Her heart was beating so hard, she could hear it throughout the room. Could anybody else hear it? Surely, everybody in Caldwell could—
“Hi, friend.”
The female voice next to her brought her head around. It was Doc Jane, and what a relief to see the familiar scrubs, the short blond hair, those forest green eyes that were both compassionate and business-like at the same time. The Brotherhood’s ghostly trauma surgeon was carrying a big black duffel on her shoulder, her corporeal body leaning to the opposite side to haul the weight.
“Hi,” Beth said with defeat.
“We’re going to take really good care of him.” The female rubbed Beth’s arm. “Try not to worry.”
They were nice words, fine advice, the right thing spoken at the right time. But it didn’t mean a damn thing, and they both knew this. Doc Jane was more than a clinician, though. She was, in fact, more than even a friend.
She and V and Salima—and everybody else in this facility—were family.
“I…know you will. Thank you.”
What the fuck was she saying? Shaking her head, she backed up to give everybody some space, and the corner across the room from the bed stopped her, the juncture of the walls the closest thing to a supportive hug she was going to get.
Things happened so fast: L.W.’s vitals getting checked, Doc Jane murmuring to the Chosen, some IV bags being set up on a portable rack—and fast was good. Time was of the essence. The sooner he got blood of the opposite sex into him, the better chance he—
“My Lord,” Salima said in the Old Language to L.W., “it is my honor to be of service unto you at this hour of your transition. May Lassiter hold you in His palm and see you through, such that you may carry forth your bloodline and lead us as is your birthright.”
Beth’s translation was rusty, and she probably filled in more than she understood, but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Damn it, she couldn’t think straight. She should probably go over to her son—did he want her to be closer? Probably not. Did she care? No—but she didn’t want to be in the way.
Meanwhile, L.W. had obviously scented the female. He started rocking back and forth on the bed, his head thrashing on the pillow, his skinny legs churning so that the covers bunched up, mountains of white froth as if ocean waves were cresting around him and trying to drown him. And then there was an interminable pause, as if Salima were giving him a chance to respond, and when he didn’t, she lowered herself onto her knees beside him.
No!That was the word on the tip of Beth’s tongue.No! No,I’m not ready, he’s not ready, we’re not ready—
The Chosen closed her eyes and murmured a prayer. Then she bit her own wrist, and the instant the blood started to flow, L.W.’s head snapped around and his stare locked on the red trail that snaked down from the pair of puncture wounds.
For no good reason, Beth remembered the tattoos that had run up both of Wrath’s arms, and pictured the symbols that proclaimed his royal lineage. It was as the lines appeared in her mind’s eye that her son, the one born of her body, conceived from the great Blind King, took the Chosen’s wrist.
The tears came the moment the seal was made, and L.W. started drinking.
As she brushed at her face, she thought of his birth. So much blood then, bringing him into the world. What had they called it…she couldn’t remember now. Placenta-something. She’d almost died, and only a hysterectomy had saved her life. No more young for her, but Wrath hadn’t cared. He hadn’t even cared about L.W. in the moment. When it had counted, whenher life had been on the line…she had been the only thing he’d worried about.
He had been all for her.
“Why aren’t you here,” she whispered as she scrubbed her cheeks again.
Over on the bed, the medical professionals were flanking him as Salima kept her wrist against L.W.’s mouth. He coughed a couple of times before he really got into the drinking, and Beth told herself that surely with all this help—
The groan started low, but it didn’t stay that way. As the sound he was making grew louder and louder, L.W. began trembling, and then he went totally stiff.
“Keep drinking,” V ordered. “We need you to just—”
The convulsions were like a violent quaking that racked her son’s fragile body, and for however long Beth lived, she knew she would never forget the sound of that little bed’s headboard banging on the wall as the spasms all but vibrated L.W. up off the mattress. And that was only the start of it. The seizures became so violent that V had to jump up on top of him and grab the sides of L.W.’s face, just so that he could keep drinking.
Salima’s wrist got torn apart.
And this was just the beginning.
Even with everything Vishous was doing to try to hold things steady, the gnawing of her skin was terrible, her blood covering the lower half of L.W.’s face and staining the bedsheets. At some point, the pillow was thrown aside, and then Doc Jane was locking onto the Chosen’s elbow to try to keep Salima’s forearm still attached.
As Beth watched it all, she had to cover her mouth with both hands or she was going to scream. She’d been through her own transition, but it had been nothing like this…violence. The air crackled with tangible energy, the light overhead and the oneout in the hall dimming and coming back on, only to flicker unreliably.
The sense that the boundary between life and death had thinned to barely a veil made her cold, even though the temperature in the room had soared—
Crack.
