Page 4 of The Monster's Daughter
She lifts her chin like she is willing to die for a clipboard and stethoscope. "I am medic," she says. The declaration is thin, like a reed in a river. "I can't?—"
I nearly kill her.
It's reflex. Muscle remembers the smell of human blood, the taste of stolen lives. I move like the old world, like a storm. My hands clamp on the woman's throat before she can finish. The world narrows to the hot press of her carotid beneath my fingers, to her inhale scraping like paper. Her eyes flare, and she tries to spit into my face—not a brave thing; it's an insult. Human spit lands against my scales.
She has fire. I respect that. I also have a need. I peer at the badge again, the damnable IHC sigil. Human medics are supposed to be neutral; they mark people as sacred, hands thatshould not be bound. Treaties carved by men with clean hands. Treaties that mean very little here beneath Lurax's ash.
"Do not tell me about treaties," I growl, the sound under my teeth like a low drum. I am no soldier; no law will bind me. I do not wage wars by the book and I have no time for the rules of men who sell souls for medals.
She spits again, harder this time, and the taste slaps me. I cannot have it. My hands move almost without thought; a strip of fabric—her gag, made from a torn rag I find on the blood-slick stones—goes between her teeth. Her jaw works around it. She kicks my side, small and furious, but my grip is unshakeable. I secure her hands behind her back with coarse rope I take from a broken tent. Her protests are muffled, and for a moment I almost laugh. The sound is sad and terrible.
"You're going to help me," I tell her, my voice a blade. "Whether you like it or not."
She squirms and spits more muffled curses. I snort. "Do you really want me to drop you in a field of—" My mouth pulls into something that attempts to be a smirk and fails. "—debris? Think of the tetanus shot you'll miss."
She snarls, and the sound makes a strange aching in me that is not anger. It is annoyance and something else. A rattling at the edge of my chest that I cannot name and do not want to. For a second, a memory like a thin glass frame shudders: a woman laughing by a spice rack, the smell of cinnamon on her hands. I shake it off.
I sling her over my shoulder, one arm under her knees, the other around her bound wrists. She claws at my scales and hisses soundlessly. I walk the ruins like I walk the memory of my life—forward, heavy, purposeful. My footfalls throw up ghosts of dust and char. I do not know where I will take her yet. Perhaps to the basement by the mannequins, where the silence holds no mercyand the light is easy to block. Perhaps to the place where my parents might have left a trail. Either way, she will help.
She gasps through the gag. She is alive and noisy, which will be convenient when I need her to wake up and do hands-on work. When she spat earlier, I saw a fury in her that I don't often see in humans: a refusal to be small. It will be useful or it will be trouble. Either way, I am done being alone, and I will use whatever helps.
As I start walking, her boots thudding against my flank, something else stirs in the ruined air—something that moves like a thought. I feel a pull that is not hunger or grief. It tugs at my ribs in that peculiar way that makes your breath hitch and your claws want to knead. I do not understand this. I do not name it.
All I know is I am carrying a human medic over my shoulder, and I have a list of names burned into my brain like coals. Tomorrow, Lurax will answer me or I will break it trying.
CHAPTER 3
BELLA
My ribs slam against his shoulder with every step, and I swear if he drops me on this jagged rubble, I’ll come back as a ghost and haunt his scaly ass forever. Rope bites into my wrists, the gag chafes the corners of my mouth, and all I can do is glare at the back of his neck like it’ll burst into flames if I concentrate hard enough.
He doesn’t even grunt. Doesn’t say a word. Just carries me like I’m luggage he regrets packing. His scales scrape against my skin where my bare arm presses him, slick with grime and still tacky with my own half-healed blood. The bastard doesn’t so much asflinchwhen shards of glass crunch under his boots. Every sound echoes—glass snapping, steel bending under his weight, the hiss of his breath through those non-human teeth.
And me? I’m fuming. My medic’s pride is shredded worse than my shoulder. IHC medics don’t get captured, don’t get humiliated, don’t get carted around like sacks of potatoes. Wepatch, wesave, we keep people from falling apart. Now I’m the one bound and gagged, and this scaled son of a bitch hasn’t even told me why.
My mind runs recon while my body hangs helpless. Every collapsed street we pass, every half-standing tower—routes,choke points, escape plans. If he sets me down for even half a second, I’ll run, ribs and ropes be damned. Except… the terrain’s murder. One wrong slip, and rebar will gut me like a fish. I hate admitting it, even to myself, but if he let go now, I might not even make it ten feet.
And worse—far worse than the ropes, or the silence, or the humiliation—is the quiet of the city. Lurax isn’t just dead; it’s something worse. It feels like grief itself settled over the bones of these buildings and decided to nest here. Something stalks these streets besides him. I don’t know what, but the hairs on the back of my neck don’t lie.
He ducks into the yawning mouth of a collapsed department store, glass teeth jutting from its ruined entrance. My head jostles hard enough I see stars. We go down, deeper, into the basement, lit only by slivers of dying daylight. It smells like mold, wet cardboard, and old perfume bottles that shattered years ago but refuse to stop reeking.
He sets me down not gently, not cruelly, just… like I weigh nothing. My boots hit dust, ankles bending awkwardly. He crouches, claws flashing as he pulls the gag loose.
“Spit at me again,” he rumbles, voice like boulders grinding together, “and you don’t eat.”
My jaw aches, but the first thing I do is bare my teeth in a snarl. “You feedallyour guests this way, or am I just special?”
He doesn’t answer. He just produces a canister—emergency rations. Popping it open, he scoops a chunk out with his claw and holds it to my mouth.
“Fuck you,” I mutter, lips curling. But my stomach betrays me, growling so loud the whole basement probably hears. I snap the food out of his hand, chewing like it’s gravel. The taste is worse.
“You cook as good as you kidnap?” I ask, words sharp between bites.
He just stares, impassive. My pulse skips. I hate how unreadable he is. So I jab harder. “So what’s the plan, big guy? March me through rubble ‘til you find your secret harem? Let me guess, I’m number fourteen? Fifteen?”
His composure cracks. His whole body stiffens, his jaw jerks back like I slapped him. “What?”
I swallow my bite wrong and start coughing, half choking, half laughing. “Don’t tell me the scary lizard man’s scandalized. You’re telling me you drag women into basements for fun and it’snotabout a harem?”
