Chapter 11 - Sera
The supply room smells of antiseptic and latex, familiar scents that would normally calm me. Today, they only sharpen my unease as I count the latest shipment of medical supplies.
"Forty vials of ketamine," I murmur, marking the clipboard. "That's double the usual order."
The fluorescent lights hum overhead as I move to the next box. Inside, neatly packed rows of silver-infused bandages gleam with a dull metallic sheen—specialized products typically reserved for burn units in major hospitals, not small-town clinics like Pinecrest Medical.
"Three hundred units," I note, my pen hesitating on the paper. "Up from fifty last month."
Silver. Tranquilizers. The pattern forming in front of me correlates too perfectly with what Dylan reported from the Guardians' meeting three nights ago.
My fingers tremble slightly as I continue the inventory, discovering similarly inflated orders of sedatives, heavy-duty restraints, and wound irrigation systems.
This isn't standard preparation for a rural clinic. This is a coordinated effort.
I complete the count methodically, maintaining a neutral expression when Nurse Diane peers in to check my progress.
"Almost done?" she asks, her thin face pinched with perpetual stress. As head nurse, she coordinates directly with Dr. Sanders on supply management.
"Just finishing up," I reply, keeping my voice light. "Quite a large shipment this time."
She nods; expression unreadable. "Dr. Sanders wants us fully stocked. Better safe than sorry with spring activities ramping up."
Spring activities. A convenient euphemism for whatever the Guardians are planning in their "human-only zones”.
"Makes sense," I agree, the lie bitter on my tongue. "Hiking accidents always increase this time of year."
"Among other things." Her gaze lingers a beat too long before she checks her watch. "Staff meeting in fifteen. Don't forget to lock up when you're done."
The door clicks shut behind her, and I exhale slowly. Three days of careful observation since Dylan's infiltration of the Guardians' meeting has confirmed our worst suspicions—the clinic isn't just treating random hunters. It's an active participant in their operations.
I slot the clipboard into its holder, mind racing.
If the clinic maintains records of these specialized orders, there might be a paper trail linking them directly to the Guardians.
Evidence we could send back to Silvercreek, perhaps even to regional law enforcement, who might actually uphold shifter protection laws.
Dr. Sanders' office would have access codes for the electronic ordering system. And with the staff meeting pulling everyone to the conference room...
The decision forms before I fully acknowledge it. I check my watch—fourteen minutes until the meeting begins. Most staff will head there early for coffee. A narrow window, but potentially enough.
I slip out of the supply room, locking it as instructed, then make my way down the quiet hallway toward administration.
My footsteps echo against linoleum tiles, each sound magnified by the emptying clinic.
A patient calls out from an exam room, quickly attended to by a harried-looking technician.
Perfect timing—the skeleton crew is focused elsewhere.
Dr. Sanders' office sits at the end of the administrative wing, door closed but unlocked when I test the handle.
Inside, the space smells of coffee and peppermint, with walls lined with medical degrees and family photos.
His computer glows with a screensaver of mountain landscapes—scenes from the very forests his friends are planning to "cleanse. "
I slide into his chair, heart hammering against my ribs. The login screen stares back at me, password-protected as expected. I try the most obvious combination first—his initials and birth year, visible on his medical license on the wall. Access denied.
Next, I check beneath the keyboard and inside the top drawer—common hiding spots for written passwords. Nothing. The clock on the wall shows three minutes elapsed. Eleven remaining before the meeting officially starts, but staff are already gathering. I can hear their voices down the hall.
On impulse, I glance at the family photo on his desk—Sanders with his wife and a German Shepherd, standing beside a fishing boat. The name painted on the boat's hull: "Silver Minnow."
I type "SilverMinnow" into the password field. The screen blinks, then opens to his desktop.
My fingers move quickly through file directories, searching for supply orders, vendor communications, anything connecting the clinic to the Guardians' activities.
I find the purchasing system, scanning recent orders, with growing unease.
Each form bears a project code I don't recognize: OP-PROTECTORATE.
The sudden sound of heels clicking on tile outside the office freezes me in place. I quickly close the files, but before I can log out, the door handle turns.
I dive beneath the desk just as the door swings open, tucking myself into the kneehole space. Perfume enters before its wearer—Diane's distinctive sandalwood scent, too strong for the small office.
"Dr. Sanders?" she calls, then sighs upon finding the room empty.
From my hidden position, I see only her sensible white shoes as she approaches the desk. They pause directly in front of me, inches from discovery.
"Weird," she murmurs. "Could have sworn I locked his computer earlier."
My heart hammers so loudly I'm certain she must hear it. Her hand appears, reaching for the mouse. The screen clicks as she navigates, checking something before logging out. The shoes pivot, move toward the door. Pause.
"Hello?" she calls, as if sensing something amiss.
I hold my breath, pressing myself deeper into the shadows beneath the desk. One discovery, one mistake, and our entire mission collapses. Worse, I'd be alone in a building full of shifter-haters with no immediate backup.
After an eternity, the shoes turn again and retreat. The door closes with a soft click.
I count to sixty before emerging, legs stiff from the cramped position. The computer is locked again, opportunity lost. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to care. I just need to get out before anyone realizes I missed the staff meeting.
The side entrance offers the best escape route—less visible from the main areas, leading to the employee parking lot, where I can text Dylan for pickup and come up with an excuse for my colleagues later.
I make my way there with deliberate casualness, nodding to a lab tech who barely glances up from his microscope.
Cool air hits my face as I push through the metal door, the sudden transition from fluorescent lighting to natural sunshine momentarily disorienting. I've made it out. I'm safe.
Then why can't I breathe?
The first wave hits without warning—my chest constricting as if bound by iron. My vision tunnels, dark edges creeping inward as I stumble against the brick wall of the building. My phone slips from suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the pavement.
I know this feeling. The crushing pressure. The certainty of imminent danger. My body remembering what my mind tries to forget.
Cheslem. The storeroom where they locked disobedient wolves. The smell of wolfsbane and corruption and fear. The helplessness.
I slide down the wall, concrete rough against my back, legs folding beneath me. My lungs burn with the effort to draw air that won't come. Rational thought dissolves under the tide of panic, leaving only animal terror.
Hide. Run. Survive.
But my body won't respond, frozen in the grip of memory stronger than present reality. I press my forehead to my knees, trying to make myself smaller, invisible to threats my mind insists are surrounding me.
"...twelve, Sera. Breathe out for twelve."
The voice penetrates the roaring in my ears—deep, steady, anchored in the present rather than the past. A warm presence crouches beside me, not touching, just there.
"In for four," the voice continues. "Hold for four."
Dylan. It's Dylan.
I force my eyes open, vision blurry with unshed tears. He kneels beside me in the narrow alley, his expression calm but alert, body positioned to shield me from view of the parking lot.
"Just breathe with me," he says simply, demonstrating with exaggerated movements of his chest. "Four in. Four hold. Twelve out."
I try to follow, managing a shuddering inhale that catches painfully in my throat.
"Good," he encourages, voice low and steady. "Again. Four in."
Gradually, my breathing aligns with his rhythm. The vise around my chest loosens incrementally. The world expands beyond the narrow tunnel of panic, colors and sounds returning to normal intensity.
"How did you—" My voice emerges ragged, barely audible.
"Check-in," he answers, understanding the unfinished question. "You didn't respond to my text. Been thirty minutes."
Our safety system. The one I'd initially resisted as paranoid, but had reluctantly agreed to. A text every half hour, response required within fifteen minutes; otherwise, the other would come looking.
"My phone," I manage, glancing at where it fell.
Dylan retrieves it, checking for damage before returning it to me. His movements are efficient but unhurried, giving me time to compose myself.
"Can you stand?" he asks, offering his hand without presumption.
I nod, accepting his support. His palm is warm against mine, callused and strong as he helps me to my feet. The world tilts briefly before stabilizing. He doesn't let go immediately, seeming to sense my continued unsteadiness.
"Truck's around the corner," he says, nodding toward the lot's edge. "Think you can make it that far?"
Another nod. Words remain difficult, trapped behind the receding tide of panic. Dylan keeps his hand at my elbow, not quite touching but ready to support if needed, as we make our way to his borrowed pickup.