“Let her through,” a female paramedic shouted. “She’s needed.”
The woman waved me over. I followed her around the big open doors of the ambulance and almost lost my footing when I saw the scene unfolding inside the back of the truck. Two paramedics worked over my unconscious father, who lay so still on a gurney, strapped to a backboard. One held an oxygen mask over my father’s face while the other prepared an IV. Dad had absolutely no reaction to the needle the woman stuck in his arm. I tried to imagine that he was just sleeping. Tried not to think about how he looked barely alive.
“Daddy?” I hadn’t called him that since I was eight.
The paramedic looked up from kneading a bag of liquid into the IV.
“This is his daughter,” the woman who had called me over told her before she could protest my presence.
The paramedic in the ambulance nodded. “My name is Jen, honey. What’s yours?” Her voice was soothing but urgent at the same time.
“Grace,” I said, my voice barely audible. “Why haven’t you left yet?”
“We’ve assessed his needs, and we’re doing what we can for him before we leave. He’s lucky, I’m certified to give him pain meds before we reach the ER.”
My breaths started to come much too quickly.
“Is your father allergic to any medications?”
“Um, I…” My head felt light, and suddenly my brain didn’t want to work. I knew he was allergic to something, but I couldn’t think of what it was. I couldn’t think of anything other than watching the way my father’s chest barely moved in response to the oxygen pump. My own breaths came so fast now I feared I was going to hyperventilate. Just then, I felt someone else’s presence next to me. I looked up and found Talbot standing there, wrapped in a thick blanket that was supposed to help prevent shock. Soot smudged his face, and his hair looked gray from the ashy dust that clung to his disheveled mane.
He put his hand on my back. “Deep breaths, kid. You won’t be able to help if you pass out.”
I nodded and took in several deep breaths and concentrated some of my healing power down my ragged throat. “Um, penicillin.” I finally remembered that’s why my mom never let any doctors prescribe it to us kids—just in case we were allergic like my dad.
“What’s his blood type?”
“O negative.”
“Are you a match? They may need to do a blood transfusion at the hospital.”
“Transfusion?”
I looked back at Talbot—only one question playing on my mind. If Dad were given a blood transfusion with my blood, would he be infected by the werewolf curse? Talbot gave me a look like he understood my unspoken question. His eyes seemed to say, I really don’t know.
“No,” I lied. It was too risky.
“Anyone else in your family? His is a hard blood type to match.”
Jude, I thought. As a nurse, my mom insisted we all know one another’s blood type. She kept them written on a laminated card in her wallet.
“No,” I lied again. Jude’s blood would be even more dangerous, considering he was a full-blown werewolf.
“Damn,” Jen mumbled under her breath. “Hopefully, the hospital will have enough.”
How much blood does he need? Why is he still not moving? “How bad is he?”
“Critical,” she said, and grabbed a long needle. I didn’t even want to know what that was for. “Your father must have been thrown several feet by the blast. He’s showing signs of internal bleeding. Still don’t know how the rest of you got out of there with barely a scratch.” She nodded to Talbot and me. “You’re damn lucky.”
Talbot ducked his head. “Yes, the rest of us were lucky.”
I looked at him, wondering about the inflection in his voice. Then I remembered … Marcos had entered that building with the others. Now he was gone. And Talbot didn’t want me to mention him. Marcos was dead, and it would be better if no one knew he’d ever existed.