Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Summer’s feet ached as she pushed through the automatic doors of Tulane Medical Center’s emergency department, the familiar antiseptic smell replacing the humid bayou air she’d been breathing for the past twenty-four hours.
Tuesday night shifts always started with a particular energy—the weekend chaos had settled, but the weekday tensions were building toward the weekend rush.
Barely rested from her last two days with Rowan, the pack, and the strange encounters in the city, Summer closed her eyes and then opened them wide to mimic how she thought they would feel if propped open with matchsticks.
Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed, casting everything in a harsh glow.
It made even healthy people look pale and tired.
Summer clocked in and grabbed her stethoscope from her locker, muscle memory taking over as she prepared for another long night of trauma, drama, and the occasional miracle that made it all worthwhile.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Dr. Ethan Rooke called from behind the nurses’ station, his graying hair mussed from what had clearly been a long day.
Almost forty, Ethan had the weathered competence from over a decade in emergency medicine, and Summer had learned to trust his instincts about everything from difficult diagnoses to hospital politics.
“Thought you might call in sick after yesterday’s excitement,” he continued, looking up from a chart with a knowing expression. Summer wondered exactly how much he’d heard about the disturbance in the Quarter.
Summer managed a tired smile as she tied her hair back and checked her watch.
“What excitement? I just had a quiet evening watching the local kids play.” The lie came easily—Ethan was a good colleague and a decent man, but he lived firmly in the human world.
He didn’t need to know about scorch marks and mysterious disappearances; they always left more questions than answers.
“Uh-huh.” Ethan’s expression suggested he wasn’t entirely buying her casual tone, but he let it slide with the ease of someone who’d learned not to pry too deeply into his colleagues’ personal lives.
“Well, you’re in for a treat tonight. We’ve got a full house, and Lisa’s already in what I like to call her ‘efficient fury’ mode. ”
As if summoned by her name, Head Nurse Lisa Zhao appeared at Summer’s elbow, clipboard in hand, and a focused energy that made even seasoned doctors step aside.
Nearly fifty, Lisa ran the night shift with proficient rigor.
As usual, her black hair was pulled back in a severe bun which never seemed to have a strand out of place, even during the worst traumas.
“Dr Vale, good. Trauma two needs sutures, trauma four has a probable appendicitis—surgery is hemming and hawing about it, so we need less hesitation and more decision. Then we’ve got three more ambulances en route.
” Lisa’s sharp, dark eyes studied Summer’s face.
She’d been managing ER chaos for over fifteen years, and she missed very little. “You look tired.”
“Late night,” Summer replied, which was technically true. The memory of those strange scorch marks and the lingering sense of evil still haunted her thoughts. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Good, because we’re short-staffed and the moon’s doing weird things to people tonight.
I wish it would stick to the full moon, but I guess this is normal for New Orleans,” Lisa’s tone was matter-of-fact, but something in her expression made Summer pause.
“Dr. Martinez called in with food poisoning, and we’re already running three hours behind in the waiting room. ”
“Weird how?” Summer asked, her supernatural senses automatically sharpening at the mention of lunar influence. Most humans dismissed the moon’s effects as superstition, but those who worked emergency services knew better.
“Just… unusual injuries. Third one this week with lacerations not matching the story.” Lisa handed her the clipboard. “Motorcycle accidents which look more like animal attacks, ‘falls’ leaving perfectly parallel claw marks, you know sort of thing. Just how it gets when the moon’s getting fuller.”
Summer accepted the clipboard, scanning the patient roster while her mind processed Lisa’s casual mention of claw marks. After last night’s non-encounter in Jackson Square, everything seemed potentially significant.
“Speaking of which,” Lisa continued, already moving toward the next crisis with her characteristic brisk stride, “bed two has some interesting cuts. Guy claims he fell off his motorcycle, but the wounds are… unusual. See what you think.”
Her phone buzzed with a text from Rowan as she reviewed the intake notes:
Pack meeting ran late. Axel’s pushing harder, questioning every decision Maurice makes. Still no sign of whatever was in the Quarter last night, but Lena found some strange tracks.
Summer quickly typed back:
What kind of tracks?
Not wolf, not human. Something else. Stay alert at work.
The message shot a chill down her spine, but she forced herself to focus on the chart in her hands.
Male, thirty-two, multiple lacerations to the torso and arms. The intake notes mentioned his reluctance to explain exactly how the accident happened, and the triage nurse had flagged the case as “inconsistent history.”
“Dr. Vale?” A young resident approached hesitantly. “Trauma two is asking for you specifically. The patient says he knows you from… the motorcycle community?”
Summer nodded, though she’d never owned a motorcycle in her life. But the pack’s cover as a motorcycle club meant she occasionally treated members who needed medical attention they couldn’t get from Lena’s more traditional healing methods.
“I’ll handle trauma four first, then check on bed two,” she told the resident, already moving toward the trauma bay.
The next hour passed in the familiar rhythm of emergency medicine: assessing, treating, documenting, moving on to the next crisis.
A construction worker with a nail through his palm.
Her palms glowed with a sudden warmth as she prepared him for surgery.
A college student with alcohol poisoning who kept insisting the trees were trying to talk to her.
An elderly woman with chest pains turned out to be having an anxiety attack about her grandson’s deployment overseas.
Normal cases. Human problems with human solutions.
It wasn’t until she approached bed two that Summer’s supernatural senses began to tingle with unease.
“Mr. Guidry?” She pushed aside the curtain to find a man roughly her age sitting on the edge of the examination table, his torn shirt revealing a series of parallel gashes across his ribs; they immediately made her think of the claw marks Lisa had mentioned.
“Doc.” He nodded, his Cajun accent thick with stress. “Appreciate you seein’ me. Know y’all are busy tonight.”
Summer moved closer, pulling on fresh gloves while her enhanced senses automatically catalogued everything about him.
His heart rate was elevated but steady. His pupils were normal.
But there was something about his scent—not just the usual mixture of sweat and motorcycle oils, but a hint of a base note bouquet which made her nostrils flare involuntarily.
“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked, gently probing the edges of the wounds. They were clean, precise—too precise for a motorcycle accident. And they were healing. Not just clotting, but actually knitting back together at an impossible rate.
“Like I told the other folks, I hit some gravel on my bike about two hours ago.” His amber eyes, when had she noticed they were amber? didn’t quite meet hers as he spoke. “Went down hard, slid across some metal debris. Cut myself up pretty good.”
Summer continued her examination, noting how the tissue around the wounds looked pink and healthy despite the obvious trauma.
Two hours ago, she thought, so these wounds should still be actively bleeding, should require immediate intervention to prevent infection and promote healing.
Instead, they looked like they were days into the recovery process.
“These are healing remarkably well,” she remarked, keeping her voice low, professional, and neutral while her mind raced through the implications. “Are you taking any medications? Supplements? Anything that might affect your body’s healing response?”
Mr. Guidry’s entire posture shifted, muscles tensing as if preparing for flight. “No ma’am. Just got good genes, I guess.”
Her phone buzzed with another text from Rowan:
Lena thinks the tracks might be from a hybrid. Different from Victor’s experiments but related. How’s your shift?
Summer’s hand stilled on her patient’s arm. The healing rate, the scent, the way he moved with just a little too much fluid grace—it all added up to something that shouldn’t exist. But after Victor’s experiments, she’d learned that “shouldn’t exist” was often a flexible concept in New Orleans.
“Doc? You okay there?” Mr. Guidry was watching her with his too-bright amber eyes; she noticed he’d somehow managed to put his torn shirt back on despite his injuries.
“I’m fine. Just double-checking something.” She reached for the antiseptic, studying his reaction carefully. “Mr. Guidry, have you been experiencing any unusual symptoms lately? Changes in appetite, sleep patterns, sensory perception?”
The question was a shot in the dark, but his reaction confirmed her suspicions. His nostrils flared as if he was scenting her, his pupils dilated slightly, his eyes flashed amber again, and she caught the faintest glimpse sharp canine teeth or possibly even fangs.
“Why you asking that?” His voice dropped to a low, gravelly tone, more animal than human.
“Standard questions for trauma patients. Sometimes head injuries can trigger underlying conditions?—”