Falling for the Vampire Enforcer

Blair’s POV

Blood spurts from the wound under my fingers. The sterile gauze isn’t doing much good, not that it would. People like it when you at least look like you’re doing something while the doctor is working. Just standing around waiting for a command makes people shout at you, and that is the last thing I need tonight.

Being a nurse, especially in the emergency room, in the heart of Chicago makes you learn quickly that you need to, at the very least, look busy. In my case, at least what I’m doing is helping our patient.

The patient we are currently working on is a male, thirty-one, with lacerations on his lower extremities. He was in a knife fight and ended up winning—according to him. However, the guy on the ground did a number on his legs, which ultimately ended him straight here in the emergency room.

“Nurse! Hold that wound tighter. We need to suppress the bleeding,” states the doctor. I don’t remember his name at the moment. He’s one of the new guys who just got his residency though. Definitely one of those hotshots who felt ready to do more than lab work tonight.

“Yes, doctor,” I reply. I snatch another gauze pad and replace the one that was on the wound before directing my attention to the patient.

I grip tight to the leg, feeling the rapid pulse of the man. He squirms and thrashes, demanding things for the pain while the doctor tries to evaluate him. The man’s eyes are swirling, meaning he is probably on some kind of drug or another. To me, it’s all the same. The only thing that is different is what we can safely give him without causing additional issues.

“Sir, I know this is uncomfortable, but I need you to relax for me, okay?” I say, keeping a smile on my face and feeling a calm come over my body.

“Look, lady! It hurts! Where’s the meds?”

“They’ll take effect any moment, but it works better when you’re relaxed. Take a few deep breaths with me. In through your nose. Out through your mouth,” I direct, watching as the guy slowly begins to obey.

I wish I could say this was not a common occurrence.

I wish I could say we don’t deal with people like this every single night.

But, that’s the way it is.

Finally, the man stops squirming and we are able to actually get some work done. We manage to stitch him up once the bleeding has calmed down. Thankfully, no arteries were hit—this time. Knowing this guy, however, he would be back here within a week with the same kind of injury.

Just another day in the office.

I know getting desensitized can be a good thing in this line of work, but there are some days when something is just a little too much for even me to handle.

I glance down at my watch from under my bloody gloves and see that it is just past two in the morning. The witching hour. We all know anything can happen. The hospital lives hour by hour, knowing that each ticking second could be used to save a life.

I take several deep breaths before heading over to the nearest trash can, ripping off my gloves, and slipping into the restroom to wash up. I’m sure there’s spatter somewhere on my scrubs, and I need a second to myself.

Gosh, I need to stop pulling these double shifts. They’re really getting to me physically. That struggling guy really wiped me out.

I walk down the hall, listening to the way my shoes squeak against the once freshly waxed floor that was only done this morning, and duck into the bathroom. Pulse even, breath steady, I look at my reflection to see if I look presentable and approachable for the next patient to saunter in through the sliding emergency room doors.

Hair back in a tidy ponytail. Check. Eyes bright. Check. Freckles. Ooofff… yep, they’re still there. I wash my hands before pulling down my honey-blonde hair, swishing it back and forth to loosen it, and then hoisting it back up into a ponytail. The night is far from over after all.

I step out into the hallway, once again breathing in that familiar smell of disinfectant and sterile gauze. I walk past the racks of medical supplies, taking a mental stock of what is there and what I’ll probably need to duck into the closet to grab.

I see the doctor from earlier and he smiles thoughtfully at me. It is that wary smile that says, ‘thank you—keep up the good work’ without a single uttered word. I return the smile, feeling the weight in my chest lighten ever so slightly.

It is a good night.

“Okay, people, listen up! We have a multi-vehicle accident coming in. Multiple cases of lacerations, possible fractures, and broken bones, and three are unconscious. Get them while they’re hot!” calls one of my fellow nurses working the main desk.

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, the emergency room doors open and the fray starts once more. Doctors and nurses alike rush forward, grabbing scrub covers and gurneys before guiding them to their areas to begin working on the new influx of patients. The same calm washes over me and I get to work.

I help two doctors set a leg, start pushing IVs to patients, and start making my rounds to see if anyone needs help when I hear a shout come from the front door.

“Hey! We need some help!”

This voice is new to me. Something about its commanding tone pulls my vision toward it. Entering the sliding emergency room is a tall man who currently is carrying someone over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. I’m instantly astounded at the man’s physique and ease at carrying the man on his back, and I have to blink a few times as I suddenly meet his pale green eyes.

“You. Are you a doctor?” he demands. There is a certifiable panic in his tone and in his eyes. I see flecks of blood on his neck and on his face under his tousled curly black hair. The fact he and his friend are wearing all black means that there is probably more blood than those few flecks I’m seeing.

My voice comes back to me. I already know there are no doctors or nurses free who can help this man other than me.

“No, but I can help. This way,” I say with calm confidence.

All of the beds in the main room are full, but there are a few side rooms that we use for severe cases which will work well. I point to the bed and start prepping the table with an IV bag just in case.

First things first, I need to assess the overall injury.

The man lays his friend on the bed with a kind of tenderness you would see from someone who cares. Immediately, my mind jumps to the fact that these two probably know one another well. I elect to go into my abbreviated reassurance spiel.

“Sir, I know this is stressful, but we’re going to do everything we can to help your friend,” I say, making sure to make eye contact with the man again. He is completely stone-faced, even though his pale eyes are screaming out with worry. He nods, showing he understands.

Heart pumping harder and harder in my chest, I start working on his friend.

“Do you know what happened?” I ask, directing my attention to the holes in the front of the patient’s shirt. He is groaning and gasping, and I see why as I cut away his shirt.

His entire front is riddled with birdshot fragments and several large bullet wounds. Each wound is leaking sluggishly, but there’s something odd about the color of the man’s blood. It looks too dark, to the point where it almost looks black. Is his blood coagulating faster than normal?

The sight is a grizzly one at best.

I take a breath and start working; snatching gauze from the nearby table I begin cleaning the wounds. I can’t do anything unless I know if these are superficial or deep penetrating wounds. I slap on some of the sensors to monitor my patient’s heart rate, noticing immediately that he is barely hanging on. I look back at the black-haired man.

“Sir,” I say again, snapping the man’s friend out of whatever trance he was in. “Do you know what happened? Was this a gunshot wound? Were you with him when it happened?”

“Yes, I was there,” mutters the man, a loathing bitterness in his voice. Did that mean he knew who was responsible? “It was a gunshot. Two different ones. Shotgun and revolver.”

I see what he was talking about immediately. There is definitely birdshot all over this man’s chest as well as two bullet holes that are of a larger caliber.

“Is your friend on any coagulants or blood thinners?” I ask as I continue to mop up the wounds which refuse to stop bleeding.

The man shakes his head, making his curly black hair fall more into his eyes. “No. Nothing,” he says quietly.

I glance up at him. He is rigid as a board. I notice a scar above his right eye and only now see part of a tattoo poking out from under his collar. Is he going into shock? Am I going to need to take care of him next?

“Right. Sir, I’m going to ask that you sit over here,” I say as I gently tug him toward a chair. He jerks away initially, daring to look me in the eye for the second time. He looked like I was going to attack him for a moment, and his body obviously bristled at my touch. “It’s okay. I’m not going to make you leave your friend. I just need to move around a lot and don’t want to accidentally step on you.”

His body trembles at my touch as I guide him over to the chair and pull a bright orange blanket over his shoulders.

“Keep this on,” I say firmly. “And, if you know, can you tell me your friend’s blood type?”

“I… don’t…” he mutters, squirming and looking away.

“Does your friend have a name?” I ask, pulling myself away from the man and returning to helping my shot patient.

“Angelo,” mutters the man. “His name is Angelo.”

“Great. Thank you,” I say, smiling as I continue to work.

Based on what I saw, I think the guy has to either have some kind of blood coagulation disorder or that he is not getting enough oxygen.

I snag the O2 line and place an oxygen mask over the man’s face. His body is also frigid to the touch, meaning poor circulation. He needs heat. I throw open one of the cabinets and pull out the heating pads that we use for hypothermic patients. It isn’t much, but it is something. At the very least, I hope it prevents the guy from going into shock.

After mopping up as much blood as I can and trying to plug what wounds I can, I rush out of the room and snag some O-negative blood. I know it’s a precious resource, but this guy needs blood and fast. As my mind races on how to stop my patient from bleeding out, I hear the monitors begin to screech, alerting me that he is coding, and that’s not good.

I rush back in and one of my fellow nurses and a doctor comes in with me. The other nurse rushes the dark-haired friend out of the room, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. His face is plastered with worry and some other emotion I can’t place at the moment.

I can’t think about him right now.

“Nurse! What’s the situation?” asks the doctor as he looks down at my shot patient.

“Multiple gunshot wounds. Superficial. Not on any known coagulants or thinners. His friend brought him in. I was about to start him on some O-negative when he started coding,” I explain. “He only just arrived.”

“He’s crashing,” mutters the doctor as he fishes out the defibrillation paddles. “Charge. Clear.”

For a moment, I feel like I’m watching it happen in slow motion. The pulse spikes and the man’s eyes go wide as they roll back into his head. Nothing. I hear the next charge and see the pulse spike once more. His eyes, wide with fear once more, roll back again before he slips away. For a moment, I swear I see his bloodshot eyes look completely crimson before he falls completely limp.

Finally, we call time of death.

It’s been a while since I haven’t been able to save a coding patient, and it gets under my skin like nothing else. I sit there staring at the man for a few moments before forcing myself off the wall, composing myself, and heading for the door.

I nearly jump out of my skin when I see Arthur whip around the corner and stand directly in front of me. Arthur Mends, the hospital coroner, smiles his toothy grin at me, wispy hair in that odd part that covers the top of his slightly balding head. It almost looks like a comb-over with gossamer-like hair. His pale blue eyes look clouded and misty.

As head of the hospital morgue, he is responsible for handling anyone who we aren’t able to save; and, if I’m being honest, he relishes his job a little too much.

“Nurse Blair Evans. How nice to see you again,” he says, his voice cool like a winter breeze, but slimier like the snow slush after it’s been driven through by hundreds of cars.

“Nice to see you too,” I say pleasantly, attempting to suppress the involuntary shudder that drips down my spine. He looks past me to the body.

“Shame, really, about him,” says Arthur. It feels like a backhanded jab, but I’m really not in the mood.

“Yeah, it is,” I mutter, feeling that nausea of not being able to save him churn my insides. “I’m… sorry I can’t stay and chat. I have to talk to his friend. Excuse me.”

I take a few steps away from Arthur when I notice something peculiar. The guy who brought in his friend and Arthur make direct eye contact, locking eyes as if there is some kind of unspoken challenge before the man whisks himself out of the hospital.

I don’t even get a dozen steps out of the sliding hospital door before he has completely vanished.

I stand there staring out at the night as I hear another round of sirens heading straight for us.

All I can wonder now is who is the man Arthur is taking into the morgue, and who is that mysterious man who brought him here?