Page 43 of Hunted

“So she’s pretty pissed?”

Brody rubbed a hand over his stubble, pacing across the small room and back. “Pissed doesn’t cover the half of it. You should have heard her screaming at Guillermo on the phone out in the waiting room. Security started advancing on her, this nineteen-year-old kid who I swear just started shaving yesterday, and who cleared his throat all official like he was going to throw her out.”

“God, please tell me someone got video of that.”

He snorted, then glowered. “Ethan did and you don’t get to see it. You’re on my shit list for the next year.”

“Okay.”

“Two years.”

“Understood.”

“What the hell were you thinking, River?” Brody’s hard blue eyes flashed Alpha gold. “It’s like you get out in the field and you always have to go and be the hero. Who gives a rat’s ass if you put yourself at risk or scare the crap out of the people who care about you?”

“That wasn’t what I was doing.”

“Bullshit.” He got up in my face.

Simon politely cleared his throat. “I’m going to need to ask you to step out, Alpha. With all due respect, this is my patient and the instructions were only calm conversations for the next forty-eight hours.”

“Yeah. I’m almost done, and then you can stick a probe anywhere you want.”

Simon sighed.

“Bastard.” I flipped Brody off.

“Count on it.” He looked away, voice suddenly rough. “You scared the crap out of us, Riv. You and I don’t always see eye to eye, so I don’t say this to you often enough, but I don’t know what we’d ever do if something happened to you.”

And with that, he pushed through the cheap hospital curtains and left me alone. Simon proceeded with the neurological exam, taking me through a battery of tests while making intermittent notes on a tablet. I frowned, less concerned about my ability to count backwards from one hundred in sevens or recall the day of the week than I was over the fact that the ever present background chatter of voices in my head was still distorted, like a radio that I couldn’t quite tune to any particular channel. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to focus on Simon’s thoughts, to see what he was writing about me on the tablet, and only managed to make a monitor by my bedside trill in alarm.

“Your heartrate just spiked.” Simon leaned over to hit some buttons on the machine. The blood pressure cuff began to fill. “Try to relax. Any headache, nausea?”

“Yes.” I swallowed. “And… the voices in my head have gone quiet. Maybe quiet isn’t the right word. They’re distorted. I can still hear them, but I can’t make anything out. Something’s wrong.”

He made more notes in my file, finally setting the tablet aside. “I’ve been consulting with the head neurology specialist the Tracers have up in Dallas. They’re on their way down here as we speak. You experienced heightened intracranial pressure following the incident that occurred out in the field. We’ve been draining off cerebrospinal fluid and administering anticonvulsants. Your last set of scans showed improvement. We’re hopeful that with enhanced shifter regeneration, you should make a full recovery.”

“When will I be cleared to go back into the field?”

He hesitated. “I’m not a neurologist.”

“Ballpark it.”

He pulled a plastic chair over to the side of my bed. “Neural manipulator traumatic brain injuries are underreported and often not taken seriously enough because their superiors are too quick to get them back on duty. This then turns a serious temporary injury into a permanent one. While I’m primarily a surgeon, I read all the shifter-specific medical papers that are published each year, and I would advise you to take time off.”

“That… may be difficult considering the current climate.”

Simon folded his arms. “I put people back together in the operating room every day. Shapeshifters are absolutely the worst patients. We get the idea in our head that enhanced regeneration means invincible and I can tell you that we’re just as mortal as vampires and humans.” He raised an eyebrow. “There’s also a young lady out in the waiting room who has been pacing a hole in the carpet for the past five hours. Pretty sure she’d like to see you stick around for a while.”

“Can she come in here? Just for a minute?”

“Five minutes. And only if you keep your blood pressure and heartrate down.”

“Simon? How’s August?”

His mouth thinned. “This was a bad attack. We’re still running tests. We should know more in a few hours.”

“Is he stable?”