Vice and Void (The Savage Wolves Brotherhood #1)

28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Dakota

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, found in an alley downtown,” a mender said as he and his colleague rolled the gurney into the bay. They lined the gurney parallel with the Guildhall’s stretcher, and Dakota watched from the foot of the bed as Thalia and a second mender named Garrett reached over to hold onto the sheets the man laid on.

“Gods, what is that smell?” Garrett asked, wrinkling his nose against the sour stench filling the room.

Thalia jutted her chin toward the man’s chest. “Vomit. And lots of it.”

Garrett’s nose wrinkled further as he yanked the man over to the stretcher before immediately taking his shears from his back pocket. “Let’s just…” He trailed off as he set the hem of the shirt between the blades and snipped the shirt in half with three quick slices. The shears were placed on a small metal procedure table behind him.

Thalia reached toward the monitor and pulled down a set of wires, quickly attaching them to the stickers Garrett had placed on his chest. Dakota wound to the head of the stretcher as she tugged on a pair of gloves.

“Any witnesses?” she asked the menders who drove the man to the Guildhall. She bent down to assess the back of the patient’s head, gently prodding the deep laceration coating his hair in blood. Her stomach flipped, and she shook her head to loosen the memory of Dominic’s unseeing yet trusting eyes staring up at her.

“None,” one of the menders answered, handing the clipboard to James, who signed off on the arrival with a quick scribble of his pen. “A couple found him like this. Don't know how long he was down. Surrounded by broken beer bottles, too.”

“Assault, then?” James inquired as he tucked through the crowd to join Dakota at the head of the bed.

The mender at the door of the bay shrugged. “That’s what we assumed. The part of town he was found in isn’t one I would be caught wandering through.”

Dakota worked to part his hair, which was made more difficult by the blood clotting and drying against his locks. That familiar black smoke curling from his injury didn’t help. The man didn’t grimace.

“What do you—“ James started but immediately stopped when Dakota exposed a sliver of the scalp beneath the matting.

The marking looks simple and raised. It often passes as a mole unless you know what you’re looking for . Callum had told her about the Vitals, about the humans who contained Kynetos’s magic in their blood. And that’s what she stared at. The marking was innocuously brown, the size of a small coin, and slightly raised off the skin. If she looked closely, the patterning of the dips and swirls within the mark itself wasn’t a natural occurrence on the human body. It looked like a nebula or perhaps its own unique constellation.

“He’s one,” James murmured to Dakota under his breath. Thalia kept working beside them, though Dakota saw her ear awkwardly angle toward them. “A Vital.” Gods, she wished anything else for this man.

“What did you say, Alchemist?” Thalia asked as she tightened the blood pressure cuff around the man’s upper arm and pressed a series of buttons on the monitor. The hum of the cuff inflating split the tension like a white-hot knife.

“Asking for his vitals,” James recovered in an impressively quick turnaround. “Before we begin administering the healing distills to the back of his head.”

Thalia rattled them off, but Dakota wasn't paying attention. Her focus was singular—the marking. She felt James’s stare burrowing a hole into the side of her temple, and with trembling fingers that didn’t feel connected to her body, she slid her hand into her pocket and retrieved the small vial of Healing.

“Who is this?” a male voice ordered from the doorway, and Dakota bobbled the vial in her palm.

“John, what a surprise,” James said with a tight smile that was too weak at the corners to be genuine. “What brings you to the Guildhall?”

Her father rested his hand on the end of his gun, eyeing the man on the stretcher with an uninterested disgust that only he could manage. “I’m down two deputies. Until we can train replacements, I’ll take on more responsibility.”

James nodded. “I understand Ethan left the city. Who is the second?”

“Left the city, my ass,” John scoffed with a shake of his head. “Ethan was my most loyal deputy. And no one has heard a damn word since, including his family. The second was Dominic Sinclair.” He took a deep breath that widened his chest and lifted his shoulders. “Didn’t report back following the end of his shift two days ago. We found his patrol unit near a factory on the edge of town. No sign of him. We’ve sent a few search parties out, but so far, nothing.”

James clicked his tongue against his teeth. “That’s awful, Ranger. I apologize.” Dakota didn’t look up from her work, preferring to watch the Healing distill steadily drip onto the man’s gash. With every stitch of bridging fibrous skin, the black mist faded. “These are trying times with everything going on in Blackdon. Foul play, I assume?”

“You assume correctly. Cameras around the city show someone in a mask and gloves driving the unit, but the factory where it was deposited doesn’t have cameras.” John gestured toward the man still passed out on the stretcher. “Does he have a name?”

“No identification,” Garrett replied as Dakota replaced the cork on the vial and tossed the disposable dropper into the trash can. “I’ve already checked for a wallet.”

John’s expression remained impassive. “Not going to say a word to me, are you?”

Dakota finally lifted her gaze, connecting with her father’s cold, hard stare. “I’m ensuring the skin is healing correctly. My patient takes precedence.” She said it with a confidence that wasn't intact, and Thalia sent her a small smile of encouragement.

John Montgomery took another step inside the trauma bay, and the room was suddenly too small. His narrowed eyes didn’t leave hers. “I’m taking the patient into custody.” He reached to retrieve the handcuffs Dakota knew he always kept there when Thalia blocked his path with an easy step in front of him.

Thalia looked up at him expectantly, her head cocked in silent question.

“I would suggest you get out of the way before I arrest you for obstructing a Ranger,” John said quietly. Dakota heard the lethal edge to his voice, something that still made her spine go ramrod straight at the sound.

Thalia’s innocent smile widened. “We’ve done this dance before. We don’t need to do it again.” She pointed toward the hallway that would take him to the automatic doors at the entrance. “If you want to arrest my patient, you need a warrant.”

“He could be dangerous,” John replied. Dakota recognized it as an attempt to reason with Thalia, but the mender seemed to catch on to that, too.

“Knocked out with a head injury? I think I’ll take my chances.”

A groan rumbled from the stretcher, and Dakota glanced down to see the man beginning to shift. His head rolled back and forth, a grimace clouding the calm expression on his face. He slowly lifted his arm, flopping a hand onto his belly. He let out another pain-filled groan.

Dakota’s brow knitted together as she glanced up at James. “His injury is healed he shouldn’t be—“ Her gaze trailed down the length of his nose, his chin, his throat, his chest until it finally landed on the side of his abdomen, where a web of thick black had begun to creep upward beneath his skin. She rounded the stretcher and reached to pinch the right half of the vomit-stained shirt away from his side, noting the beginning of a deep purple bruise that wrapped toward his back. “He’s bleeding.”

“Bleeding?” James asked harshly, turning away from John Montgomery and tugging on a pair of gloves. “Bleeding from where?”

Dakota swallowed as she pressed the tips of her fingers into his side, feeling the unnatural tenseness of his abdominal wall. Her breath hitched in her throat as her gaze darted toward Garrett. “We need an X-ray, then call the operating room. Tell them to open a case for a…”

“What are you seeing that I’m not, Dakota?” James said firmly but not unkindly. His stare sharpened as his eyes wandered the man’s chest.

“I—I—“ Dakota began. How could she tell James about her shadows? Would he think she was crazy? But the black tar meant death if the second injury wasn't fixed soon. She lifted the torn piece of his shirt again, tracing a finger against the dark webbing. “Bruising on the flank. Pain and cold sweat.” She pointed to the man’s brow, where a glistening sheen had broken out against his hairline and upper lip.

“Garrett and Thalia, help Dakota turn him onto his side so I can take a better look.”

“Yes, Alchemist,” Garrett said as he hung up the phone. “The techs are on their way for the X-ray.”

“Excellent. Thalia?” James glanced over his shoulder. “Care to join us?”

“Yes, Alchemist,” Thalia said through gritted teeth before shifting away from John Montgomery. She sent him one final scowl and sidled up to Garrett, grasping onto the man’s leg.

“Dakota, mind his neck—yes, that’s perfect. Okay, Garrett, peel his shirt back so I can assess the—Dakota, can you see this?”

Keeping her hands in place to stabilize the man’s neck, Dakota peered over his shoulder. A bootprint was stamped on the man’s side, a blossom of purple and blue blooming into color beneath his skin. And there, latched into the center like a necrotic plague, was where the black poison grew from.

“Internal bleeding,” James confirmed before looking up at Dakota. “How did you know?”

She remained silent as they laid the man flat, who let out another groan before coughing. Blood splashed onto his chest and dribbled down the end of his chin.

“Thalia, while we’re getting the picture of his abdomen, please call the operating room to confirm surgical intervention.”

Thalia nodded as she twisted on the toes of her sneakers and flew toward the phone. Her voice was a drone among the monitors' beeps and the bustle of menders walking past the trauma bay. John Montgomery stood stationary, his narrow-eyed stare anchored to Dakota’s face.

“’Scuse me,” a female said from the doorway. Her pink-painted nails tapped against the handle of the X-ray machine. “I need to get through.”

“Ranger, why don’t you come back later?” James said politely, though the heavy-handedness of his question was evident through his firm tone. “This has become a precarious situation requiring critical attention. Your presence is no longer necessary.”

John opened his mouth as though he certainly had something to say about that but then closed it with a slight smirk. “Of course, Alchemist. I’ll be sure to look for your report later this afternoon.” His boots fell heavy against the tiled floor as he sauntered toward the entrance. He didn’t stop for an oncoming stretcher, forcing the mender steering to screech to a halt.

A knowing silence fell between James and Dakota as they stepped from the trauma bay for the technician to take the x-ray. Thalia’s arms were crossed tightly over her chest, and Dakota could feel the attempts to catch her eye like a scrap against her cheek.

"We have to turn him into the Guard,” James finally said as Thalia re-entered the bay to tap the monitor. The blood pressure cuff began to hum as it inflated. “We don’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice,” Dakota argued. The x-ray machine, along with the technician, exited the room. “Turning him in will…we already know what's happening at the prison. How can we hand him over when—“

James stepped back from the doorway as a set of menders in navy blue uniforms and cloth caps joined Thalia at the man’s bedside. “In the last three weeks, we’ve lied on the paperback twice.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “If we don’t give them someone soon, they will send someone to check our work.”

“I have connections. I have people who can—“

“This is not up for discussion,” James retorted. Extremely uncomfortable was the only way to describe him now. “I’m sorry, but…we need to stay alive, too.”

One of the navy-uniformed surgical suite menders tugged the monitor from where it was bracketed to the wall, setting it and the subsequent wires at the end of the stretcher. The other unlocked the wheels with a kick that clanked through the trauma bay.

“Which of you is coming with us?” the first mender asked as the stretcher was pushed into the hallway. “We need an alchemist to administer the distillations directly to the injury once the surgeon opens the abdomen and evacuates the blood.”

James nodded his head. “I’ll be coming with you.”

“Sir, I can—“

“Go home early, Dakota. Get some rest.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Let me bear the burden of this one.”

If grief or remorse ate at him, James was a master of masking it. Dakota watched as he trailed after the team of menders, already lifting his cell phone to his ear.

Dakota couldn’t go home. Couldn’t be left to her own thoughts.

Dominic Sinclair was a ghost haunting her. Dakota could see him in the blood dripping from even the smallest wounds, in the rattling breath of the dying old man who was brought to the Guildhall, and in the vial of Pain she returned to the distillery at the end of the afternoon. She saw him in her father’s triumphant smirk as the man was escorted from the post-operative suite with his hands cuffed behind his back.

Gathering her belongings in her arms, she shoved through the distillery door and walked toward the parking lot. Thalia’s lips parted as Dakota passed by the mender’s desk but pressed them together after reading whatever dark expression lingered on Dakota’s face.

What was it this time? Grief? Shame? Revulsion? Remorse? They ticked through her, taking turns etching messages into her mind that Dakota knew would be there for the rest of her life. She knew Dominic was innocent. Saw it in the depths of his gaze. And she killed him anyway.

With her eyes trained on the cracks in the blacktop, hoping that one would yawn wide for her to fall into, she almost didn’t notice who leaned against the driver’s door of her car. Not until she came close enough to see the toes of white sneakers and hear the rumble of a motorcycle above the crows cawing from their perches on the lampposts.

Aftershave and mint flooded her, clenching her stomach and sending her traitorous heart pounding in her chest. Finally, she looked up with a heavy breath that still wasn't enough to fill her lungs completely.

“You haven’t been answering your phone,” Callum said, his gaze searching hers. “I had to send Rocco to make sure you weren’t dead in a fucking ditch somewhere.”

Dakota stuck her hand into the opening of her canvas bag to pull out her car keys. “I told you. I’m done.”

“You’ve said that before.”

She clicked the button on the key fob, and her car unlocked with a series of dull clacks. “And now I mean it.” She went quiet, waiting for him to step aside. Once she realized he had no intention of leaving, she sighed. “I put in a transfer request to return to Blackdon.”

Callum’s perfectly placed mask remained indifferent, but he gave himself away when he shifted his feet and cleared his throat. “So that’s it then?”

“Callum—“

“Fuck Lyra? Fuck our deal? Fuck me?” His voice sharpened with every question, peppered with a temperate anger that Dakota hated she could still identify after all these years. He straightened, no longer using her car as a hip rest.

Dakota attempted to reach past him to grasp the handle of her car door, but his tattooed hand shot out to clasp around her forearm. A shiver built in the base of her spine when she saw her inked name so close to her skin. “What do you want me to say?” she asked, wrenching her wrist from his grip.

Callum’s gray eyes flashed as his hand curled around the back of her neck, pinning her in place. “You came back to this town and into my life like a fucking storm. And the moment shit gets real, you’re on the fucking run again.”

“This is different,” Dakota retorted. She pressed her hands against his chest to shove him away, but his strength held fast against her own. “I—I murdered someone.” The last words were spoken in a hushed whisper. Even the gods wouldn’t know what she had done if she didn't voice it too loud.

Callum huffed a mirthless chuckle that scraped against the defenses surrounding her heart. He leaned over her, his black t-shirt brushing the zipper of her jacket. His breath was on her cheek, bolts of electricity spearing between them. His thumb pressed into the notch at the base of her throat, the callouses on his palm heating her skin.

“I’ve killed dozens, maybe even hundreds. I don’t even fucking know anymore. And I would do it again in a heartbeat. I would claw my way from the bottom of that fucking pile if it meant getting back to you.”

He let her go, and a whoosh of air escaped on an exhale that she didn’t mean to release. Loose stones and gravel crunched under his sneakers as he walked toward his motorcycle. Dakota’s gaze tracked him, and her brows lifted when she spotted a familiar backpack settled on the seat.

“We’re going to Blackdon,” Callum said as he grabbed the two helmets next to the backpack, holding one out for her. “I’ve got business there tomorrow. I already stopped at Lyra’s to pack you a bag.”

A sound of disbelief rose from her throat. “I’m not going with you. I’ve got—“

“What? You’ve got what?” he interrupted. “A night of drinking wine and binge-watching trashy TV shows? Come with me. Let’s put all of this shit behind us.” His eyes softened, his voice turning to a plea she knew she couldn’t escape. “For one night. For one fucking night, I want to pretend the last twelve years never happened. For one night, I want to see what life could have been like for us.”

She should have gone to Lyra’s. She should have been in her car so fast that a trail of dust kicked up beneath her tires. She should have…but she couldn’t. Her feet carried her first, a single step forward followed by a sag of relief so obvious on Callum’s face that it only hastened her further.

One night. She could do one single night. To show herself it wouldn’t have worked. To tell her eighteen-year-old self that he didn’t give a shit if she bled out on the bathroom floor. To prove that he meant nothing and that what they once meant was nothing.

One night. She could do one night.