Page 15 of Dark Shaman: Love Found (The Children Of The Gods #99)

TIM

T he struggle to consciousness felt like swimming up through molasses—thick, dark, and impossibly heavy.

Tim could hear a familiar voice somewhere above him, the lifeline that he desperately tried to grasp.

Her words came in waves, sometimes clear, sometimes muffled, but always there. Always pulling him upward.

"…impressed with your progress. Says she's never seen anyone gain so much height so quickly without showing signs of systemic stress. You're apparently setting all kinds of records."

He knew that voice. Had been listening to it for what felt like forever, cataloging every inflection, every laugh, every sigh. Hildegard. His nurse. His beautiful, sharp-tongued nurse, who'd been reading to him while his body tore itself apart and rebuilt from scratch.

He could feel her hand in his.

Was it real ?

The warmth of her fingers wrapped around his felt like the only real thing in the surreal world of dreams and fantasy that he was submerged in.

He tried to squeeze back, to let her know he could hear her, that he was fighting his way back to her, but his body refused to cooperate, and the void below sucked him under again.

"I should probably call Bridget," he heard her say from deep down the swamp of semi-consciousness.

He didn't want Bridget. He wanted more time with just Hildegard, more of her voice washing over him and her hand warm in his.

He managed to move fingers, curling slightly around hers.

"That's it," she encouraged, her voice dropping to something softer, more intimate. "Take your time. There's no rush."

But there was. He needed to see her, needed to tell her—what? That her voice had been his anchor in the darkness? That he'd memorized the sound of her laugh? That would sound completely insane, even by his standards, and it would drive her away.

"Did you enjoy the stories I've been reading to you?" she asked, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "I finished that entire series about Marcus the Magnificent Bastard. In book three, he totally should have let the villain win. Would have been a better ending."

Yes , he wanted to say. Yes, I heard you .

Not every word, because even in unconsciousness, there had been moments of lucidity and moments of nothingness.

Tim assumed it depended on how deep he'd been submerged.

He wanted to share all of this with her, but his tongue seemed to have forgotten its primary function.

"Andrew has been by every day, and even Roni came to visit. The two of you should have been great friends. The kid shares your sarcastic sense of humor."

Andrew. Right. The one who'd dragged him into this whole immortal business. Tim would have to thank him. Or punch him. He hadn't decided yet.

He concentrated every ounce of willpower on opening his eyes. It shouldn't be this hard. He'd been doing it all his life. But his eyelids felt weighed down with lead, and each attempt to open them sent sparks of pain through his skull.

"Your vitals are looking good," Hildegard continued, her professional jargon sliding back into place even as her thumb stroked across his knuckles in a decidedly unprofessional way. "Heart rate steady, blood pressure normal, oxygen levels perfect. Your body's ready for you to come back."

Come back as if he'd been on vacation, instead of trapped in his own body while it went through an extreme makeover at the cellular level.

"I should probably call Bridget," she said again, but she didn't move. "She'll want to run tests, make sure everything's functioning properly. But between you and me, I think we can wait a few minutes before the medical circus begins."

The medical circus. Trust Hildegard to find the perfect description. He'd been poked and prodded enough before going under. He could only imagine what fresh tortures awaited him upon waking.

Tim managed to move his head a fraction of an inch. Progress. He wanted to tell her that, but he couldn't even open his mouth. The small muscles in his face didn't work. Not yet.

"Easy," she murmured. "Your vocal cords haven't been used in two weeks. Everything is going to feel strange at first."

Two weeks? He'd been out for two weeks? No wonder his body felt like it had been bulldozed and then reassembled with loose pins and screws like some Frankenstein.

"You're setting new records, Tim. I'm sure you will be delighted by that. No one else has grown as much during their transition."

Grown? What did she mean, grown? He was trying to process that when she squeezed his hand again.

"I know you're probably comfortable in there," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice again.

"No responsibilities, no one asking you to draw anything, no social interactions to navigate.

But it's time to come back. The world's been suspiciously peaceful without your particular brand of venom. "

Venom?

He wasn't venomous. Oh, right. It was a word play on the fangs he was supposed to grow and the venom he was supposed to produce as an immortal male.

Damn. It was really happening. He was immortal .

Not that he felt invincible right now. More like totally helpless and broken.

"Wait until you start growing fangs," Hildegard said. "That's going to hurt like a bitch. Bridget will give you some pain-numbing medication, but it only goes so far."

Great. Something to look forward to.

"Plus, you can't properly appreciate how much I've improved in your absence if you're unconscious," she added. "I've been practicing my sarcasm on your comatose form. We can have a friendly competition, or not so friendly. It's up to you."

The thought of verbal sparring with Hildegard was so enticing that it gave him the final push. He forced his eyes a crack open, just a sliver, and even that tiny amount of light felt like staring directly into the sun.

But it was worth it for the view.

Hildegard was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her dark hair shimmered like silk, and those impossible blue eyes were focused entirely on him with an intensity that made his breath catch.

"There you are," she said softly, her face lighting up with pleasure. "Welcome back, Tim."

He tried to speak, to say something clever or at least coherent, but all that came out was a raspy croak. His throat felt like he'd been gargling sand.

"Don't try to talk yet," she advised, but she was too late. He was already trying again, determined to form words .

"Hi," he managed, and it came out more like a wheeze than an actual greeting, but Hildegard smiled like he'd just recited poetry.

"Hi, yourself." She reached for something beside the bed. "Let me get you some water. Your throat must feel awful."

Awful was an understatement. But he'd spoken, which felt like a major victory. Now if he could just manage to keep his eyes open for more than three seconds at a time...

The door burst open with enough force to startle them both, and Bridget rushed in.

"He's awake?" She walked up to him and smiled. "Welcome back, Tim."

"Hello," he rasped.

"How are you feeling? Any pain? Discomfort?"

"Everything," he managed. "Hurts."

"That's to be expected. Hildegard, get him some water, please. Small sips only."

He heard Hildegard filling a cup, and a moment later she brought the cup along with one of those bendy straws to his lips.

"Slowly," Bridget instructed as Tim tried to gulp the water like a man who'd been wandering the desert for days. Two weeks, to be precise. "Your system needs time to adjust."

The water was possibly the best thing he'd ever tasted, cool and clean and washing away some of the sandpaper feeling in his throat.

He remembered these instructions from his first brief awakening, when they'd given him broth and he'd thought he was dying.

Or already dead and being tortured by beautiful demons.

His stomach chose that moment to announce itself with a growl that could probably be heard in the next room.

"Hungry," he said, the word coming easier now that his throat had some lubrication. "Really hungry."

Bridget and Hildegard exchanged looks.

"That's also normal," Bridget said. "And it will get worse, but you have to start slow. Clear liquids protocol same as before." She pulled out a penlight and pointed it at his eyes, making him wince. "Pupils reactive. Good. Can you follow the light?"

Tim dutifully tracked the penlight as she moved it back and forth, up and down. The movement made his head spin, but he managed.

"Excellent." Bridget pocketed the light and began a more thorough examination, checking his reflexes, his pulse, pressing gently on various points that made him want to squirm away. "According to my last measurement, you've grown four inches," she said. "But I want to measure you again."

"Four inches?" Tim's voice cracked on the words. He'd grown four inches? That would make him...what? Actually, average height instead of vertically challenged.

"Four and a quarter," Hildegard supplied helpfully. "You're my height now. "

Tim tried to process this information. He'd been five-foot-six on a good day, five-seven-and-a-half in shoes. Adding four inches would put him at five-ten. Still not tall by any measure, but no longer having to shorten every pair of pants he got.

"Your body has cannibalized muscle and fat stores to fuel the growth," Bridget continued her clinical assessment. "You'll need to rebuild, but that comes later." She stepped back, seeming satisfied with her examination. "You've progressed remarkably well. Better than I expected, honestly."

"He's special," Hildegard said, and Tim couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or sincere.

"Indeed." Bridget made notes on her tablet. "The first stage of your transition is complete, and if you can make it to the bathroom with Hildegard's assistance, we can remove the catheter."