Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 8

Dr. Webb stops before me and gives me an accusatory look. He is shorter than he no doubt desires, but fit and muscular with a confident face. His skill is exceptional—a force of calm amidst the chaos. I've witnessed him cut with surgical precision through his staff's swirling stress as a life circles the drain before them. He doesn't falter through doubt or indecision. He doesn't second-guess himself.

The hallway's fluorescents are bright; one reason I never linger long here. I cock my head as if confused, tilting my cap down just so. I have elevated the technique of concealing my gaze to the level of art.

"The blood you drew from the boy." He holds out his hand palm up. It is smooth and white.

Anger flashes through me. Garrick must have told them. I should have forced him to look away. I should have taken control. I shove my hand into my pocket and grab the blood, my fingers feeling for five tubes. "Sorry," I say, "I must have forgotten." Dana has appeared behind the doctor and is giving me a strange look. I place them in his cool hand.

"All of them," Webb says. "The boy said you took eight."

I know doctors all too well. They are accustomed to being sought after and worshipped, but they are mere mortals, perfectly capable of fallibility. I have saved their asses more times than I can count, and their power to intimidate me died long ago. Yet under the ice blue edge of Webb's gaze, my confidence falters. I feel like a poor cleric's daughter standing before the Magistrate of Blake Hall, accused of stealing his daughter's supper. Lamely, I feel about in my pockets, then, as if in surprise, hand over my stash. I pray I am too anemic to flush with shame though it burns my very blood.

"I've heard of you, Bell. How you exceed the protocols and violate your scope of practice. I don't care how many crikes you've done or bleeds you've staunched. That means nothing. I don't want to see sutures or cut downs. You are a paramedic and will adhere to your department's protocols or I will have your license revoked."

Dana's mouth drops open in surprise. I stare at the doctor. I can see his pulse beating in his throat. His pressure is up, filling him with life, flushing him with heat, and the desire to suck him dry flashes through me so strongly my stomach clenches.

"If you want to be a doctor, then go to med school like the rest of us," Dr. Webb says. "But if you think two years of school qualifies you to diagnose and perform surgical techniques, you are seriously deluded. Nothing is more irritating than a paramedic who thinks he's a doctor. I will be watching you, Bell." His eyes drill into me cold as missiles.

Abruptly he turns and collides into Dana, gripping her waist to stop from knocking her over. She lights with lust and briefly he hesitates before releasing her and striding back up the hall. An image of WWII strikes me. Berlin. All those self-righteous men stomping about like overdressed bullies.

Oh, the immaculate discipline it took not to feed on them all.