The searing pain that jolted me awake was a stark reminder of the magical abortion still underway. Cramps wracked my body, forcing me back into myself as fluids and the remnants of what they'd done to me provided a meager impetus to carry on.
Slowly, sensations other than pain returned – smells, the antiseptic scent of a hospital. Pheromones told me that as I smelled the air, it smelled of healing, goodwill, need to help others. This was a good place, a place of healing, and as my memory flickered back, I realised I'd just made it to the ER.
Opening my eyes, I found myself on my side, propped up by pillows and hooked to several IV bags. I had no urge to rip out the cannulas; perhaps I knew they would help, or perhaps I was simply too exhausted. I was wearing a diaper, and I felt a hot rush of something gush into it, thankfully mitigating the smell somewhat.
The white walls, bland curtains, and sterile, slightly stale air were all hallmarks of a hospital, though cheap paintings attempted to soften the stark environment. This was clearly a small hospital, or perhaps a clinic, but it was where I needed to be.
It was over. Truly over. Now came the arduous process of recovery, and then the daunting task of facing our future. Our physical healing was only one aspect; the men's guilt, their feelings of weakness and betrayal, would be another significant hurdle.
Their shame might linger, a constant reminder of their failure to protect us, to break the spell. Helping them through this would undoubtedly complicate our own recovery, but I had no magic solution to alleviate their suffering. Even with my blood magic, guilt and self-blame would linger.
They would simply have to accept it and move forward. Mariella's attitude and the disgust others might feel toward all things physical would present additional challenges.
However, with my pheromones gone, I wouldn't be their priority, allowing Damon to focus on healing Mariella, Mimosa, and Shadow. It seemed my own recovery would be a solitary journey, as I was the one organizing, hiding, and suppressing those traumatic memories.
My mind was waking as the pain prevented me from passing out. I cursed under my breath, trying to shift, but I was too weak. Soon, I heard footsteps approaching.
A young face, peering from under a nurse's hat, looked at me with worry. "Oh, you're awake and in pain! Please wait a minute; I'll get a doctor," she said, hurrying away.
I could hear her talking to someone, saying, "Mimi is awake," so they knew who we were.
Good. Calmer, stronger footsteps, accompanied by the nurse's softer ones, approached. My eyes stung with exhaustion. The pain stole my breath, and even my body's ability to function without it was failing. Damon had once given me a lengthy lecture on the importance of breathing, explaining that even my alternative oxygen intake was merely a backup, depleting my reserves and harmful unless absolutely necessary. This is why they often transfer organs to me—it's better for me to have them, even if I can survive without them.
The doctor, perhaps in his late fifties or younger, was tall with a wrinkled face and a somewhat stocky build, yet he exuded calm; he reminded me of a teddy bear.
"You're in pain," he said. "My name is Doctor Latimer. I'm in charge here. Your friends, Will and Samuel, are on their way. Samuel might be a few days, but Will will call me once he is en route. He's getting supplies and possibly some extra help. He is the nearest doctor specialized in supernatural and seems to know you, he sent me your pictures and identified you. "
I nodded. I'd already noticed several things, and since reinforcements were arriving, that didn't mean we shouldn't act.
"Nice to meet you," I said. "Now, how awkward would it be if I told you what to do? We're not entirely human. I'm more of a supernatural jaguar in the human guise, dashed with an immensely strong vampire. My physiology and my biology are unusual. As for the others, some human medicines will work."
Doctor Latimer took a chair, pulled out a notebook and pen, and said, "I'm all ears. I'm more than willing to learn, so please, tell me everything." He added, "We've taken CT scans, cleaned and removed infected staples and stitches, but haven't replaced them yet. You also seem to have some kind of gynecological condition."
I nodded and said, "Miscarriage of sorts, I have had these in the past, a long time ago. We were raped, and because I lack functional DNA polymerase, my system overreacts to the resulting mass, potentially leading to infection. Therefore, we need blood cultures—no special preparations required. As a trauma surgeon myself, I can review the scans, but first, we need simple sugars and caffeine—coffee or cola will do. Our sugar regulation differs from humans; instead of insulin and glucagon, we primarily use caffeine and its byproducts. Dextrose is fine—simple sugars only, no plant-based ones. Animal-based lipids are crucial."
He nodded and instructed the nurse, "Check our TPN and other solutions. If none are suitable, we'll improvise. Hand me the tablet with the scans."
The nurse, hesitating slightly, introduced herself: "My name is Annie. I'm the one who found you."
I smiled. "Nice to meet you. Next, I'll explain what I know about my pack members and the necessary treatment. Most respond to human medications, but I've developed immunity. Higher dosages are needed due to our accelerated metabolism; they should sleep. They're also experiencing this type of abortion, and the rest is best."
I considered what information was most vital before Will arrived.
The doctor instructed another nurse, "Make some extra-strong coffee with full-fat cream."
I added, "If their intestinal tracts are intact, insert nasogastric tubes and administer about a liter of coffee to each three times a day. Monitor their blood sugar; you'll quickly determine the appropriate dosage."
The doctor agreed. "I'll organize that. The coffee's on its way. Here's the tablet for the scans."
I examined the scans as the doctor left to gather supplies.
As I shifted position, Bran stirred, and in a weary voice, he said, "Little girl, conserve your energy. At least I'm not the one trying to keep you alive, but there are actual doctors here."
I reassured him, "Will and Samuel are en route with reinforcements. We'll be fine. I can direct treatment while we wait. Anything that eases our condition will make it easier for Will when he arrives, considering our state."
I browsed through our scans. Other abortions hadn't been as violent as mine, and while they might not worsen as drastically, we needed to control the situation. Their reproductive organs and bladders were gone, reduced to masses, but mine threatened to consume my bowels.
"We should try to reduce the pathogen load," I declared.
Bran's system showed signs of a multiplication enzyme attempting, but failing, to take hold; tiny nubs in his organs indicated aborted attempts at replication due to insufficient energy. With the doctor due back in twenty minutes, I poured coffee, sipping it alongside a now-awake Bran.
When the doctor arrived, I addressed him directly: "We'll grow new organs; don't worry. My next suggestion might seem radical, but we must reduce the pathogen load. I propose inserting a catheter through the abdominal wall—here," I pointed to my CT scan, "hooking it to suction to remove this mass. My intestines are almost intact, and I might heal, but if this continues, my gut will liquefy. The same goes for the others. The correct insertion point is here; I know there's no bladder, but we can manage without one. Do you have the supplies—suction and the thickest cannulas you can find?"
The doctor raised an eyebrow, studied the scans, and replied, "We have some; I'll get a few nurses. I'm not sure we have enough suction for everyone."
I nodded. "It's okay. Place cannulas in each of us and rotate them, say, every two hours, or until the mass is gone. I appear to be the most critical case."
He nodded. "Let's do it. You're right, time is of the essence. And, well… I should be more professional, but I feel like the eager young doctor I once was."
I looked at him and said, "You know, regularly drinking my blood would keep you young and rejuvenated. I could use someone like you in my organization."
Bran interrupted, "Surely Doctor Latimer might want to explore his options. I live in Montana; we need calm, steady doctors for werewolves, and I think you'd be a perfect fit."
The doctor smiled. "I'm flattered, but I'm content. My wife and grandkids are all I need. I might retire someday and die a happy man; not all of us are meant to live forever. But right now, I'll get more supplies."
I told him, "Bran's legs are crushed. I've given him my blood, but he needs the strongest antibiotics you have. He can tolerate them; he's not immune or resistant like I am."
The doctor nodded, checked Bran's scans, and asked, "What are these nubs in his organs? Some kind of cancer?"
I shook my head. "We have a special enzyme that allows our organs to regenerate easily. His enzyme attempted activation but lacked energy. Those are tiny organ embryos, so to speak. He may need surgery or a rescan as he gets stronger; they won't grow until he has energy to spare, and still they might stay dormant."
He nodded and examined Bran's legs. Bran yelped in pain; numerous sore, red spots indicated a brewing infection.
I muttered, "When Will calls, tell him the men are under a spell cast by powerful black witches—Freyja's coven—seeking revenge. Also, my darkness has escaped, and I'm not sure if it's entered the hive. It sounds strange, but those who understand will get the message."
The doctor, having finished examining Bran's legs, nodded and ordered strong painkillers. Bran glared, likely about to pass out, but the painkillers were a necessary respite; rest was crucial, and the infection was a serious concern.
The doctor, retrieving his phone, texted Will to avoid calling. He wouldn't explain Mrs. Salvatore's instructions, but they were logical and necessary. They continued making coffee, a peculiar detail, soon providing each of the seven patients with a large bag of creamed, sugared coffee, even dripping some into their nasogastric tubes.
However, it seemed to stabilize them somewhat. To be honest, each of the seven was in such dire condition that any improvement, however small, was significant. The doctors then wheeled in four suction machines, collection bags, cannulas, and other necessary equipment.
He had reserved the local anesthetic for others, but according to Mimi, it wouldn't work on her. However, she could tolerate the procedure; it was nothing to her. He prioritized Mimi, Mariella, Mimosa, and Shadow for initial suction. Mimosa and Shadow could then take a break while Elena and Katherine underwent the procedure.
Mimi assured him that everything extracted was not dangerous to humans, only to other supernatural beings, and thus should be burned. They had an incinerator for trash, which would suffice; he wasn't going to label it biohazard, as those trucks only came twice a year if needed, and this material was nasty. He didn't want to endanger anyone else.
Gently draping sterile drapes over Mimi's visibly contracting abdomen, he injected muscle relaxants and paralytics as instructed. Slowly, the contractions ceased. He carefully made the first incision; Mimi didn't flinch, and he marveled at her resilience, wondering what kind of training she'd undergone to tolerate an awake surgery silently.
Even though she was thin as a skeleton, the muscles he encountered were impressive—nothing like human muscle. He carefully inserted the thickest tubing, confirming its correct position with a sonogram, and secured it; no stitches were needed, as her skin grew around it, effectively securing the tubing.
He hooked up the suction, and thick, greenish-bloody pulp soon flowed into the collection bag.
Despite talking to her continuously, he asked, "Are you okay? Is it too bad?"
She smiled and replied, "Nope, that tissue is dead; it won't feel anything."
He covered the cannulation site with sterile dressings, noting the unusual securement.
Observing other doctors performing similar procedures, he said, "Next, we'll take blood cultures and see what they reveal."
She nodded, pale despite Will's assurances that she might appear dead but would revive. He was determined to prevent that, doing everything he could. He'd called home, telling his wife about the emergency. His wife, a longtime cook at a larger hospital to the east, had offered to bring food, but he assured her it wasn't necessary—not yet, anyway.
As the doctor moved on to other patients, checking on them, administering medications as instructed—dosages and all—I remained on my back, well-padded, contemplating the next step.
Recognizing a specific type of fatigue and lethargy, I placed my hand over my liver. It was silent; I needed enzymes. Time to get creative. I asked Nurse Annie, who looked like a farm girl and might have an idea, to come closer.
"What do you need?" she asked. "Do you have some idea?"
I replied, "I need a little boost. This sounds weird, but do you know where I might find some poisonous spiders—black widows or brown recluses? I need a specific enzyme, and I get it from eating poisonous creatures. Scorpions would work too, but they must be alive."
She raised her eyebrows. "My cousin has a collection of poisonous creatures," she said. "I could ask him; he lives ten minutes away and always complains about having to get rid of them because they breed so well. Wait, a minute—I'll make a call."
I added, "I don't know if you can feel it, but place your hand over others' livers. You should feel a spark, energy, or almost vibrations, as you can't on mine; I'm silent."
From the next bed, Bran said tiredly, "Come here, Nurse. I have the enzymes; you can feel what you're looking for."
I nodded as she went to him. "You might want to add to your files who has enzymes and who doesn't—Samuel should know as well,"
I said. "I have no idea how long it'll take him to get here, or if he has enzymes, but if this is on record, he might be able to get some."
She nodded. "Oh wow, I can feel it. It's like a current under the skin," she said after placing her hand on Bran's liver.
She then proceeded to check the others: Mimosa had a little, Shadow had more, Mariella was almost as silent as I was, while Elena and Katherine seemed fine.
As Nurse Annie went to make a phone call, I knew I'd at least made progress on one problem. Keeping busy helped me avoid focusing on certain aspects of my life, like the dark, gnawing emptiness where my rage used to be.
The feeling of being incredibly dirty—raped, abused, beaten, tortured, and utterly defeated—was still present, along with the pain and fever that made me feel as though I might collapse.
Despite the assurances of my energy fae that my spark wouldn't extinguish, a lingering doubt remained. I didn't feel like a woman, and the thought of anyone touching me, other than in a clinical setting, was repulsive. I knew others shared this feeling.
It was best to take things one step at a time, tackling one problem at a time, and perhaps someday, confronting the ugliness head-on—either burying it or somehow finding the strength to deal with it. But that seemed unlikely; I was a burier, not a confronter, and my pack's recovery and healing took precedence over my own well-being.
My darkness, however, harbored thoughts of revenge, of torture, of planning the most horrific future for those bastards and the entire facility. I ensured others had vague memories—they'd passed out in the car—to minimize the information they could provide about the mine's location. And I would keep my mouth shut.