Page 9 of Oathborn
Zari’s eyebrow arched.
At her surprise, Annette explained, “An officer’s wife is always prepared.”
“And a general’s daughter knows how to shoot,” Zari replied, her tone grim as she took one of the handguns. Annette reached for the other. They’d both spent time on the practice range, though it had been years since Zari had lifted a gun. Annette, on the other hand, looked quite comfortable with the pistol.
“We go to the range for dates,” she explained as they exited the car, and Zari pretended not to hear the quaver in her friend’s voice. Pretended, too, that this was just an ordinary day, that they weren’t hurrying through strange, purple-colored smoke toward moaning soldiers.
All those pretenses faded away as soon as they reached the first body. Zari dropped to her knees, taking in all the details; the soldier’s uniform, denoting rank and branch, the pallor of his skin, and the wounds, or rather, lack of. Although he had no pulse, and was surely dead, not a single mark marred his skin.
The next three they found were all the same.
“What if the smoke did this?” Annette asked. “I didn’t even think! We could be breathing in poison!”
“It’s already dissipated,” Zari muttered. “But you’re right. You go back, get in the car. Drive to the hospital for help.”
“And leave you?”
“One of us has to stay! For the survivors.”
“Then—”
“I’m the nurse!” Zari didn’t say the second part. That she wouldn’t have anyone, apart from Annette, to mourn her if she fell. She had no family left. “You go. Now!”
Annette leaned forward to wrap Zari’s scarf higher, around her mouth and nose, as if the pretty, gauzy thing would offer protection. Then, she hurried back toward the car.
With grim resolve, Zari turned to the bodies ahead of her. The city block was quiet enough that every footstep seemed to echo. As she drew closer, she saw blood splatters on the granite that seemed to shimmer with the reflection of the gas street lamps.
First falls flame, then falls bodies.The bleak children’s song echoed in Zari’s head with each footstep.Blood Ember, Blood Ember, burns bright and bloody.
The next two soldiers she found were already dead, their bodies marked by savage gashes, red blood soaked into their uniforms. The third still breathed, though she couldn’t rouse him. His pulse fluttered beneath her fingertips, faint and slowing, but his chest continued to rise and fall.
Heart pounding, she dug into her purse for the pitifully small first-aid kit she always carried. If she’d known she was going to encounter this, she never would have left the hospital without more supplies. With trembling hands, she began tearing strips from his tattered jacket to fashion makeshift bandages. Blood welled from the deep slashes across his torso and arms. The wounds were raw, as if whatever had struck him was only moments gone.
“Who are you?” The sharp voice cut through the haze of smoke. Zari turned. A military medic stood a few paces away, his eyes scanning her. Two others followed, emerging from the ambulance. Annette must have been able to call for help. One small mercy amid this tragedy.
“A nurse. I saw the bodies, and—” She didn’t finish. There were no words to explain the horror that had settled into her bones.
The medic gave her a calculating look that she was familiar with, as if he was sizing her up, debating if a woman could really help. So many doctors had looked at her the same way.
The medic nodded. “We need all the hands we can get.” He unstrapped a weathered satchel from his shoulder and tossed it to her. “Go inside. See if there are any more survivors.”
Zari caught the satchel, the leather strap biting into her palm. As she walked up the steps, overwhelmed by all the dead and dying around her, she found herself making the old, superstitious hand-gesture to keep away the fae. A wave of crooked fingers over her eyes, and past her heart. To keep one’s vision clear and one’s love safe, as the superstition went.
Not that it had kept her father, or so many other soldiers, safe.
The front door was ajar. Swallowing hard, Zari slipped through the crack. Her faded boots scuffed against the marble floor inside and she fought her rising panic at the surrounding darkness.
Only the twilight filtering in through high windows above provided any light. The strange purple smoke still swirled around her feet and the bodies scattered amid the assembled chairs and stage.
A flash of movement caught her eye; bright white hair and a dark cloak that floated behind. Someone fleeing from the smoke? Or the attacker themself?
“Stop!” Zari felt for the pistol she’d tucked in a pocket, though she didn’t draw it. The figure had already sprinted away, ducking into the nearest open doorway. Zari ran after them, her skirt hampering her stride.
By the time she reached the opening, there was no sign at all of the person. Instead, she was in a hallway that had clearly seen the worst of the attack; broken picture frames and fragments of glass speckled the floor. A hardwood door hung off one hinge in the distance, blocking what might lay beyond.
A faint moan sounded from nearby. Zari turned, searching for the sound. She spotted a man, slumped against the wall. A camera lay on its side, the legs broken and the film spilled out on the floor. It was a large, professional camera, the sort that a newspaper might use for reporting.
The man’s auburn hair hung loose. It was the same color as the blood that stained his collared shirt. Zari dropped to her knees and reached out a hand. Gently, she touched his cheek, glad to find the skin warm. He was alive. His long eyelashes fluttered, but he didn’t wake. She spied a gash on his left arm, already starting to scab. After digging out the supplies, she started to clean the wound.
