Page 36 of Dark Shaman: The Lost Treasure (The Children Of The Gods #98)

HILDEGARD

"' T he thing about being a bastard is that everyone expects it,'" Hildegard read aloud, adjusting her position in the chair she'd sat in for far too many hours over the past week.

"'Deliver a cutting remark? That's just Marcus being Marcus.

Destroy someone's carefully laid plans with a few well-placed observations?

Classic Marcus. Show an ounce of human kindness?

Now that throws people off their game.'"

She glanced at Tim's unconscious form, looking for any sign that her reading was getting through.

His face remained peaceful, almost serene in a way she'd never seen when he was awake.

The perpetual scowl that had carved lines around his mouth had smoothed out, making him look younger, less like a badger ready to attack.

"I thought you'd appreciate this one." She found her place in the book again. "The protagonist is almost as big of an asshole as you are. Almost."

The steady beep of monitors provided a rhythmic backdrop to her reading.

Tim's vitals remained strong. His heart rate had stabilized at a steady sixty beats per minute, his blood pressure was perfect, and his oxygen levels were optimal.

If she didn't know better, she'd think he was taking a very long nap.

But the physical changes told a different story.

In seven days, Tim had grown almost two inches.

His body had lengthened, as if someone was stretching him on a medieval rack, but slowly and carefully, allowing his bones and sinew to adjust. The small belly he'd carried had completely disappeared, his body cannibalizing every spare ounce of fat to fuel the transformation.

Even the minimal muscle definition he'd had was gone, leaving him looking gaunt and skeletal.

He was getting all the necessary nutrients through his IV, but at the rate his body was changing, it wasn’t enough.

"You're going to hate how skinny you are now," she told him, marking her place in the book with her finger. "All that complaining about being short and pudgy, and now you'll have to complain about being a beanpole instead. Though knowing you, you'll find a way to make that our fault."

The door opened with a soft whoosh, and Bridget entered with her tablet in hand.

Hildegard would never say it to Julian's face, but she was glad his mother had taken over Tim's care. Bridget had significantly more experience than Julian, and Hildegard wanted the best for Tim.

"How's our miracle patient today?" Bridget asked, moving to check the monitors.

"Same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that." Hildegard set the book aside. "I'm starting to think that he's doing this on purpose just to be difficult."

Bridget's lips quirked in a smile as she reviewed the readouts.

"Andrew claims that being difficult seems to be Tim's specialty, but he's just another patient to me.

" She shook her head. "Before Tim, Andrew was the Dormant who gained more inches than anyone else, but I have a feeling that Tim is going to beat him for the record. His growth rates are unprecedented."

"Should we be worried?"

"I don't think so." Bridget moved to Tim's bedside, gently manipulating his arm to test muscle tone.

"The fact that his body can do this so fast is an excellent sign.

Especially given his poor fitness level.

" She lifted Tim's arm, showing how thin it had become.

"He's using everything available as fuel.

Even protein from his own muscles. Not that he had much of that to begin with. "

Hildegard studied Tim's transformed features. His face had refined during the transition, cheekbones emerging from what had been a soft roundness, his jaw becoming more defined. He would never be truly handsome, but his new look was compelling.

"He's going to be weak as a kitten when he wakes up."

"Weaker," Bridget said. "He'll need extensive physical therapy just to walk properly. His center of gravity will be completely different, his proprioception shot to hell. It's going to be like learning to use his body all over again."

"He's going to love that," Hildegard said dryly. "Tim's least favorite thing is needing help from other people."

Bridget chuckled. "Maybe it'll teach him some humility."

"We should live so long." Hildegard picked up the water pitcher, refilling the cup she used to keep Tim's lips moist. "Turner went through a long transition as well, and you were much more worried about him than you are about Tim. Why's that?"

Bridget closed her eyes as if the memory of her mate transitioning and almost not making it was still painful to her.

"I had good reasons to worry. Turner had cancer prior to his transition.

When he began the transition, the cancer was in remission, but I was terrified of it reemerging with a vengeance, propelled by the growth spurt that sometimes occurs.

In a healthy Dormant, that growth is seen as a good thing and means the body is working to reach its full potential.

But Turner didn't grow any taller, so I had no indication that his body was doing well. "

Hildegard nodded. "Every transitioning Dormant has a different story."

"Indeed." The physician cast her an encouraging smile before leaving the room.

Hildegard returned to her reading, but her mind kept wandering.

She'd volunteered to supervise Tim day and night because Gertrude had taken Rob to Scotland to meet her mother, and they had no other nurse on staff.

Perhaps she should have accepted Ronja's offer to help out for a few hours a day because she was getting too involved.

But then Ronja hadn't practiced nursing for decades, and she had no experience with transitioning Dormants.

Hildegard couldn't trust her with Tim's life.

She'd been charmed by him, damn it.

That first day when he'd woken up, all swagger and inappropriate comments despite being weak as a newborn. The way he'd looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The complete lack of filter that should have been offensive but somehow came across as refreshingly honest.

"'Marcus had learned long ago that caring was a weakness,'" she continued reading.

"'Let people know what mattered to you, and they'd use it as a weapon.

So, he'd built his walls of sarcasm and cutting wit, each cruel observation another brick in the fortress.

The problem with fortresses, though, was that they kept you in as effectively as they kept others out. '"

She paused, looking at Tim's peaceful face. "Sound familiar? I bet you and Marcus would be thick as thieves. Or maybe you'd hate each other. Probably both."

The door opened again, and Andrew entered carrying a cardboard carrier with two coffee cups and a white paper bag that smelled of fresh sandwiches, like he'd been doing almost every day after work.

"Good afternoon." He set everything on the small table by her chair. "How's the patient?"

"Still playing Sleeping Beauty." Hildegard accepted the coffee gratefully. "Though at the rate he's growing, he'll be Sleeping Beanstalk by the time he wakes up."

Andrew moved to stand at the foot of Tim's bed, studying the changes. "Fates. He really has grown, hasn't he?"

"Almost two inches, and he's not done yet."

"He's going to be insufferable when he wakes up." Andrew shook his head, but there was fondness in his voice. "Can you imagine how arrogant he'll get?"

Hildegard unwrapped the first sandwich—turkey and avocado, bless Andrew for remembering her favorite. "He'll still want platform shoes to get even taller."

Andrew laughed, nearly choking on his coffee. "Don't let him know I told you this, but he has a pair of boots that have two-inch heels hidden in the sole."

"No!" Hildegard gasped with delight at the gossip. "Really?"

"Really. He thought I wouldn't notice that suddenly the top of his head was reaching my nose and not my chin."

"Did you tease him about it?" she asked.

Andrew affected a horrified expression. "Fates forbid. Do you know what his favorite method of retaliation is?"

"What?" She'd heard about the cartoons from hell, but she wanted to hear it directly from Andrew, who knew Tim well.

"He draws excellent caricatures that are so offensive it's impossible to ever think of his victims as anything other than their caricature.

If someone offends him or gets on his bad side, he draws one of the poor sap, makes a hundred copies, and attaches them to every exposed surface in the building.

Lately, he also discovered that he could do more damage by sending everyone in the office a memo with the drawing. "

Hildegard laughed. "Diabolical."

"I actually like the guy," Andrew admitted after a moment. "But in very small doses. He's brutally, unnecessarily, and often cruelly direct but honest. You always know where you stand with Tim. There's something refreshing about that."

"Even when you're in his line of fire?"

Andrew shrugged. "Better than people who smile to your face and talk shit behind your back. With Tim, at least the shit-talking is right up front where you can see it coming."

"I suppose that's true."

"It's like...You know when you eat anchovies?"

"That's a weird segue, but okay."

"A little bit of anchovy in a Caesar salad? Perfect. Adds depth, complexity, that umami thing everyone talks about. But eat a whole can of anchovies?" Andrew shuddered. "Too much. Too sharp. Leaves a bad taste that lingers for hours."

"So, Tim is an anchovy?"

"Tim is definitely an anchovy. Good in small doses, adds flavor to the mix, but too much and you need to rinse your mouth out." Andrew finished his coffee and tossed the cup in the receptacle. "Nathalie thinks he just needs someone to see past his defenses."

"Of course, she does. Nathalie thinks everyone is nice if only given a chance."

"Right? Sometimes an asshole is just an asshole."

"People can change," she said. "But then not everyone has to fit the mold."

"True." Andrew's gaze returned to Tim. "Julian thinks he might be close to the source."

"I know," Hildegard said. "It's the speed of his transition, for one thing. But also his talent. Genetics are weird. Bridget said that sometimes genes can skip generations and emerge stronger than ever in a remote descendant."

"Makes sense. Tim's probably the descendant of some artistic god who decided to try their luck with humans thousands of years ago.

The genes diluted over time until they were barely there, then bam —full expression in one cranky artist who uses his divine gift to draw unflattering sketches of his coworkers. "

"The Fates have a sense of humor," Hildegard said.

Andrew nodded, then glanced at his watch. "I should head home. Nathalie is waiting with dinner for me."

"Then go and give her my regards." She waved her hand at the door. "Thanks for the sandwiches and the coffee."

"My pleasure. It's the least I can do." Andrew walked out the door and closed it behind him.

Hildegard tidied up the remnants of her meal, checked Tim's IV line and his catheter, and adjusted his blankets. All the small tasks that made her feel useful when really all she could do was wait.

"Andrew likes you," she told Tim. "He thinks that you're an anchovy. I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

She picked up the book again but didn't start reading immediately. Instead, she studied Tim's transformed face, trying to reconcile the man she'd met a week ago with whatever he was becoming.

"You know what I think?" she said. "I think you're scared. All that snark, all those cutting remarks—it's just armor. Keep people at arm's length so they can't hurt you. Classic defense mechanism."

Tim, predictably, didn't respond.

"The thing is, armor that thick? It doesn't just keep pain out. It keeps everything out. Joy, connection, love. All the good stuff that makes immortality bearable."

She thought about her own long life, the centuries of experiences, both bitter and sweet.

The lovers she'd had and lost, the friends who'd drifted away, the countless small heartbreaks that accumulated like sediment over time.

It would have been easier to build walls, to become cynical and closed off.

But then she would have missed out on so much fun.

"When you wake up, you're going to have a choice.

You can keep up the act in a taller body, or you can try to smooth out the edges.

Don't lose your snark because that will just make you boring but try not to insult people as much or make unreasonable demands just to humiliate others when you have power over them. That's just mean."

She opened the book again, finding her place. "But first, you have to wake up. So, I'm going to keep reading about Marcus the Magnificent Bastard, and you're going to lie there growing like a weed, and eventually your body will decide it's done with whatever the hell it's doing."