erratic and surely he tired, but he didn’t.
If he made it to Vincent alive, he would live.
He must.
This was not supposed to happen.
50
