him, we’ve got about five dozen of his friends out front.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” I scrubbed up for surgery and made it out onto the floor in time to help with a mass influx of close-combat injuries—artillery shot, metal-weapons wounds.
From what I could see, it had been a massacre.
The operating tent was packed. I had a table by the front, near one of the big fans. You’d think that would be good, but all it seemed to do was blow hot air around.
By my third patient, I was getting a massive headache and an intense urge to run away and jump in the nearest tar pit.
Marc had the table in front of me. He stepped away as an orderly took his patient to recovery. “How are you doing?”
“Good.” Which was a ridiculous thing to say in the middle of the latest bloodbath.
Still, I didn’t need to worry about Marc understanding, at least when it came to this.
My goggles fogged at the edges as I worked on a particularly dicey shard of glass that had severed a lung in three places. At least that was how many I’d found so far.
Nurse Hume stood to my right, assisting.
Marc made his way to my free side. “Hey,” he said, under the clattering chaos. “You need a break?”
“I’m okay.”
He didn’t budge. “I’m not giving up on you.”
I glanced up, locked eyes with him. “Don’t do this. Not now.” I wasn’t about to give him false hope.
Hume suctioned. “There.”
I looked to where he was pointing and saw another shard of glass. I extracted it, holding it up for Hume and Marc to see. “Do you realize how close to the abyss he had to be to get this kind of a wound?”
Marc shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
That’s right. He hadn’t seen PNN. “Let’s just say the old army has invented a whole new brand of horror.”
Complete with dragon suicide bombers.
“Christ,” he said, keeping an eye on his table. It wouldn’t stay empty for long.
“Over here,” Hume murmured, suctioning near another shard.
Damn.
It was like they were multiplying. I was thankful again for the anesthetic we’d developed for immortals. It was impossible to imagine doing this surgery while the poor kid on my table was conscious.
Nurse Hume handed me a retractor.
I tried it, realized I needed something smaller. “Get me a McAndrews clamp,” I said to Hume.
While he went off to look, I took over siphoning the wound. “We have a new prophecy,” I said, voice low, eyes on my patient. “The surgeon who sees the dead gets her fricking bronze dagger back. Again.”
I glanced up at Marc, expecting shock, coming up way short. Hell, maybe he was surprised. It was hard to tell with the surgical mask covering his face. Still, he looked way too calm. “Did you hear me?” He especially should recognize my own particular brand of hell.
No one knew about me and my ability except for Marc, and Galen. And now Leta. Shit. This was getting better and better.
He exhaled hard, the breath tenting his surgical mask. “Don’t borrow trouble.”
Oh, that was rich. “Because the oracles have been wrong before.” I located another sliver of glass and tossed it onto the tray.
“You’re looking for problems,” he ground out.
I didn’t have to. They found me all on their own.
Marc leaned close. “If you want to stew about something, start thinking about how we’re going to keep our special guests a secret now that recovery is flooded.”
“Thanks for that.” I couldn’t wait to get them out of here. “Why the hell did he ever come back here with her?”
Marc’s eyes were guarded. “She’s a fugitive,” he said, heading back to his table. At my surprised look, he added, “Leta explained everything.”
“Nice,” I muttered as he went to inspect the X-rays they were posting for him.
Galen wouldn’t tell me squat. Meanwhile Marc got explanations from the dragon who’d died on my table.
I focused on stitching together torn muscle. Classified, my ass. At least one of them
“Tell me something I don’t know.” I scrubbed up for surgery and made it out onto the floor in time to help with a mass influx of close-combat injuries—artillery shot, metal-weapons wounds.
From what I could see, it had been a massacre.
The operating tent was packed. I had a table by the front, near one of the big fans. You’d think that would be good, but all it seemed to do was blow hot air around.
By my third patient, I was getting a massive headache and an intense urge to run away and jump in the nearest tar pit.
Marc had the table in front of me. He stepped away as an orderly took his patient to recovery. “How are you doing?”
“Good.” Which was a ridiculous thing to say in the middle of the latest bloodbath.
Still, I didn’t need to worry about Marc understanding, at least when it came to this.
My goggles fogged at the edges as I worked on a particularly dicey shard of glass that had severed a lung in three places. At least that was how many I’d found so far.
Nurse Hume stood to my right, assisting.
Marc made his way to my free side. “Hey,” he said, under the clattering chaos. “You need a break?”
“I’m okay.”
He didn’t budge. “I’m not giving up on you.”
I glanced up, locked eyes with him. “Don’t do this. Not now.” I wasn’t about to give him false hope.
Hume suctioned. “There.”
I looked to where he was pointing and saw another shard of glass. I extracted it, holding it up for Hume and Marc to see. “Do you realize how close to the abyss he had to be to get this kind of a wound?”
Marc shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
That’s right. He hadn’t seen PNN. “Let’s just say the old army has invented a whole new brand of horror.”
Complete with dragon suicide bombers.
“Christ,” he said, keeping an eye on his table. It wouldn’t stay empty for long.
“Over here,” Hume murmured, suctioning near another shard.
Damn.
It was like they were multiplying. I was thankful again for the anesthetic we’d developed for immortals. It was impossible to imagine doing this surgery while the poor kid on my table was conscious.
Nurse Hume handed me a retractor.
I tried it, realized I needed something smaller. “Get me a McAndrews clamp,” I said to Hume.
While he went off to look, I took over siphoning the wound. “We have a new prophecy,” I said, voice low, eyes on my patient. “The surgeon who sees the dead gets her fricking bronze dagger back. Again.”
I glanced up at Marc, expecting shock, coming up way short. Hell, maybe he was surprised. It was hard to tell with the surgical mask covering his face. Still, he looked way too calm. “Did you hear me?” He especially should recognize my own particular brand of hell.
No one knew about me and my ability except for Marc, and Galen. And now Leta. Shit. This was getting better and better.
He exhaled hard, the breath tenting his surgical mask. “Don’t borrow trouble.”
Oh, that was rich. “Because the oracles have been wrong before.” I located another sliver of glass and tossed it onto the tray.
“You’re looking for problems,” he ground out.
I didn’t have to. They found me all on their own.
Marc leaned close. “If you want to stew about something, start thinking about how we’re going to keep our special guests a secret now that recovery is flooded.”
“Thanks for that.” I couldn’t wait to get them out of here. “Why the hell did he ever come back here with her?”
Marc’s eyes were guarded. “She’s a fugitive,” he said, heading back to his table. At my surprised look, he added, “Leta explained everything.”
“Nice,” I muttered as he went to inspect the X-rays they were posting for him.
Galen wouldn’t tell me squat. Meanwhile Marc got explanations from the dragon who’d died on my table.
I focused on stitching together torn muscle. Classified, my ass. At least one of them
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