Page 111 of Bloodhunter

They’d beaten him so badly he resembled a huge cut of raw,bloody meat. I was pretty sure that after they’d brought him in, most of thecops had taken turns abusing him some more.

It was ugly. So very ugly.

I’d never seen someone so brutalized.

The doctor finally came on the line.

“Dr. Zahn,” he said.

Shane cleared his throat. “This is Shane Copas. TrinitySinclair and I are—”

“With Angus,” Zahn said. “Yes. It’s bad. I did the best Icould, but he won’t survive the attack. The only reason he’s still alive isbecause he’s Angus Stark.”

“You can’t let him die,” I blurted, angry.

“I’d have put him out of his misery if they’d have allowedit. As it is, I did everything I could,” he said. “Absolutely everything.”

I stared down at Angus, my tears rolling off my nose andfalling onto his face. “You didn’t do enough. You have to come back, Dr. Zahn.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’ll likely end up behind barsas well, if I try. It’s a dangerous time for supernaturals, if you hadn’tnoticed.”

“Doctor,please. You have to help him. He needs to bein a hospital.”

“He’s not human. He doesn’t need a hospital.” There was noanger or outrage or pain in his voice. Dr. Zahn had seen everything. He’d seena dozen Angus Starks. “Say your goodbyes, Ms. Sinclair.” He hesitated. “If helives, he’ll spend the rest of his life in a prison worse than anything you canimagine, my dear. He’d rather be dead. I swear that to you.”

And on that note, he ended the call.

Shane and I looked at each other, realizing at the samemoment exactly what was going on.

“Angus was prepared for this eventuality,” Shane said.

I wiped my nose on my sleeve. “The doctor won’t try to savehim because Angus doesn’t want to be saved. He doesn’t want to go to prison.”

“Better to rest in peace than to live in hell.” Shane nodded.“I can understand that.”

“Well I can’t. Get another doctor in here. The supernaturalshave more than one doctor.”

“I don’t—”

“Getone,” I shouted. “Getone, Shane!”

“Fuck,” he muttered, under his breath, then turned andstrode from the jail cell.

One of the guards stuck his head into the cell. “Ms.Sinclair?”

“Get away from me,” I told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And because I couldn’t possibly hurt Angus more than he’dalready been hurt, I stretched out half on top of him and rested my head on hisraw chest. They’d shocked him so many times he was covered with burns. Therewere splinters embedded in his wounds, and bloody gaps in his flesh so wide anddeep that I could have slipped half my hand into them.

The doctor might have set his broken bones. He might have halfheartedlycleaned his wounds. He might have shot him full of drugs. I could see evidenceof little else. He’d only stitched up a couple of the cuts on Angus’s head,leaving the ones on his body to seep and drain.

Angus’s breath was labored and wet. Likely some shards ofbroken rib had punctured his lungs.

He should have been home. He needed his family. But if hisfamily had walked into the police station, they’d all be sharing cellsalongside him.

I dug my phone out of my pocket, brought up the camera, andtook a nice long video of the brokenness that was Angus Stark.

And I made him a promise as I digitally catalogued hiswounds.