Chapter 42
Wren
I want to cover my eyes. I want this all to go away. I want to pretend everything is fine when it clearly isn’t. Any second now, this Security Forces guy is going to find me and kill me.
My heart is hammering so hard I’m certain he can hear it. Each breath feels too loud, too ragged. I press my palm flat against my mouth, trying to muffle the sound.
“I know you’re here,” he says again. “You may as well come out because I’m going to find you.”
My throat constricts. Cold sweat breaks out along my spine.
He starts to round the crumpled desk. When he gets to the other side, he’s going to check under it, and he’ll find me. Then I’m dead. Just like the anti-vaxxers. They’ll shoot me like they did Sally.
My fingers brush against something on the floor. A small piece of broken plaster, jagged and rough under my fingertips.
I stretch my arm out as far as I can reach, my shoulder screaming in protest. I grab the plaster chunk, my hand closing around it.
I take in a breath, trying to settle my nerves. My pulse is racing. Then I throw the stone, aiming toward the door that leads to the treatment rooms.
It clatters against the wall about a foot from the doorway, the sound sharp and distinct in the destroyed clinic.
The security guy’s head whips around. He sucks in a breath.
Then he’s rushing in that direction, his weapon raised. His boots pound against the debris-strewn floor as he moves away from me.
“Got you now,” he mutters.
Good!
Relief floods through me, but I don’t waste time celebrating. I slide out from under the desk as quietly as I can, my twisted ankle protesting, but it isn’t as bad as it was before. I don’t think I hurt it too badly.
I scan the room quickly, looking for something I can use as a weapon.
My eyes land on a pile of debris swept into the corner near what used to be the waiting area.
Among the shattered drywall, broken ceiling tiles, and twisted metal brackets is a broken piece of wood.
It looks like it may have formed part of the wall and is about two feet long.
One end is jagged and splintered where it snapped. The other end is solid.
Perfect.
I go over to it as fast as I can, then I grab the makeshift club, testing its weight. It’s heavier than I expected, but I can manage.
Above me, the dragon battle continues. There’s a screech that makes my teeth ache.
Footsteps echo from the treatment room area. The guard is coming back.
I position myself to the side of the door, my back pressed against the wall. My palms are slick with sweat around the wooden beam. My heart is in my throat.
The guard steps through, his rifle sweeping the room.
“Where are you?” he calls out, irritation creeping into his formerly calm voice. “I’m losing my patience here.”
He takes another step forward, and I swing the beam with everything I have. Every ounce of fear and rage and desperation goes into that strike.
The wood connects with the side of his head with a sickening crack.
His gun goes off, the shots deafening in the enclosed space. The bullets go wild.
Just then, several guards run in, and two of the three take bullets before they can react. They go down in a heap, one clutching his leg, the other his shoulder.
The third guard opens fire on me.
I dive to the side, my body slamming into the floor behind what’s left of the reception desk. The bullets tear through the space where I was standing just a heartbeat before. Chunks of drywall explode. The desk splinters.
Pain lances up my side where I landed.
I crawl forward, trying to put more distance between myself and the shooter. My breath comes in harsh gasps. My vision swims.
The guard advances toward me. His gaze is locked on me. He’s not rushing. He knows he has me trapped.
He lifts his weapon, taking aim.
This is it.
I close my eyes.
The ceiling above us caves in completely, and suddenly, there’s a dragon where the guard was standing just moments before.
“Grim,” I gasp.
His dragon’s head swivels toward me, those slitted eyes locking onto mine.
He reaches for me, his talon closing around my torso. Then he’s lifting me, pulling me against his chest as he prepares to take off.
“Wait!” I shout. “Stop! I need to get my phone.”
His dragon rumbles, a sound of frustration and urgency. We need to leave. Now. I sense it. Feel it in every part of me, and I agree, but not without that damned phone.
“It’s under the cabinet.” I point at the piece of furniture in question. “I can’t get to it, and we can’t leave without it.”
Through the bond, I push the image of the corner cabinet at him. Of the phone wedged behind the leg.
I hope it’s working.
He puts me down. Then he hooks his talon under the edge of the heavy furniture and simply flips it aside as if it weighs nothing. The cabinet crashes into the wall, the impact making the remaining structure groan.
I rush over and grab the cellphone. The screen is badly cracked. I push it into my other pocket, where it can’t get lost.
Grim’s dragon rumbles his approval. Then his talon is around me again, and we’re shooting upward through the destroyed roof.
The acceleration is brutal. My stomach drops. The ground falls away so fast it makes me dizzy.
Gunfire erupts from below, but once again, I feel his muscles tense around me as bullets strike his scales.
Then we’re above the chaos, climbing fast into the open sky.
Down below, I see an injured dragon trying desperately to fly. It’s flapping its wings and taking small bounding leaps, its rider is still on its back. I heave a sigh when the dragon isn’t successful.
There is also a white dragon lying in the parking lot. It looks completely unconscious…or dead. I pray it’s the former because Grim wouldn’t have wanted to kill it. The rider spots us and starts shouting. I can’t hear what she’s saying because we’re flying away.
“Go to the meeting place,” I tell him. “The spot where we always meet with Drake. Go there now.”
Grim banks, changing course. At first, his flight is strong and sure. But after a few minutes, I feel him starting to slow.
His wingbeats become labored, less coordinated.
“Grim?” Fear claws at my throat. “Grim, stay with me.”
I think he’s injured. No, I know he is. He has to be after that.
He’s losing altitude. Not quickly, but steadily. Each downward dip gets a little lower than the last.
“Come on,” I urge him. “You can make it. Just a little farther.”
I have no idea how far we have to go, but I urge him on anyway.
His dragon pushes on, driven by sheer stubbornness and the need to get me to safety. But I can feel him fading. The pain, the exhaustion, and the trauma are catching up to him.
Several times, it feels like he’s going to fall from the sky. His wings falter. His body tilts dangerously to one side. But each time, he manages to correct himself. Keeps flying.
The landscape below us starts to look familiar. I recognize the cluster of rock formations. The line of trees.
We’re almost there.
“That’s it,” I encourage him. “You’re doing great. Just a little more.”
Grim’s wings beat weakly as we approach the meeting place.
We’re coming in too fast. Too steep.
“Grim, slow down! You need to—”
We hit the ground hard.
The impact jars every bone in my body. Grim doesn’t let go of me even as we crash. Even as his body tumbles and rolls. He curves himself around me, taking the brunt of the fall. His huge form plows through brush and rocks, gouging a trail through the earth.
When we finally come to a stop, there’s dust and leaves everywhere. My ears are ringing.
His talon opens. I tumble out onto the ground, landing hard on my side.
For a moment, I just lie there, gasping. Then I check myself for injuries. My ankle throbs a little, but it will be okay. I’ve got scrapes and bruises, but nothing’s broken.
I force myself to sit up.
Grim shifts back to human form. He is on his side and unconscious. I realize in moments that the damage to him is worse than I than my original assessment.
Burns cover his entire back, from his shoulders down to his waist. The skin is angry red and blistered in some places. In others, it’s charred black. His left shoulder and arm are just as bad. The burns extend down to his elbow.
But that’s not all.
There’s so much blood.
Two gunshot wounds that I can see. One in his right thigh. Another on his left side, just above his hip.
The thigh wound is bad. It must have hit the femoral artery or come close to it because blood is pumping out steadily.
I need to apply direct pressure and elevate it, if possible. Then I’ll monitor for signs of hypovolemic shock.
The gunshot wound in his side is bleeding too, but not as profusely. It looks like it might have tracked through soft tissue without hitting anything vital. But I can’t be sure without imaging.
I don’t have anything. Not a damned thing. No equipment, no oxygen or medication.
The burns are extensive.
He needs fluids, pain management, burn treatment, antibiotics, and blood.
He needs a hospital, but we can’t go to a hospital. They’d arrest us the second we walked through the door.
I dial Drake’s number, trying hard to stay calm.
It rings once. Twice.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter.
“Grim?” Drake asks. “What’s—”
“Drake, we need you,” I cut him off. My voice cracks. “We’re at the meeting place. Grim is hurt. Really badly hurt. You need to come right now. He needs medical help. I think he’s dying.” My voice hitches, and a tear tracks down my cheek.
“Listen to me carefully,” Drake says. “Dragon shifters don’t die easily.”
“He’s been shot twice. One of the wounds is actively bleeding. I can’t see an exit wound. He’s burned really badly.” I cry some more, but my voice stays steady.
“He’s going to be fine.” Drake is adamant.
I look down at Grim. His face is pale. His breathing is shallow and rapid.
“He’s in shock from blood loss. Possibly combined with neurogenic shock from the pain. He’s dying.” I make a sobbing noise. “And there’s nothing I can do to help him.”
“He’s stronger than you think. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Sit tight.”
The line goes dead.
I’m a nurse, which means I’ve trained for this.
I can do this.
I yank off my shirt, leaving myself in just my sports bra. I ball up the fabric and press it hard against the gunshot wound.
Grim doesn’t even flinch. That’s bad. That means he’s deeply unconscious.
“Come on, Grim,” I mutter, applying more pressure. “Don’t you dare die on me. Not after everything we’ve been through. I’m too mad at you. You can’t die until I have it out with you. I want answers…do you hear me?”
He doesn’t so much as move. Even his chest barely rises.