Page 28 of Victorious

Walsh’s blood was seeping along the floor toward Ian’s toes, and Gabriel told him to step back.

Ian took a single, careful step. As if it were a game of Simon Says. An order he had to follow.

Gabriel looked at Iris. “Go stand by Ian.”

Iris used to cock a brow if he ever asked her to do something without a please and thank you on the end, but now, she obeyed. A quiet dread crept over Gabriel, and his mind began to tick through a litany of diagnoses—from shock to cognitive impairment—before he pushed the thought away. There would be time for questions later. Right now, they had more pressing needs.

Gabriel turned his attention back to Walsh.

He knelt beside the body, his side aching in protest, but it seemed that touch was a necessary part. He laid a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, marveling at the adaptability of the human mind. Until now, he’d only been a witness to someone else’s power. Now, in the span of minutes, he’d accepted his own.

Even though the doctor’s body was still warm, Gabriel felt that same strange chill, the icy burn against his fingers, the ache inside his skull. The sense of something tearing as he dragged Walsh back to life.

The doctor sucked in a breath, the wound at his throat melting back into smooth skin, the pool of blood beneath him the only evidence of a crime.

Gabriel straightened, his vision spotting briefly with the effort. He braced himself, waiting to see how Walsh would react.

If anyone was going to attack him, or scream for help, it would be the other doctor, who’d seen the blade in Gabriel’s hand, who’d died at his feet. But Walsh just sat there, on the tile floor, seemingly unbothered by the blood streaking his once-white coat.

Gabriel decided to test a newly forming theory.

“Stand up,” he said, and Walsh obeyed, just as Ian and Iris had. He rose smoothly to his feet, as if he were a puppet, and Gabriel, having brought him back, now controlled the strings. “Take off your coat.”

Walsh shed the stained garment.

“Go to the lost and found,” continued Gabriel. “Bring back anything that will fit my son, my wife, and me.”

“Sure thing,” said Walsh, turning toward the door.

There was no hint of defiance or distrust in Walsh’s tone, but there was also no way of knowing how specific Gabriel needed to be.

“And act normal,” he added. There was little trace of Walsh’s bedside manner, or any manner for that matter, but Gabriel thought the man’s stride got a little smoother.

As soon as he was gone, Gabriel sagged, bracing himself against the nearest counter. His side ached, and his head swam, his whole body trembling.

Iris and Ian stood still, watching, as if still half asleep, and Gabriel felt a momentary flash of annoyance at their utter lack of worry, even though he knew that, for the moment at least, it was better this way.

He needed them to stay calm.

Walsh returned with a bundle of clothes and doled them out with welcome efficiency. Iris and Ian stared at the fabric in their hands.

“Put those on,” instructed Gabriel. They did.

Walsh handed him a sweater and a pair of slacks. Gabriel got the hospital gown off, but struggled with the clothes, each motion tearing at his bandaged side, fresh blood staining the gauze.

“Help me?” he asked Iris, telling himself it was a question, instead of a command. She came to life, hurrying over, and he knew she was there, his Iris, behind this strange and temporary veil. Her hands slid over his skin with practiced ease, not like a puppet at all. And if she didn’t comment on his injury, didn’t look over her shoulder to make sure Ian had his shirt on the right way, Gabriel told himself it didn’t matter.

She was there, and so was Ian.

“Clean this up,” he instructed Walsh, pointing to his own blood on the floor, the steel tables, now bare. “Then go back to your rounds. And tell no one.” The doctor bobbed his head agreeably and got to work.

“We need to go,” said Gabriel, holding out his hands for his wife, his son. They came to him, of course, their fingers sliding through his, Iris’s soft, smooth palm, and Ian’s small fist, and in the moment, that was what mattered. He was alive. His family was alive.

And they were together again.

XINOW. THEN.

1 WEEK BEFORE THE END