Outcast, page 3
part #1 of The Grey Gates Series
With nothing more to find, Max went back to Leonda’s room to find the armourer kneeling on the floor, Cas lying down with his head on her lap, Pol standing beside her with his head over her shoulder.
“You are such good boys, aren’t you?” Leonda was saying in a low, crooning tone as Max came into the room. “Did you get what you needed?” she asked, in a quite different voice.
“Some,” Max said. “It looks like you’re going to have a busy few days re-supplying.”
“Yes,” Leonda said, her normally cheerful manner absent. She stroked Pol’s ears with a gentle hand, the dog half-closing his eyes in bliss. “I’ve no idea what’s going on, but almost every Marshal apart from you turned up at sundown to restock. If we’d had some warning, we could have been prepared for it.”
“I’m sorry,” Max said reflexively, even though it was not her responsibility. Leonda and Raymund, along with their separate teams, worked hard to make sure the Marshals were well-equipped with weapons and information to help in their work. They took pride in being prepared. They would both have hated being taken by surprise.
“Well, it’s a lesson learned,” Leonda said, shaking off her melancholy and getting to her feet. “We just need to make three times as much as we think we’ll need rather than just two times.”
Max managed a smile.
“Gosh, you look terrible. Are you alright?” Leonda said, a crease appearing between her brows as she stared at Max.
“Got stung by a crow spider,” Max explained. “I’m heading to the clinic now.”
“Good idea. Here, take something for the journey,” Leonda said, picking a paper-wrapped object from her desk. Cas and Pol came on alert immediately, eyes glued to the paper packet as Leonda carried it across the room to Max. “It’s some of my mother’s cheesy bread.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Max began, then her stomach growled. Loudly. “Thank you,” she managed, heat spreading across her face. “I think I forgot to eat earlier.”
“Words I will never say,” Leonda said cheerfully. “Thanks for bringing the boys to visit. It always makes me happy to see them.”
“They love you, too,” Max said, smiling at her dogs who were fawning around Leonda, sensing the visit was coming to an end. “No, you do not need any more treats,” she told her dogs as they looked hopefully up at the scientist.
“If you give me some warning next time, I’ll make sure to have some meat pie for you all,” Leonda said.
“You are too good to us,” Max answered.
“I like to cook. I get that from my mother. And it’s a small thing when you’re all keeping us safe,” Leonda said. “Now, off with you, I’ve got ammunition to make.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Max said, smiling, and took her dogs with her, Cas and Pol almost tripping over their own feet in their eagerness to stay close to the paper packet in Max’s hand.
Max had to bribe the dogs back into the pick-up with more biscuits before she had a bit of space to get into the driver’s seat, spending a happy few moments wolfing down Grandma Parras’ famous cheesy bread. It was heaven to her tastebuds, finally chasing away the last of the magic hangover taste and putting her in a much better mood for facing the doctors at the clinic.
Chapter three
The clinic was a few miles from the Marshals’ headquarters, tucked close to, but distinctly outside, one of the better areas of the city. It took up half a city block all on its own, a single storey building that was rarely dark and empty.
Still, Max was surprised to see that this late at night, the car park was almost full, stuffed with big, shiny vehicles that looked like they belonged either to one of the elite divisions of the police force or to one of the city’s Five Families. Even with the food from Leonda, Max was heavy with exhaustion, her shoulder sore, and in no mood for dealing with members of either of those groups.
She abandoned her pick-up where it should be out of the way and left the dogs to guard it, heading towards the front of the clinic. She stopped almost as soon as she had started walking, noticing the eight people standing around the awning and the lights that marked the entrance to the clinic. All eight were wearing body armour under their coats and carrying a variety of lethal-looking weapons. That meant that the occupants of the vehicles were definitely in the clinic, and that one or more or their number was injured badly enough that they needed immediate treatment and no one had wanted to risk the delay in getting to one of the large hospitals closer to the city’s centre. Which, in Max’s experience, generally meant that the people around the injured were on edge and more aggressive than normal. The last thing she felt like dealing with just now. But she still needed to get her wound treated, and the stinger removed before it caused a worse injury or infection.
Despite their vigilance, the eight guards hadn’t seen her, so she turned, making sure to keep her movements easy and unhurried, and went down the wide access road along the side wall, following the road around the side of the building to a back entrance where there was a loading area and a reinforced steel door.
The security light above the back door was on, the harsh white making her eyes sting. She pressed the buzzer beside the door, pulling her badge out and showing it to the camera lens next to the security light. That done, she waited. And waited some more. Plenty long enough for her to question and question again the wisdom and necessity of being here. The doctors here were all more than competent, but most of them treated Max as a nuisance rather than a patient. On her last visit, the doctor had somehow forgotten to add painkiller before stitching up Max’s arm.
Max forced herself to wait. She might be lucky and get one of the friendly doctors.
At length, there was the faint sound of a key turning. The door opened a crack to reveal a nurse. A human woman who Max recognised from previous visits. Her luck was definitely on the turn for the better. The nurse was an experienced practitioner with a calm, unhurried manner. She had a halo of wispy white curls and a face meant for laughter. Her normally pale skin looked washed out with exhaustion, her scrubs bearing a variety of stains that Max didn’t want to think about too much.
“Marshal Ortis,” the nurse said, brows lifting in surprise. Glenda. That was the name. Glenda Martins. “We haven’t seen you for a while. What’s up?”
“Nurse Martins. Encountered a crow spider. I need some help to take the stinger out,” Max said. “And a refill for my anti-venom injector.”
“Oh.” Glenda hesitated, looking behind her at the corridor Max couldn’t see. “Well, you might have a bit of a wait. It’s been a busy night.”
“So I gathered. It’s alright. I need this thing out. If you can give me some forceps and a quiet space, I can have a go.”
“Nonsense,” the nurse said firmly, opening the door wide to let Max into the building. “We’ll get you seen to. Come on, there’s a free room you can wait in. This way.”
Max waited until the heavy door was shut and locked before following Glenda down the wide, dimly lit corridor. There were various closed doors on either side. Store rooms, a staff room and a locker room, Max knew from previous visits. Close to the back door, there was also a refrigerated room that could store the dead before they were collected, if need be. And everything, from the rubberised floor to the ceiling lights overhead, was coated with magical warding. This was a neutral building, its sole purpose to heal people, and yet they didn’t take any chances. Max approved. She might not like coming here, but she knew that the building was as safe as the operators could make it.
They reached a T-junction. The corridor they were on ended, crossed with another, better lit, corridor that also had several doors leading off along one side only, all the doors having narrow windows built in to allow a glimpse into the rooms. The doors mostly led to treatment rooms. The only exception was the one just to their left, which led to the reception area. Max catalogued all the exits and possible incursion points with automatic reflex, making sure that the layout hadn’t changed since her last visit. There shouldn’t be any trouble here, but she had long ago learned to be cautious.
“If you go to room eight, at the end there,” Glenda pointed, “I’ll get a tray and come and see you when I can.”
“Thank you,” Max said, trying not to look too relieved. Glenda was more than capable of treating the wound, and had never made Max feel less than welcome.
Max headed along the corridor, past the closed doors. The rooms inside were all lit, and all of them occupied. She caught glimpses of bloodstains on walls and medical professionals in stained scrubs. The patients were all screened from view by sheets hung from rails on the ceiling, but one room she passed had two armed guards inside the room with a doctor and patient.
The sight of the guards made her head spin and her throat close up, panic choking her.
She stopped and leant against the wall of the corridor, out of sight of the room, heart thumping, mouth dry. She knew the insignia that the guards were wearing. She hadn’t seen the patches on the people outside, thanks to the distance, but in here, at closer quarters and with the room brightly lit for medical treatment, she knew exactly who they were. Warriors of the Order. Or, to give its full name: the Order of the Lady of the Light. The magical and military operation dedicated to the service of the Lady Herself. The warriors provided military protection for the magic-wielders of the Order. But if a warrior had been injured, they would be here alone, the rest of their team staying on task to protect the magician. Which meant that the patient was probably a Guardian, one of the powerful magicians sworn to Her service to combat dark magic and the dark lord Himself.
This was the closest Max had been to any member of the Order, warrior or Guardian, in eight years. Eight years in which she had done her best to ignore them, to stay out of their way, to be invisible. Whatever worked to keep her away from them. The Order had rejected her. Cast her out. And she wanted nothing to do with them. Not now. The feeling seemed mutual, as they had ignored her, too. And now there were warriors and possibly a Guardian nearby. Just through the wall from her. She wondered who it was, if she knew them. If she might have called them a friend once.
She was older now, and with far greater exposure to the world and far less trust in people. The good memories she had of the Order - the feeling of being part of something bigger than herself, working towards a common purpose - were tarnished with cynicism, wondering if anyone there had truly liked or valued her at all. Still, she hated the way her throat closed up and her eyes stung. Eight years’ distance and she had tried to fool herself that she didn’t care. She had changed a lot since then. She didn’t need them, and they had made it perfectly clear that they didn’t need her.
She wanted to go back into the night, collect her dogs and drive home. Far away from here. Far, far away. She must have at least one pair of pliers at her house that could get the stinger out. She had survived worse.
Testing her theory, she put her hand on the wound, and almost blacked out from the pain of it. She held in cursing with difficulty, not wanting to draw the attention of the warriors. She needed another pair of hands to get the thing out of her. And she was here now. If she kept quiet, and the nurse was quick, then she could be out of here before the Order even knew she had been in the building.
So she forced herself to move, to keep walking, along the corridor to the last door. It was the only empty room, dimly lit by a desk lamp. There was another door, leading to the reception area. The room itself felt crowded with a single bed and wheeled chair, presumably for use by the physician. Max let herself in and struggled out of her jacket, hissing with pain as the stinger dug into her flesh, dropping the jacket onto the bed and letting herself sit on the edge, facing the door to the reception area. Just for a moment. Just until the room stopped spinning.
Stripped down to her sleeveless black t-shirt, she glanced down at the part of her shoulder she could see. Her pale skin was veined with trails of venom, dark and foul, that had worked their way along her flesh before the injection had stopped them. By morning, the trails should be gone and her skin back to its normal pale tone. The trails had almost reached her elbow, though. Even in the few moments it had taken her to grab the injector and get the anti-venom into her. If she’d been a bit slower, or hadn’t had the injector with her, she would have been dead. Another Marshal lost to the city’s service. Instead, it was another hard-won piece of wisdom for her. Always check the ceilings.
With the wound open to the air, she felt exposed, and hated it. She might need to be here a while, too. A noise through the wall reminded her of the Order’s warriors and Guardian nearby, prompting a closer look around the room. If there was some anaesthetic to take the edge off and some forceps, she might not need to wait for the nurse.
There was a mobile trolley with a tray of medical instruments on the top layer, and a locked medicine cabinet. Max sighed. No luck. Even if the cabinet had been open, she wasn’t sure which one of the drugs in there was what she needed. And there were no forceps on the tray, not even a scalpel to help her cut the thing out.
So she would have to wait. She looked at the clock on the wall and scowled. It had stopped a long time ago. She dug her phone out of her pocket, wincing as the movement made the stinger dig deeper into her flesh, and checked the time. Nearing midnight. She would give the nurse until midnight, she decided, and then head home. If she put some ice on the wound, she might be able to get some rest, and come back the next day when presumably there would be no Guardian and no other members of the Order.
Even as she thought that, the door at the back of the room opened and the nurse appeared, a metal tray balanced on one hand. She flipped the light switches, bathing the room in harsh, white light, which woke up the magic hangover Max had all but forgotten about.
“You’re in luck. We managed to get someone else to come in on their night off,” the nurse said, “so I have time to fix you up.” She put the metal tray down on the space on the trolley and wheeled it over to beside the bed. “Let’s have a look.”
Max glanced at the door to the reception area. The nurse’s entrance and the lights going on should have drawn attention. Nothing. She stayed on the bed, gripping the side with her good hand to stop herself reaching for her weapon. She hated feeling so exposed.
“I’ve got you a new injector, some antibiotics and fresh dressings in here,” Glenda said, holding up a large paper sack. She put it on the bed next to Max’s discarded jacket.
“Thank you,” Max said, surprised and touched that Glenda had remembered.
“If you can drop the empty injector in at some point, that would help,” Glenda said.
“I will,” Max promised, thinking of the empty magazines along with the injector in her pick-up. She would have to do some clearing out when she was properly back on duty.
“That looks nasty,” the nurse commented, snapping on a pair of bright blue gloves. “I’ve got a numbing spray, but I can’t give you an injection. I’d need a doctor to sign off on that, and they’re all busy. You seemed like you might be in a hurry,” the nurse added, to Max’s surprise.
Max’s mouth curved up at the unexpected understanding. “It was supposed to be my day off, too.”
“Ouch,” the nurse said in sympathy, and aimed a small spray can at Max’s shoulder. The liquid hit Max’s skin and blissful numbness spread around the area, followed moments later by fiery pain as the nurse put the forceps into the wound.
Glenda was quick and skilled, though, and got the stinger out with minimal fuss. Max released the breath she had been holding, her eyes watering, and held the gauze pad to the wound as requested while the nurse dropped the stinger into a bio-hazard container.
“It’s going to take a few days for the wound to heal properly-” Glenda said. Whatever else she might have said was interrupted by the door to the reception area opening without notice.
A young man scowled into the room. He looked barely old enough to be carrying the automatic rifle strapped across his chest. Despite his youth, he wore body armour and the insignia of the Order, a patch with a double-headed axe, over dark, close-fitting clothing. He had blond hair crafted into an array of spikes across his head, and a tattoo snaking down from behind one ear. Doubtless he thought he looked tough, but to Max’s eyes he looked too young and out of his depth, an overgrown child playing dress-up.
“Who’s this? How did she get in?” he demanded, lifting his weapon. “No other patients, you were told.”
“And we told you that this is an open clinic and that we don’t close our doors to anyone in need,” Glenda Martins said calmly, staying where she was, peeling the back off a wound dressing and pressing it to the wound on Max’s shoulder, discarding the blood-soaked gauze into the bio-hazard container. “This Marshal was wounded on duty,” she added over her shoulder.
“She’s not supposed to be here,” the young man said, chin jutting out.
“Go and find your supervisor,” Glenda said, still in that calm voice, getting up and stripping off her gloves as the warrior disappeared. “I’m sorry, Marshal. Everyone is a bit on edge.”
“That’s quite alright,” Max said. She remembered just how seriously the Order’s warriors took their duty. None of them would be happy that a Guardian had been injured on their watch. And she didn’t want to be here longer than she had to be, not with so much tension in the building. She tried to get up from the bed and found that her head was still spinning.
“I’d advise getting some food and plenty of fluids soon, too,” Glenda said, putting a hand on Max’s bare arm, her touch shockingly warm, making Max realise just how cold she was.
“I will,” Max promised.
Before she could try to stand up again, another armed body appeared in the doorway. A senior member of the Order. Max could tell that simply by the way he stood, with quiet self-assurance. He was dressed in similar clothing to the boy, but even on a dark night no one would ever mix the two up. The man in the doorway had close-cropped dark hair that looked like he cut it himself, a firm jaw coated in the suggestion of a beard, a face that had seen one too many fights, and a displeased expression.
