15. The Doctor’s In
15
The Doctor’s In
The infirmary looked more like a field hospital than any doctor’s office I’d seen. A trio of padded gurneys were parked beneath hanging lights, each accompanied by an IV pole and tray table. The disgruntled guards dropped me off in the vacant room, then left without a word.
My nose throbbed, clogged with the stench of drying blood and the antiseptic smell of the room. Broken, yes, as were a few ribs if the stabbing pain accompanying every breath was any indicator. So, I laid still, unsure how long I was supposed to wait for what I assumed would be a bare basics patch job and a couple of aspirin for the road.
Wooden cabinets hung on the walls alongside a glass case boasting bottles of antiquated elixirs and specimens floating in formaldehyde. Healing powers were a highly regulated resource. Even a hint of medical magic was a golden ticket to a cushy Capitol job, so I wondered what kind of flunky ended up here, administering care to society’s least desirables.
I didn’t ponder long before the doctor—though I hesitated to call him that—entered the room .
He wore canvas coveralls the same as my soggy, blood-splattered ones, and a black medical mask I hoped was for his protection and not mine. As he approached, the creep factor intensified. Inky hair curtained his face, parting just enough to allow a view of his eyes, one black and the other solid white.
“Let me guess.” He sighed. “I oughta see the other guys.”
I shifted on the gurney. Every move made me wince. “Better if you don’t. Then you might believe me when I say I didn’t get my ass kicked.”
He arched a brow. “Looks to me you got your face kicked, if anything.”
He was British, judging by the accent. An intonation with the unique ability to make everything he said sound condescending as hell. He leaned in, poking at my busted nose.
Pain surged and I recoiled, though there wasn’t far to go with the gurney pressed against my back.
“Bet that smarts.” The doctor’s eyes crinkled. With contemplation or amusement, I couldn’t be sure.
“You think?” I snapped.
Since healers worked exclusively for the Capitol, the Bloody Hex had no access to them. I’d been put back together with sewing thread and super glue more times than I could count, and I was becoming more convinced by the second that I was as qualified to tend to myself as this guy was.
The doctor turned to one of the wall cabinets and pulled out a lumpy leather bag. He set it on the tray table, then unzipped it and began rummaging through its contents.
“What are we going to do about you, eh?” he asked. “Notorious villain Fitch Farrow bested by common criminals. Not great for your reputation, mate. ”
My reputation had taken a beating, all right, along with my pride. My gamble to eliminate the threat of Jax and his ilk had yielded less than optimal results. I wouldn’t be here now if I’d left him reeling with that cat scratch on his neck and ran out of the bathroom.
I frowned. Neither Jax nor his cronies would have dared to challenge me outside of this powerless place. With magic at my disposal, I could crush them like empty soda cans. They knew that as well as I knew they’d make a go at me again. Why not? I’d given them no reason not to.
“What was it about? Your little dust-up?” the doctor asked, rifling through his bag.
I raised my tattooed hand. “Everybody wants to be famous.”
He grunted in agreement. “That’s a constant problem, innit? Worse for you, I imagine, since you make it look so bloody glamorous.”
My mouth twisted. “So I’ve been told.”
The doctor produced a small stack of butterfly bandages and white cotton packing to pile on the tray table.
Eyeing the supplies, I asked, “What’s the prognosis, doc?”
“You’ll live.” He pulled a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his coveralls and started putting them on.
Suddenly far more interesting than the conversation, or the specifics of the doctor’s gloomy aesthetic, was the tattoo on the back of his hand: a thorny skull I would have known anywhere.
“What the fuck is that?” I asked.
He looked up. It was hard to be sure with the mask obscuring most of his face, but he seemed surprisingly young. Waifish and close to Donovan’s age, if I were to guess. But appearances could be deceiving when magic was involved.
He stopped with one glove on, and his bicolored eyes dropped to the tattoo now on display. “Well, would you look at that?” he said with mocking awe. “When did that get there?”
I pushed myself upright on the gurney, unsure if I should prepare for another fight or if I’d finally found one of those friends Clyde mentioned. No, not just a friend. Grimm didn’t dole out Hex marks like hand stamps at the county fair. They were exclusive to gang members only. A very select few.
“How’d you get that?” I asked the doctor.
Heaving a breath, he resumed tugging on the gloves. “Same way anybody does.”
“You’re in the Bloody Hex?” I sputtered. “What’s your name? Why don’t I know you?”
He loosed the medical mask to swing from one ear, giving me a good look at his face. “Name’s Ripley Vaughn,” he replied. “And you did know me, but it’s been some years since then.”
My mouth hung open, full of questions but unsure which to ask first. I looked him over again. Teenaged. With hollow cheeks and pale skin. That, combined with the edgy haircut, made him a poster boy for Goth culture. The prison-issued coveralls must have been really cramping his style.
But wait. Grimm sent his message for this kid? Was he going to replace me with a younger model like I wasn’t still in my prime? And what did this Ripley Vaughn character even do? A healer? Hardly an even swap. Like filling the void left by our resident bloodsucker with my powerless brother. Our so-called fearless leader was making some questionable decisions of late.
“But you already have the mark.” My thoughts found their way to voice. “So, you’re already in? I thought it was just five of us.”
“It’s called the Bloody Hex , mate,” Ripley replied. “Hex as in six. You just put that together?” His incredulous look made me scowl, and he huffed a laugh before continuing.
“I hate to say so, but Grimm was right about you. You turned out every bit the show pony he thought you’d be. Just what the gang needed to save itself from extinction.”
My confusion must have shown despite my busted face because he explained.
“The Capitol was hot on our asses back then, closing in. Then there you were. The lynchpin.” His features darkened, suddenly severe. “How’d it feel to save the very thing that should’ve killed you?”
I shook my head, stirring fresh pain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Or maybe I did. Fallen investigators framed on the wall of the Investigative Department, thirty strings tattooed on my fingers, and that wasn’t counting Jacoby Thatcher. It was Grimm’s agenda, I’d told Donovan. He pointed, and I shot.
Like an attack dog? The memory of Holland’s accusation stirred resentment anew.
“Don’t feign ignorance for my sake,” Ripley said, tugging on the second glove. “I killed for him, too.”
“Is that why you’re here?” I asked. “Because of Grimm?”
Ripley shook his head. “Not in the way you think. Now, hold still.” He bent forward and placed his hands on my cheeks.
I fought the urge to jerk back as he situated one thumb on either side of my nose. He pressed in, and pain stabbed into my skull, building to a crunching click .
Something moved.
I yelped.
Both eyes watered, blinding me. I tasted blood and felt it, too, though the flow was staunched by the cotton packing the doctor stuffed hastily into both nostrils.
He stepped back, peeling off the latex gloves. “Better?”
“No!” I blinked, teary and beset with heat throbbing between my eyes. “Fuck.”
He squinted at my face, then nodded. “It’s better.”
Turning toward the tray and his doctor’s bag, he dug into the pile of medical miscellany. When he rounded on me again, he held a shiny, silver tool.
A scalpel flashed in the light, deadly sharp. He swung it toward my throat.
I raised a hand, but no power accompanied the motion. Cold panic washed over me. I would have cursed if I hadn’t been so focused on holding my breath as the scalpel blade hovered too near my skin.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Don’t squirm,” he hissed. “I’ve just mopped.”
Not a fan of the Hippocratic oath, apparently. But, if he wanted to flay me open, he would have already done it. Scalpels were whisper sharp. I’d have been gurgling blood before I could blink. Those small assurances didn’t convince me to relax or to draw less careful breaths.
“Why’d you fix my face if you were gonna kill me?” I asked.
“I’m a doctor,” he replied. “And this way you’ll look pretty in your casket.” He bent in, showing the nearest thing I’d seen to a smile.
I suddenly understood the welcome back offer. Ripley Vaughn was not like any healer I’d met, but he was exactly the kind Grimm would want around .
“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Words tumbled out. “Why are you doing this? Was it something I said?”
“You asked if I’m here because of Grimm. Answer’s no.” He shook his head, unsettling drippy black locks. “I was willing to go down and take the whole bloody gang with me. But that didn’t happen. Not then. With you gone, it might be possible now.”
My lips curled with disdain. “You turned coat on the Hex? Then why the fuck do they want you back?”
He sniffed. “Who said they want me back?”
“I’m the messenger, but it came from the top.”
If Grimm thought I was reckless, how did he justify extending an olive branch to a self professed traitor? Maybe he thought Ripley had a change of heart during his incarceration, but everything I’d seen pointed to the contrary.
“Sorry to say they sent you on a fool’s errand. I want no part of the Bloody Hex.” Ripley kept the scalpel aimed at my throat while I pressed back harder against the padded gurney.
“What about jail?” I asked. “Do you want to get out of jail? They’re going to break me out. You, too.”
“How are they going to do that?” His eyes narrowed.
“I’m not sure yet, but—”
“When?”
“Soon.” I floundered for a reply. “I’ve got a court date—”
“I know.”
“So, before then.”
Inmates milled outside, and I found myself wishing they would look in here. It might have been too much to hope they would intervene and not start cheering my demise.
“You’re lying,” Ripley said .
My head gave the slightest wiggle. “No. No, I’m not.” Not entirely. “Look, they gave me something for you. It’s…” I moved carefully, trying to slide a hand into my pocket without brushing against the unrelenting scalpel. “Hold on,” I muttered. “I swear, I’ve got it.”
The cameo necklace the guard had passed me seemed a strange self-defense, but I was getting nowhere with my negotiation skills alone.
My fingers found the ribbon, now wet with shower water, and pulled. I lifted the jewelry like raw meat dangled in front of a hungry animal.
One glance at it set Ripley upright. He tossed the scalpel into his medical bag, then snatched the necklace from my grasp. I expelled a long-held breath, touching my fingers to my neck in a check for blood.
Finding none, I sat up and swung my legs off the bed. The movement jostled my injured ribs, making me wince.
Ripley turned away and stood, staring down at the cameo. Finally, he looked at me with such disgust I thought he might spit venom. “Get out.” He stabbed a finger toward the open door. “Don’t come back.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice.