The clinic basement smelled of antiseptic and old blood and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Caleb Merrick lay on the surgical table, his torso wrapped in fresh bandages, his face pale beneath the single bulb that hung from the ceiling. Raina Voss had done what she could—the wound was closed, the bleeding stopped, the risk of infection still a cold and constant threat. But he was weak. Dangerously weak. The fight with Revenant had drained him, and the blood loss had pushed his body to the edge of what it could endure.
But he was alive. And he was awake.
"Stop hovering," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "I'm not dead yet."
Nyla stood at the foot of the table, her arms crossed, her face a mask of exhaustion and relief. "You almost were. Raina said another inch and the knife would have hit
