Page 3 of Her Immortal Mate

"Mae!" Anna screams. I turn in time to see a thing…so human-like besides the bat wings pushing off the mountain. In an instant, she's gone, her rope dropping slack.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I climb faster, muscles screaming. The ledge is just ten feet above. If I can just reach it-

One of the creatures comes for me. My body goes rigid, weightless. The cliff face blurs and fades...

I jolt awake with a gasp, sweat soaking through my thin sleeping mat. My hands instinctively reach for climbing holds that aren't there, fingers cramping with phantom exertion. The tent's canvas walls press close in the darkness.

"Shit." I press my palms against my eyes, trying to push away the memory of that day two years ago. Of watching my climbing partners disappear one by one. Of how my experience on search and rescue missions had helped me evade capture longer than most. But in the end, it hadn't mattered.

The vrakken took us all.

The dream always stops at the moment of capture. Maybe my mind is protecting me from what came after — the screaming, the blood, the people Changing or dying. My medical training had helped me survive as I tended to the changelings, helping increase their survival rate.

The nightmare clings to me and I kick away from my bedroll. I roll onto my side, pulling my knees to my chest as I wait for my breathing to slow.

I push off the ground and slip on my boots, tying the laces with practiced efficiency. No point dwelling on nightmares when there's work to be done. During a war, there's always work to be done.

The healing tents have been set up in the middle of the camp, and I work my way there in the dim light. I grab my leather satchel of herbs and supplies, checking my inventory in the dim morning light.

A vrakken guard materializes beside me. "There's three injured this way."

"What happened?" I sort through dried herbs and flowers I don't know the name of, mentally cataloging what I'll need as I follow him toward one of the extra tents set up on the side. Most of the vrakken guards have learned who I am by now.

"Dark elf raid. They attacked why we had a hunting party out." He vanishes as quickly as he appeared, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I head to the first patient, a female vrakken with wings crumpled against her back. Her ghostly white skin is even paler than usual, dark circles around her eyes more pronounced.

"I can heal myself," she hisses through clenched teeth.

"Your magic is drained." I examine her wing, noting the torn membrane. "Save what little you have left. This needs cleaning and stitching."

She grabs my wrist, her grip painfully tight. "Why should I trust a human?"

"Because I'm still alive." I meet her black eyes steadily. "Which means I'm good at what I do."

She releases me with a sneer but doesn't protest as I clean the wound. I get that a lot, too. Even though we were all at one point human, many vrakken believe that their ability to survive the Change makes them better than me.

I work methodically, mentally noting how the membrane structure differs from bat wings I studied in biology. The tissue is harder to heal without magic, but I can manage it. At least to where they can still fly.

"Hold still," I murmur, threading a needle with gut string. "This will hurt."

"I've endured worse." Her lips curl into a bitter smile.

As I work, a purna enters — one of the magic-wielding human women who serve the vrakken. Her magic flickers weakly as she attempts to heal another injured warrior.

"Save it," I call out. "I've got paste for the bleeding and bark for pain. Rest your magic — they'll need it more when the dark elves return."

The purna nods gratefully, sinking onto a nearby stone bench. I continue my work, each stitch adding to my mental catalog of vrakken physiology. Knowledge is power - and someday, I'll need every advantage I can get.

I finish with my last patient when heavy footsteps approach the tent. A massive vrakken pushes through the entrance, carrying a limp warrior in his arms. Blood drips onto the stone floor.

"Put him here." I clear space on the nearest cot, already reaching for fresh supplies.

The wounded vrakken's chest bears deep gashes - claw marks from what must have been a brutal fight. His breathing comes in wet, ragged gasps.

The tall vrakken who brought him in stays close, his silver eyes tracking my movements as I examine the wounds. His wings, larger than any I've seen before, curl protectively around the injured warrior.

"These need cleaning before infection sets in." I grab my herb bag. "Hold him down. This will hurt."

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