Chapter 25 - Sera
Consciousness returns to me in jagged pieces.
First, pain—a relentless throb at the base of my skull that pulses with each heartbeat. Then, sensations—cold metal against my wrists, rough wood beneath my legs, stale air filling my lungs. Finally, awareness—I'm bound to a chair in a room I don't recognize.
I keep my eyes closed, feigning continued unconsciousness while my other senses map my surroundings. The antiseptic smell suggests medical supplies nearby. There’s the soft whirring of a generator or heater. Two people breathing—one close, one near what sounds like a door. Neither is Dylan.
Dylan.
Memory floods back—the cottage door splintering inward, a figure rushing me in the dark. Reaching for the phone, desperate to call for Dylan. The sickening crack of something hard against my skull. Darkness.
"I know you're awake." Diane's voice, clinical and cold.
I open my eyes, blinking against harsh fluorescent light.
We're in what appears to be the back room of a hunting cabin, converted into a makeshift medical space.
Plastic sheets cover the windows. A metal table holds medical supplies—gauze, antiseptics, syringes.
Restraints bind my wrists to the chair arms, ankles to the legs.
"Where am I?" My voice emerges raw, throat parched.
"Somewhere safe," Diane says, adjusting an IV stand beside her. She's traded her nurse's scrubs for practical pants and a black shirt. "Safe for us, that is."
The second person comes into view—a man in Guardian gear, hand resting on his holstered weapon. I don't recognize him.
"What do you want?" I ask, testing the restraints subtly. Tight, but not circulation-cutting tight. Promising.
"Answers." Diane pulls up a stool, sitting directly in front of me. "Starting with who you really are."
I force a confused expression. "What are you talking about? I'm Sera Winters—"
"No records exist for any Sera Winters we can find born in the last fifty years." She cuts me off, voice flat. "No marriage certificate. No employment history. Nothing."
My heart rate spikes, but I maintain the bewildered facade. "There must be some mistake. Dylan and I have been married for—"
"Stop lying." She leans forward. "We've been watching you since your second week here. The questions at the clinic. Your interest in our patients. Your husband's convenient appearances during hunts."
The man by the door shifts impatiently. "Just give her the silver and be done with it. Sheriff wants this wrapped up while they deal with the husband."
Deal with Dylan.
Terror spikes through me, sharp and cold.
"Where's Dylan?" I demand, abandoning pretense. "What have you done with him?"
A smile touches Diane's thin lips. "So she does care. Interesting."
"If you've hurt him—"
"The Guardians are handling him as we speak." She checks her watch. "Probably over by now, actually."
Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down, refusing to show weakness. Think, Sera. Think.
"We know what you are," Diane continues, pulling on latex gloves with practiced precision. "Or at least, what one of you is. The question is, are you both monsters? Or just him?"
An opening forms—narrow, risky, but present.
"Test me," I challenge. "Whatever you think we are, prove it."
She produces a syringe filled with clear liquid. "Silver nitrate. Diluted, but effective. Painful for humans, fatal for shifters."
"You're going to inject me with silver?" I inject appropriate horror into my voice, mind racing. "That's insane! You could kill me!"
"If you're human, you'll experience temporary discomfort. If not..." She shrugs. "Problem solved."
The man steps closer, watching with interest. "Never seen one tested before."
My medical knowledge flashes to the forefront—silver nitrate, topical antiseptic, potential for allergic reactions in humans including anaphylaxis. Symptoms: flushing, hives, respiratory distress.
"Wait," I plead as Diane moves closer with the syringe. "I'm allergic to most metals. This could—"
"Convenient excuse," she interrupts, swabbing my arm with alcohol.
I force my breathing to quicken, eyes wide with genuine fear. No acting required there. "Please, you're making a mistake. We're not what you think. We're—"
The needle pierces my skin. Fire races through my veins as she depresses the plunger, the burning sensation entirely real. I've had silver before, during the worst of my old pack’s cruel punishments. The pain is familiar, excruciating. But I know I’m resistant to it.
I use it.
Gasping, I arch against the restraints, allowing genuine pain to fuel my performance.
"Can't—breathe—" I wheeze, forcing my face to flush with exertion.
Diane steps back, observing clinically. "Interesting reaction."
I strain forward, making retching sounds. "Allergic—need—epinephrine—"
The man frowns. "She doesn't look good, Diane."
I convulse deliberately, managing to tip the chair slightly. My medical knowledge becomes my weapon—I know exactly how anaphylaxis presents. The labored breathing, the facial swelling, the panic.
"Check for hives," Diane orders, reaching for another syringe, looking a little doubtful now. "Pulse too."
The man approaches cautiously, pressing fingers to my neck. "Fast. Really fast."
"Untie her arms," Diane says. "Check her for a rash and swelling. It could be a normal immune response—or she really is a shifter, and this is—”
The moment my right wrist comes free, I force a violent convulsion, knocking his hands away. While they're distracted, I slip my hand into my pocket, fingers closing around the small medical scissors I always carry. A healer's habit that might save my life.
"Hold her down," Diane snaps, filling another syringe—epinephrine, I presume.
The man grabs my shoulders, leaning close. I go limp for two seconds, then explode into motion—head snapping forward to connect with his nose. Cartilage crunches. He stumbles backward, blood spurting.
In the chaos, I slash through my left restraint with the scissors, then lunge for my ankles. Diane recovers, grabbing for the radio at her belt.
“She’s escaping! I need—”
I tackle her before she can finish, momentum carrying us both into the medical table. Instruments clatter to the floor. The syringe she held plunges into her thigh as we fall—poetic justice as her eyes widen in shock.
The guard charges, still bleeding. I roll, snatching a metal tray from the floor. It connects with his temple with a sickening crack. He drops, unconscious.
Diane struggles beneath me, gasping as the epinephrine races through her system.
"You'll never—get away—" Her heart pounds visibly in her neck, pupils dilating as the adrenaline hits.
I grab the radio from her belt, smashing it against the floor. "How many others? Where's Dylan?"
Pain explodes behind my eyes, the head injury reasserting itself. I sway, fighting unconsciousness.
Diane laughs, manic from the epinephrine. "Too late for him. Poor—monsters—” She wheezes.
I press the scissors to her throat. "Where am I? How far from town?"
She gasps as her heart races unnaturally fast. "What did you—do to me—"
"Gave you a taste of your own medicine." I stand unsteadily, the room spinning around me. "Your heart's fine. Just racing from the epi. You should be grateful I’m not going to kill you.”
I stagger to the door, checking the hallway before slipping through. The main room stands empty—a basic hunting cabin with sparse furniture. Through the window, I spot a dense forest; no other buildings are visible. Night has fallen completely.
My head throbs with each step, nausea rising as I force my battered body to move. Outside, cool air hits my face, momentarily clearing the fog. I orientate myself by the stars—north is that way, which means town lies south. And the cottage—
A shout from inside propels me forward. I sprint into the tree line, ignoring the branches tearing at my clothes and skin. My legs feel leaden, coordination compromised by the head injury. Each jarring step sends fresh agony through my skull.
Behind me, voices. Flashlight beams cut through darkness. I push deeper into the forest, ducking low beneath branches, fighting to put distance between us.
Five miles to town. Maybe seven to the cottage. In my condition, without supplies, in the dark, the odds stack impossibly high.
But Dylan is there. Or was. They said they'd ‘dealt with him’. I refuse to believe what that implies.
I pause behind a massive oak, pressing my forehead against rough bark as the world spins sickeningly. Blood trickles down my temple, sticky and warm. The silver in my system burns through veins, weakening an already compromised body.
Voices grow louder, coordinated search patterns spreading through the forest. Searching for him or me, I don’t know. I force myself onward, using trees for support, each step a victory against pain and gravity.
For one terrible moment, blackness threatens to swallow me again. I fight it, clawing back to consciousness through sheer will.
Dylan needs me.