I dropped by the body and searched for a pulse on his neck. A vein fluttered under my fingertips, weak, so weak. My hand came away red. He was bleeding and with all the damn fur, I didn’t even know where.

I began to chant, pulling the magic to me. Whatever little healing I could do was better than nothing. Come on. Come on!

Doolittle lay unmoving. He hadn’t turned, which meant he was still alive. It also meant Lyc-V didn’t have enough juice to change his shape. He was dying.

No, no, God damn it. I chanted, putting all of my magic into the healing. Without knowing what the injury was, all I could do was hold on to him. I wasn’t a medmage, but I had raw power.

George stood next to me, tears running down her face. “Save him. You have to save him.”

I chanted, focused on the body and the fragile weak shiver of life inside it. It pulled me in, drawing me deeper and deeper, until it was just me and the weak fragile spark of Doolittle’s life. I cradled it with my magic, trying to anchor it.

Magic boiled inside me, sucked into Doolittle’s body in a painful whirlpool. It felt like my flesh was ripping off my bones.

“How is he?” Aunt B asked, far away.

A shadow loomed over us. I caught a glimpse of dark fur—Mahon towered by me.

Doolittle’s body shuddered. A tremor shook his limbs. Slowly the fur melted. The medmage drew a hoarse breath. Blood slipped from his bruised lips.

Doolittle’s kind eyes stared at me, bloodshot and glassy. “Broken spine.” His breath came out whistling. His voice was weak and hoarse, barely a whisper.

Shit. Shapeshifters healed broken limbs, but a broken spine was a different story. “Don’t talk. Did you bring any tank powder with you, Doctor?” It was the same powder used for the solution in which Maddie rested back home.

Doolittle smiled, a weak sad smile. My heart broke.

“Yes.”

“Get the tank.”

“What?” George bent over me.

“Find the powder for the healing solution and get the tank ready.”

“We don’t have a tank!”

“Use whatever you can find.” It wasn’t the tank that mattered, but the solution inside it.

I heard her tear through the room, throwing debris out of the way.

“It won’t help. C2 and C3 are fractured.”

Cervical vertebrae. The higher the number, the closer to the skull and the worse the injury. “Don’t talk.”

“C4 is crushed,” the medmage whispered. “Spinal cord damaged. It hurts to breathe.”

I resumed chanting, pulling the magic to me in a desperate rush. His neck wasn’t just broken. Broken would be okay. The fight had flattened Doolittle’s neck. The crucial upper vertebrae had shattered, cutting the link between his brain and his body. He was shutting down.