Excerpt:
Chapter One
I have watched hundreds of humans suffer through their transformation
from human to Old One. Some say I am an expert in this, but I would
dispute that. I don’t think there are any experts. Too little is
known about the transformation process for anyone to claim the status.
The experience I have lets me ease my patients’ agony a little, and
avoids harming them in the process. But no skill of mine changes the course of
the transformation by a single micron.
I watched Henry Magorian writhe and twist on the bed I stood beside,
reviewing my uselessness, and finding it ironic that I was so helpless.
Henry was Benjamin Magorian’s older brother, and a slimey wretch of a
man. Yet he was my patient. I was required to give him the best care
possible. His family had flown us out to Montreal from Toledo, Spain, on
a private and very expensive jet, for this purpose.
Pain is pain. I hated seeing the man claw at the expensive
sheets, the tendons in his neck and wrists standing out like ships’ hawsers.
He wore only boxer briefs and his entire body was bathed in sweat.
He had been sweating for hours, now. We had changed the sheets
twice.
I made myself look away. Watching him helped no one. I put the
stethascope on the tray table the family had thoughtfully provided and looked
at Jaimie.
She held her hands out over Henry’s body, just above the thrashing
shoulders, concentrating on whatever information travelled through her palms.
I wasn’t certain what she could detect, for the mystery of fae magic was
not readily shared by any of them.
Jaimie wore her thick pale hair up in a pony tail at the back of her
head, which allowed her pointed ears to be seen. Normally, she was
careful to drape her hair over her ears when among humans, but we’d long since
passed that consideration. We’d been in this room for nearly thirty
hours, and members of the family had stopped stepping in to check on their
cousin/uncle.
She held her flawless face in a stiff, neutral expression. She
was not allowing herself to show how worried she was. But I’d had seen
too many transitions. I was worried myself.
“He’s fighting it,” I said.
Jaimie looked up, then back down at her patient. “Yes.”
It was the first time either of us had said it, although I think we’d
both guessed as soon as we’d walked into the elegant pale blue and cream room.
The family had bundled all three of us, including Ben, onto a jet on
standby at Toledo’s small private landing field, the moment Henry Magorian had
shown the first signs of transition. It had taken nine hours to reach Montreal,
plus an hour at either end for local travel and ten minutes of lightning-speed
packing.
So we had first seen Henry over eleven hours after he had begun
transitioning, and we’d been here, save for small cat naps in the bedroom next
door, for thirty hours.
Forty hours, more or less, and he still showed no physical changes.
Henry kicked and moaned, then curled up into a tight ball.
“I can take away the pain. A little, at least,” Jaimie said. Her
voice was strained. She had slept less than I. Fae could reduce
pain by breathing in bad humours—which was not a medieval conceit for them.
It wasn’t as effective as an angel breathing on the patient, but it did
work.
“You know the danger in that.” We’d both learned that reducing the pain
too much let the patient relax. The transition required that they move,
so that the metabolism was elevated, allowing the organs to evolve. The
extreme fever was another function of the transition. It was the mechanism that
changed the patient’s DNA expression, the key to the transition. Lowering
the body temperature could suspend the transition, too.
Jaimie put her fingers to her temples. She had no medical
training in her human history. She had been a soldier in the British army.
It was only her transition to a fae that made health work feasible.
She was less used to watching a patient suffer than I, although she would
always find it stressful, no matter how used to it she became. We all
did, despite a hardening of one’s empathy once exposed to too much of it.
“He should have changed by now.” Her voice wavered. “I
don’t know of anyone taking this long.”
“I have seen some cases last this long,” I said grimly. I didn’t
add the remainder of that statement—that everyone who had fought their
transition for this long did not survive. Jaimie didn’t need that
additional worry. It was quite likely she was well aware of this
statistic. I just didn’t want to bring it to the forefront of her
thoughts.
“Is there anything else we can do?” Her wonderful silvery eyes were
red-rimmed, but still worth staring into. Even after thirty hours of hard
work and worry, even wearing the travel creased clothing she’d arrived in and
slept in, she looked wonderful.
I pushed away the betraying thought and tried to find an answer to her
question, for the fear in her voice was real. It wasn’t fear of death.
She had been a soldier and now was a fae who dispensed magical healing.
She was accustomed to death.
I knew the source of her fear. This was Henry Magorian.
Ben’s brother. Jaimie did not want to let Ben down. She wanted
to save Henry for him.
So did I, even though I had learned to loathe Henry not long after
meeting him.
I’d sent Ben out of the room hours ago. His pacing and his
unhelpful suggestions, along with his anxious questions every time Henry moaned
or moved, had not helped either Jaimie or I concentrate. As far as I
knew, Ben was in the next room and, as it was two in the morning, Toledo time,
he was probably sleeping, even though bright summer sunlight streamed through the
windows.
It was eight in the evening, Quebec time, on a blazingly hot day, but
none of the external weather reached us, for this house had a controlled
environment kept at a pleasant twenty-three degrees with just the right degree
of humidity. The window of the room we were in had remained closed and
sealed against the heat outside. The view from the window was magnificent, for
the house stood high upon the exlsuive Summit area, with a jaw-dropping view of
the Old City and the St. Lawrence river twinkling on the horizon.
The Magorian family could afford the luxury of whole-house
environmental controls, just as they could afford private transatlantic
flights, and bribes to ease an Old One through two nations’ customs and
immigration border checks.
Ben had insisted that they make the arrangements to bring Jaimie into
the country. He had argued that Jaimie could help Henry as much as I
could. The family, desparate as they were, had complied, although I had no idea
what it had taken to make it happen. Canada was particular about who they
let into their country, especially when it came to the Old Ones. Unlike
Spain, Canada had so far refused refugees, although there were many unofficial
refugees flooding across the Canada/United Stated border. Canada was not
xenophobic, though. It was the first country in the world to acknowledge
the Old Ones legally.
Here, Old Ones were not automatically considered “dead” after turning.
They were in a legal limbo, still, but the assets they’d held as a human,
and might acquire as an Old One, were also held in legal stasis, rather than
passed onto heirs. It was a half-step toward giving Old Ones full
citizenship, or at least residency, and the rights and obligations that came
with it. The government was still arguing the point in Ottawa.
But Jaimie, despite a lack of indentity documentation, had merely
received a nod of acknowledgement from the customs official who had stamped
Ben’s and my passports. I had spotted a photograph of Jaimie attached to
his clipboard.
She stared at me now, hope showing in her eyes, as I appeared to be
thinking of another way to save Henry Magorian.
I desparately wanted to come up with a solution. I wanted her to
look at me with relief and gratitude. I wanted her to….well, that was never
going to happen. But still, I wanted to please her.
So I made myself consider every single possibility. What had we
not done for this horrible man? What else could we try?
I stared down at his curled up body. If he continued to fight the
transition, it would not end well. Did he know that? Did he resent
the idea of becoming an Old One so passionately, that he was putting up this
marathon resistance?
That gave me an idea. I looked at Jaimie. “It’s a long
shot.”
“I don’t care.”
That was exactly what I had expected her to say. “That thing Ben
did, in New York, with the proto-wizard?”
“The mind meld?” She didn’t smile at the pop culture name we’d adopted
for whatever it was that Ben had done to the man, as she usually did. She
was a huge Star Trek fan, which I found, well, illlogical, given her former
profession. Or perhaps that was exactly why she liked the show so much.
A professional soldier would appreciate a peaceful utopia. “What
of it?” she added.
“If he could reach Henry, he could tell him to stop fighting the
transition.”
Jaimie looked down at Henry, who certainly couldn’t hear us now. “Do you
think he doesn’t already know that?”
“He quite likely does know that. But Henry likes to get his own
way.” He’d fooled Ben into signing over his portion of the family
inheritence because he didn’t like Ben’s choice of lifestyle. “If Ben
could appeal to him, let him see…” I made myself say it. “Let him
see that if he doesn’t let this happen, he’ll die. Henry’s sense of self-preservation
might kick in.”
Jaimie pressed her lips together. She hadn’t met Henry, but I’m
sure Ben had shared with her the reason why he had to rely on his income as a
wizard, when his family was so well off.
“I’ll go and get him,” she said. “A long shot is better than
the nothing we’ve got without it.”
