Page 22 of Anatomy of the Immortal Species
One hand over the wheel, the other clutching his phone, Zacharia dialled Constantine. “Mikhail’s wounded. I’m taking him to the Hospital now. Amelia’s with me. There might have been witnesses. Blood, too. Can you handle it?”
There was a brief pause before the necromancer’s voice responded, cold and efficient. “Where?”
“Sending the address now.” Zacharia’s fingers moved swiftly, sending the location.
“I was going to take him to a human hospital,” Amelia said, her voice tight. “I didn’t think you’d make it in time.”
Zacharia didn’t respond. He knew nothing of medicine, but thesight of Mikhail’s blood-soaked body spoke volumes. He pushed the car forward, fighting through the gridlocked traffic inch by inch.
“It was a reptilian. He wanted to take me, but Mikhail…”
Zacharia caught Amelia’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. “We’ll talk when we reach the Hospital.”
Amelia nodded, her eyes dropping to Mikhail’s pale face. The boulevard ahead was a solid wall of cars, and Zacharia clenched his jaw, switching lanes in a desperate bid to move faster. The city was a labyrinth, and every inch felt like a mile.
“Call the Hospital! They need to be ready for surgery as soon as we arrive,” Amelia urged.
Zacharia fished out his phone, his attention divided between the road and the device. “Here. Talk to Nyavolski.”
He hit the speaker button, and after a long ring, the surgeon’s voice boomed from the speakers. “Damn you, hybrid! I’ve got intestines in my hands and a phone shoved in my ear!”
“Mikhail is badly injured. We’re on our way,” Zacharia cut in, his voice steady despite the chaos. “Amelia will explain his condition.”
Amelia leaned forward, her hands still pressing on Mikhail’s wound. “He’s been stabbed in the lower left epigastrium. Heavy bleeding. He lost consciousness about ten minutes ago. His pulse is unsteady.”
Nyavolski’s tone shifted from anger to focused urgency. “BP?”
“I don’t have a monitor,” Amelia replied.
“Check the radial, femoral, and carotid arteries. Which ones have a pulse?”
Amelia’s hands moved quickly, her expression tense. “All three.”
“Good. But pressure alone won’t stop the bleeding. You need to tamponade the wound. Do you have a piece of cloth?”
Amelia’s eyes scanned the car, her breath hitching. Withouthesitation, she dug her nails into the bottom of her dress and tore a strip of fabric. “Got it.”
“Stuff it in the wound and use your fingers to apply pressure.”
Zacharia forced his gaze away from the rear-view mirror and onto the road, trying to ignore the grim task unfolding in the back seat. He had seen enough blood in his life, but this was different. This was Mikhail.
“I think I’ve got it,” Amelia said.
“Do you have an IV?”
“No.”
“Then keep pressing and hurry. I’m prepping a team.”
Zacharia weaved through the traffic, frustration mounting with every delay. The smell of blood filled the car, suffocating, inescapable. His mind drifted back to the first time he had met Mikhail.
It was in the early eighteenth century in England, though Zacharia couldn’t recall the exact year. It had to be before the Industrial Revolution, as the immortal world was still untouched by the Changes. Likely after the Acts of Union, which merged England and Scotland into Great Britain, as the celebrations were winding down.
For Zacharia, it was just another brief stop in his endless travels. He never lingered anywhere for more than a night, and never grew close to anyone beyond sharing a beer or finding a fleeting companion.
That night in Birmingham, he was leaning against the wooden bar of a local pub, hearing that an arranged fight was set to take place later. The pub was filling with impatient locals, eager to place bets. Dirty jokes and empty mugs abounded as patrons anticipated the bloodshed to come.
“Bet on Toothless Tom,” the barman said with a wink.
