Page 113 of Grave Beginnings

“No hospital,” Angel promised.

“What the hell did they do to him at the hospital?”

“Variance testing,” Angel said grimly.

“That was a PTSD attack,” Wade said.

“Yes,” Angel agreed.

“What the hell kind of testing do they do on SVs?” Wade asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Angel said.

“Mad at me?” I gasped out the question, needing to know ifthere was a reason to continue breathing. How had he become everything to me in such a short time? I barely knew him, and yet longed to learn every detail of his life and live every moment I had left with him. “Please, don’t hate me. I don’t know why this is happening.”

“Never, baby. Jude, breathe. Let me hold you. Focus on me.”

I sank into Angel’s arms, burying my face in the crook of his shoulder and sighing as his scent eased the strain of my lungs and I could finally suck in air. The voices faded, their whispers growing quieter, more distant, until they were gone. The world around me came back into focus with sterile walls, buzzing lights, the faint smells of antiseptic and magic, and Angel—wrapped around me, spreading his warmth to stave off the bitter cold of my power, his expression a mix of concern and determination.

“They locked me in the hospital morgue for hours,” I whispered, having tried to bury the memory but finding it kept coming back. “Cuffed to the table. Alone.” Everything I’d experienced had been a dream or a hallucination. At least, that’s what I told myself over and over again.

“You’re safe now,” Angel said.

Was I? Would I ever be again? I’d been enraged when they first left me there. Demanding to be freed. Calling out their inhumane treatment. The first hour had been fine. Then I’d tried to ease the boredom by examining the corpse on the table I was bound to. An older, white male, who seemed to have died from a bullet to the chest. Murder, or accident? I’d spent a while looking over what I could of the wound and the man, his obvious autopsy. But had no answers.

Hours passed. I’d gone without food, water, or even a bathroom break. Which had been the worst. That sort of pain and embarrassment had begun to unravel my narrow hold on my control. In the end, I’d pissed myself. Not due to fear—at least not that I could recall—only being unable to hold back the pain anymore. The voices had risen to a deafening volume. Had thedoors moved? Or was that in my imagination? I’d thought I’d gone mad.

I couldn’t remember how long I’d spent locked in there. Hours? Days? I’d passed out after screaming myself hoarse and woken up in the mental ward, my heart racing at the idea of being dragged back down to the morgue.

“Let me see if we can get us moved to an interview room. No reason he needs to look at the other remains. At least, not right now,” Wade said.

“Sorry,” I said. Fuck, I was useless like this. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“It’s called trauma, and you have nothing to apologize for,” Angel assured me. His hands cradled my face, keeping my focus on him. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”

“Lame superpower number eight billion and one comes with a free side of crippling existential dread. What a bargain.” My legs wobbled like jelly and my heart raced, but the world seeped back in with each breath. I heard Wade wander away, but kept my forehead pressed to Angel’s, soaking in his warmth and calm. If this was what it meant to have a shifter mate, I could get used to being pampered.

39

Wade returnedand mumbled something to Angel, who nodded and tugged me up.

“Can you talk with our DB if he’s not in the morgue?” Angel asked.

“Yeah. I think so. I can try the morgue again…” Though I couldn’t even bring myself to look over his shoulder where the door stood in the distance.

“We’ve got a viewing room ready,” Wade said. “If it’s too much, let us know and we’ll make Sarge call another SV in. I don’t know what the fuck the hospital did to you, but traumatizing SVs is not the way to improve our staffing levels.”

“I’ll be okay,” I promised, without really knowing if I could help at all. Angel kept himself between me and the far door, holding me up. His warmth and magic made me sleepy, soothing away the worst of the anxiety as Wade led us away from the morgue.

We entered a small, brightly lit viewing room. The wall of glass overlooked a large, familiar, empty space in which they often rolled in gurneys with bodies for identification. But inside stood the figure of a man, unmoving, head down, harsh lightsblazing over him from above. The zombie—our DB—stood unnervingly straight, as if held by invisible strings.

I approached the window, taking in the tattered and torn clothing, the gray/black cast of his skin, or what was left of it. Had he been dead that long, or was it a burn? Some of the worst murder victims I’d reviewed over my career had been burned to try to cover up the crime. I tried not to stare as my stomach did a wobbly roll, threatening to regurgitate my morning coffee and breakfast sandwich.

The DB moved, head tilting up as if he could sense us close, or maybe just me. But his milky eyes stared at us through the glass. I catalogued his features, trying to overlook the physical damage and see beyond what had been done to him, to find things to use to identify him.

His death hadn’t been easy, that much was clear. And since he was still somewhat fresh, having eyes—and enough juice left to leave fluids leaking from his ears and mouth—I figured, maybe a few days dead? Had there been any recently reported missing males between twenty and forty? What remained of his outfit appeared to be a polyblend that made me think it was some sort of workout thing; running pants, or leggings of some kind.

I swallowed, throat dry, as my gaze roamed over blood stains—or was that candle wax?