Filed To Story: Secret Shifters Next Door Series PDF Free
“How long?” he croaked.
Gripping his hand tighter, I said, “Five days.”
“Jesus.” He shook his head slightly.
A few minutes later, the doctor came in to check his vitals. I moved to the side. After consulting the chart, the doctor nodded. “Mr. Francis, it looks like you are a very lucky man. As long as everything looks good and continues on this path, I think we can discharge you in a couple of days.”
“Sounds great, Doc,” Dad rasped.
Once he was gone, Dad’s eyes slid over to me. “Cops?”
I sighed. “They’ve come a few times. They wanted to know what happened. Lilly Valley doesn’t typically have three gunshot victims come in one day. Your brothers did a good job spinning a tall tale. Some of them don’t believe a word of it, but your friends in the department got the gist. I think we’ll all be fine.”
He nodded. “And you said it was immoral to pay off cops.”
“Just because it works doesn’t mean it’s not immoral.”
He shrugged. “Say what you want. But it’s much more fun out of jail than in jail.” His face went serious. “What’s been going on while I was playing Sleeping Beauty?”
Sam walked in at that moment. I didn’t think I had the strength to talk about Blayne. I nodded toward my uncle. “Sam can tell you.”
Sam’s eyes brightened when he saw Dad was awake. “You old asshole. You’re too tough to die.”
“Enough flattery. How are things looking?”
“Cops are taken care of for the most part,” Sam said. “There’s a few questions still, but I think we’re in the clear. We were able to clean up the house and the lily field. Lots of bodies. We dumped the hunters up in the woods behind the house. I rented a backhoe and dug a big pit. Tossed their asses in there. Our own guys? Well…we had to hide their bodies. We’re gonna pay off their families. All we can tell them is that they died at work. We’re gonna take care of them. Pay off a few houses, college funds, stuff like that.”
“Tell me about the boy,” Dad said gruffly.
Sam’s eyes cut across the room to me. He cleared his throat. “Blayne isn’t great. He came in with a severe stab wound and a gunshot wound to the chest. Multiple organ injuries. He lost…a lot of blood. I spoke with Tate Mills. He saw the whole thing. Antonio tried using some kind of special armor-piercing ammo on him. They found them in the gun after the battle was over. Even that couldn’t penetrate Tate’s dragon hide, though. He turned his attention to Steff James. Blayne saw his friend was about to get killed and charged Antonio. He distracted him, and that fucker turned the gun on Blayne.
“Blayne got a good shot in. Tore half of Antonio’s face off with his claws before he got knocked out. Tate tells me Antonio stood and tried to stumble off while trying to hold his face together. Tate…uh…well, I guess dragon fire is really hot. There weren’t even any bones left.”
Dad nodded slowly. “Got what he deserved, the bastard.”
Hearing Sam talk about what had happened to Blayne made it all seem to happen again in my head. Like I was reliving that moment in the ER when Steff had come in, holding his body. I had to clamp my hands together to keep them from shaking.
“How are we handling Antonio being missing? What about the survivors of his group?” Dad asked.
Sam nodded and sat on the stool beside Dad’s bed. “We’ve got a few guys on our payroll in the FBI. Government knows about shifters. Obviously. They keep it under wraps to prevent panic. They also knew there was a hunter organization growing in power, but they couldn’t pin them down. We made an, uh, anonymous call to one of our guys who’s pretty high up the ladder. They found all the surviving members tied up in an abandoned grocery store three counties over.
“Our contact says almost all of them are showing signs of psychological exploitation. Said it’s like what they see with former and current cult members. They’re being evaluated. It’s been difficult keeping that hidden. Detaining a few hundred people without it getting out to the media is not easy. There’s gonna be a report coming out. Something the Feds cooked up to explain some of the rumors leaking out about Antonio vanishing. No mention of us, though.”
Dad released a long sigh. “Good. I guess it’s the best we could hope for. Are any of Blayne’s boys around?”
Sam nodded. “Tate’s down the hall. He’s been here every day, waiting on the doctors to okay visitors for Blayne.”
“I want to see him.”
Sam left and Dad looked over at me. “Are you okay? I mean, seriously?”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so. I’m glad you’re okay, but I don’t know what I’ll do if Blayne doesn’t pull through. Daddy, I’m scared.”
Tate stepped through the door a few seconds later. His hulking frame pushed through the curtain that hid the bed from the door. “Mr. Francis,” he said with a nod.
“Call me Gio. We’ve been through enough together to be on first-name terms.”
“All right. Gio. What can I do for you?” He spoke to Dad, but his sad, weary eyes were on me.
“I want to make sure you and your families are all okay.”
Tate shrugged. “My mate and kids came back. When I called and told them what went down, they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Same with Miles. Celina couldn’t get back fast enough when she heard he was hurt. Everyone is okay. Miles was only in the hospital for two days. Overall? We’re okay. Physically. Mentally?” He looked back toward the door. I knew he was thinking about Blayne. “We’ve been better,” he finished.
“Thanks. Go on, son,” Dad said. “Be with your friends. I appreciate all you and your men did.”
“Same for you. I don’t know that we would have made it without your men there at the battle. Get some rest.” Tate locked his eyes on mine. “Don’t give up hope. Blayne’s a fighter. He’s not going to give up. I promise you, he’ll pull through this.”
The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled from my lashes and down my cheeks. I nodded, unable to say anything.
Tate, looking sheepish, ducked out the door. I had the sneaking suspicion he was holding back his own tears.
I reached over and took Dad’s hand again as I wept. My father held my hand and said nothing. He let me do what I needed to do.
Two days later, the doctor said he could discharge Dad, but he’d be on bed rest for at least a week and then physical therapy
for a month. The doc said he could resume his chemotherapy in a week.
“Thank God,” Dad said when the doctor left. “I’m tired of this bed and the crap they call food here. It’s awful. I can’t wait to get a nice greasy cheeseburger.”
“Nope. You didn’t survive a gunshot wound to die of a coronary. We’ll get something at least a little healthy,” I said.
His shoulders slumped. “Hell.”
I smiled. Hearing him grumble usually irritated me, but grumbling meant he was alive and getting better. I’d take a thousand days of grumbling and complaining versus the rest of my life without it.
That afternoon, a nurse came to help Dad get dressed and onto a wheelchair to take him to the car. As he nestled himself gingerly into the chair, Dad glanced at me.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Dad said. “You need to come home. You can’t keep staying here. It isn’t healthy, and all you’re doing is punishing yourself. They know to call you if anything changes. I promise. Blayne would tell you the same thing.”
Holding back another round of tears, I said, “I just wish they’d let us see him. It almost feels like he’s already gone.”
“Stop that. When he wakes up, they’ll let you in to see him.”
When. Dad said
when, not
if. I clung to that word, rolling it over in my head again and again on the drive back home. The more I said it, the more I tried to make myself believe that it was true.
Back home, I was shocked to see that the house was almost totally fixed up. It had been over a week. I’d slept, showered, and eaten at the hospital, not realizing they’d started fixing up the damage.
Marissa was there with a warm lunch for all of us. I was relieved to see she was fine and hadn’t been injured.
The bullet holes had been patched, paint had been applied, bloody and torn carpets had been replaced. The house had the sharp smell of new construction. I gawked at it. The last time I’d been there, it had looked like something out of a Vietnam War film.
Dad ate like a man possessed, but I couldn’t do more than pick at my food. My mind was on Blayne. How could I eat when he was fighting for his life?
The rest of the day, I tried to keep my mind off him by taking care of Dad. He went to bed early. I couldn’t sit around with my thoughts, so I took a sleeping pill and went to bed at eight. Settling into a real bed after sleeping in a chair for a week felt like the height of luxury, and I fell asleep almost instantly.
The pill, the exhaustion, and the bed did their job. I slept for over twelve hours, waking only when the insistent blare of my cell phone tugged me out of a deep sleep.
I pulled the phone off my night stand. It was Tate. All remnants of sleep vanished and I sat up in bed, heart racing. Was something wrong? I didn’t want to think about that. I answered before I could psych myself out.
“Hello?” I croaked.
“Ava?” Tate’s voice sounded heavy with emotion. “Ava…he’s awake.”
My mouth fell open. Relief washed over me like ice on a burn, a salve on an exposed nerve. Never had two words meant so much.
I couldn’t answer him. I wept sobs of happiness. Through the phone, I thought I could hear Tate crying, too.
THIRTY-ONE
BLAYNE
When my eyes fluttered open, I had a moment where I thought I was dead. There was a bright light above my head. Everything around me was white and deathly quiet. I could hear the ragged intake of my breath. It was only when I heard the nurse gasp that my vision cleared and I realized the light was only a fluorescent bulb above me. The white was the paint on the ceiling. Then I could hear the faint beeping of machines.
My body felt strangely heavy. It took more effort than it should have for me to raise my head. The nurse was leaning out the door, calling for the doctor.
When I rested my head back on the pillow, I was overcome with fatigue. Lifting my head alone had made me feel like I’d run two Ironman races back to back. My eyes closed again, and sleep took me.
I woke up again when the doctor opened my eyelids a few minutes later. He flashed a small penlight at my eyes, and it sent a spike of pain into my brain.
“Mr. Walker? Can you hear me?” the doctor asked, his voice very low and calm.
There wasn’t enough strength to nod, and when I tried to talk, no sound came out but a whispery rasp. He put a
hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay. Take your time. You’ve been unconscious for a week. It’ll take some time for your vocal cords to work.” He turned and looked at the nurse. “Is his friend still out in the waiting room?”
“I don’t think he’s left all week,” she said.
“Okay. Go let him know Mr. Walker is awake. We’ll need to test his vitals before we can allow any other visitors.”
“Ava?” I hissed.
“I’m sorry?” The doctor leaned down to hear me better.
I swallowed and tried again. “Ava?”
He frowned and looked a bit confused. Finally, he patted my chest. “I’m sure your friend will contact everyone and let them know how you’re doing. First things first, let’s see how you’re doing.”
For the next hour, they checked my wounds, my blood pressure, respiratory rate, oximetry, and a dozen other things I couldn’t even comprehend. Apparently everything checked out. After they took out my feeding tube, they moved me to another room. It was much less austere and as homey as a hospital room could get. That little change was enough to raise my spirits. I was still exhausted, feeling like I’d been hit by a bus, but I was starting to feel better.