Strange smells.
Strange noises.
Strange people.
Where am I?
“That’s it, wake up. We won’t bite.”
I cringed against the false, upbeat tone. I didn’t tolerate insincerity and whoever encouraged me hid his true thoughts.
My condition was the first sense to return with full force, feeding off the man beside me—the man who cared, worried, and clinically assessed me. In his mind, I belonged to him. My progress, my recovery—it was all testament to his skills as my…
Doctor.
The unfamiliar place and unfamiliar smells suddenly made a lot more sense.
Bright lights were brighter and the blanket hiding me from pain lived deep in my veins.
Drugs.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe.
But I was alive.
And mistakenly being called Mr. Ambrose.
The beeping sound flurried faster as I slipped back into all facets of my body. Fingers to fingers. Toes to toes. It was like dressing in expensive cashmere after weeks of wearing scratchy wool. It was home.
“He’s coming to.”
“That’s it. We’re here. No need to fear. You’re safe.”
The doctor’s voice reached into the remaining darkness in my brain, plucking me to the surface. My eyes were heavy drapes, musty and full of moths, refusing to open.
A wash of frustration came from nowhere—tugging me faster from my haze, slamming me into a body I no longer wanted.
My eyes opened.
“Great. Awesome job, Mr. Ambrose.”
I promptly closed them again. The room was too bright, too much to see.
“Give it a moment and the discomfort will pass.” Someone patted me on the shoulder. The drumbeat resonated through my body, awakening everything else.
I tried again, squinting this time to limit the amount of light.
The scene before me crystallised from a sea of wishy-washy watercolours to shapes I recognised.
I knew this world. Yet I don’t know these people.
I was back in a broken body, battered within an inch of my life. I was cold and feeling nauseous, and interminably tired. I preferred my dream world where Nila was safe, we were happy, and there was no mad evil threatening to tear us apart.
The doctor clasped my hand—the one free of an IV needle.
I tried to tug away but my brain failed to send the message, leaving me in his grasp. “You gave us quite a scare, Mr. Ambrose.”
I swallowed, forcing my emaciated throat to lubricate. “Th—that isn’t m—my—” I cut myself off before I could finish.
My name…what was my name…?
It only took a fraction.
I’m Jethro Hawk. Heir to Hawksridge, firstborn, and recently murdered by his own father. Everything of my past, my trials, and my love for Nila slotted into perfect place, leaving me clearheaded and aware.
As far as my father knew, I’d died when the bullet meant for Jasmine tore into my body. Whoever had delivered me to the hospital was on my side. And the name was a mask keeping me safe.
A flash of agony made its way through whatever painkillers they’d given me, kick-starting me onto another subject. “W—who are y—you?”
The doctor studied me. His brown handlebar moustache and shock of unruly hair didn’t match the somber light green scrubs he wore or the softness of his hand around mine. He looked like an eccentric farmer, someone more at home hugging a chicken, than nursing a patient back to life.
“My name is Jack Louille. I was the surgeon who operated on you.” His eyes cast down to my stomach, covered in starchy white sheets. “It was touch and go for a bit, but you responded well to treatment.”
“W—what treat—treatment?”
He beamed, a rush of pride emitting from him, his emotions of a job well done and workplace satisfaction buffeting me. “I don’t know how much you remember, but you were shot.”
I nodded. “My m—memory is fully in—intact.” The more I spoke, the more my throat found it easier to talk.
“Ah, that’s great news. As you are aware then, a bullet sliced through your side.” He leaned over me. “I don’t need to tell you how close it came to being a fatal wound. An abdominal injury can rupture intestines, liver, spleen, and kidneys. There are also major vessels that can be nicked—all of which equal a lower possibility of survival—especially in your case, since you were unable to seek treatment straight away.”
Why was that?
I couldn’t recall.
Memories of time skipping and fire hissing tried to make sense. Kestrel had been beside me…
Kes!
I lashed out, grabbing the doctor’s wrist. My body flared with agony, but I ignored it. “The other m—man. Is he here, t—too?” I didn’t dare say his name. I doubted he would be under it anyway—same as me.
Doctor Louille paused, his happiness at my recovery fading as helplessness smothered his thoughts. “Your brother is still with us, but…we don’t know for how long. His injuries were more extensive, less straightforward to operate.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll tell you about him soon. First, let me explain your condition and then you need to rest. There is time for everything else later.”
No, there is no time.
If Kes wasn’t doing well, I wanted to see him before it was too late.
I need my brother. My friend.
“You’re what I call an extraordinary luckster.” Louille smiled. “I once had a patient who slipped in the bath and shattered a window. The glass sliced his neck but missed the jugular and carotid artery. Do you know how nearly impossible that is? But he was lucky. I’ve had many patients that, by right, should be dead but somehow tricked death into leaving them alone.” He patted my shoulder. “You’re the latest luckster. The bullet sliced through the high side of your abdomen, passing through the muscles surrounding core vitals, and never entering the abdominal cavity. You would’ve passed out from the overload of adrenaline and pain, and it would’ve been horrendously messy and bloody, but here we are.”