CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“ Clear!” someone yelled, and the white glare slammed through me again. Someone was still cursing raggedly. A babble of voices. “Get him out of here!”

“Dru? Dru, hold on. Just hold on.”

“She’s still bleeding. Why isn’t she healing?”

“Exhaustion, and she’s not fully bloomed. Her blood pressure’s dropping. Where’s that other sliver?

They keep disappearing.”

“Fragging ammo. Hate that.”

“Let’s hope none of them punctured her heart. Pericardium seems intact, but she’s fading. We can’t

get claret in her fast enough—”

“Transfuse me.” Cold and calm, Christophe’s voice.

“We can’t. It could kill her, we haven’t typed her yet—” Finally, another voice I recognized. Bruce’s

English accent.

“Then get out.” Christophe sounded furious. Funny how he just got quiet and icy, kind of like Dad.

Only it hurt, when Christophe spoke like that. Dad’s mad voice never hurt me because if he used it I

knew he wasn’t angry at me. He never was.

“What are you—”

“You can’t—”

“I said get out. I am not losing her.”

“She’s not even bloomed yet!” Bruce sounded deathly tired. I tried to open my eyes, failed, and

heard a whimper. Someone was having a bad day.

Gran’s voice, quiet and final, echoed through my cotton-stuffed skull. Dru, honey, that someone is

you.

A silent thundercrack, and I saw the room in the lightning flash.

It was another stone-walled infirmary cell. A weird directionless silver light drifted like snow, lying

over every surface with a powder bloom like moth wings. I stood there quietly and heard machines

booping and beeping. A small shape lay on the bed, djamphir clustered around. Bruce faced

Christophe, Arab Boy a little taller but Christophe looking bigger because of the vibrating rage

bleeding out from him in every direction.

Metal dropped into a pan. “Saline!” someone snapped. “Wash that clean, dammit! Let’s get this

closed up; she’s still losing blood!”

“Blood pressure still dropping. Take it outside, Kouroi, we’re trying to save her.”

“I know what will save her.” Christophe half-turned and shoved toward the white-draped figure on

the table. The thudding vibrating through me paused.

Bruce grabbed his arm, and someone yelled, “She’s coding again! Clear!”

A glare filled my vision, but not before I saw the head of the figure on the table, face turned to the

side and with plastic tubing in its nose. Dark curly hair lay tangled wildly against the operating table, and I saw my eyes were fluttering as if I dreamed. My skin was chalk-white, and Bruce was on

the floor.

“Touch me again,” Christophe said quietly, “and it will be your last act in life.” He shoved aside

two dark-haired, lanky djamphir in white coats who were fiddling with the machines, and I saw a

huge flayed mess where my left shoulder should be. The blood was almost black. I wasn’t seeing