The Legend of the Eight: The Hunted (Book 5)

8: Just Breathe

EIGHT: JUST BREATHE
FEBRUARY 11
WIL DIAMOND

THE INFIRMARY WAS DARK AT night—lit only by faint candles flickering on either side of the door and spread out every few feet from there. Her father slept in the bed at the back—with machines and wires and bags of fluid on both sides. He didn't even look like himself. That was part of the reason why she hardly visited. He was a hollow shell of himself with graying hair and paled skin. And his eyes were shut. They were always shut.

Wil sat at her father's bedside, holding as much of his hand as she could—it wasn't a lot, what with the IVs and tape and needles. She'd been there all night, waiting for news from Chloe. Or Damon. Or both.

Earlier that morning, Chloe barged into class to tell Wil that Damon was in trouble. Not much later, the girls rushed off to find him. His loft was empty and Chloe decided to stay there in case he returned while Wil went to the palace in search of him there. In the palace, she headed straight for the Conference Wing and on the way, she passed the Infirmary. She got sidetracked there, visiting her father.

"Hey you."

About an hour later, there was another visitor in the Infirmary and it was one she knew well. Before she could turn around, there were hands on her shoulders, massaging her gently.

She turned and placed a kiss on one of those hands and rested her head against it.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him. "I thought you were away for work."

He exhaled and then leaned down, resting his chin on the top of her head and watching her father's chest rise and fall—a ventilator doing the work that his lungs could not.

"My dad showed up to take over," Oliver answered of his father, Rupert Henstridge. "Besides, I wanted to be here. I miss you."

"Do you think he's going to wake up?"

She knew she was supposed to say she missed him too and if she was being honest, she wasn't sure why she asked him about her father's health. Oliver wasn't a doctor. He didn't know the first thing about traumatic brain injuries or severe magical traumas.

"He's going to be fine," Oliver assured her anyway, caressing her shoulders. "He's going to watch you graduate and walk you down the aisle and fight with you about all the things that dads fight about with their daughters. He's going to be fine."

Right then, four of the nursing staff entered the Infirmary and walked to Walter's bed swiftly. They began condensing the station—stacking machines on the bottom bed rail and unlocking the wheels to make it mobile. Wil looked up suddenly and wiped tears from under her eyes, pulling out of Oliver's arms.

"Wh—What are you doing?" she asked them while they moved quickly. Like robots. "What's going on? Where are you taking him?"

"Sorry, Your Highness," apologized the first nurse. "We have to move your father. We're taking him upstairs where we will resume his care."

"Why?" she asked and Oliver took her hand. "Why are you moving him? Is something wrong? What's going on?"

"The King's condition remains the same," a second nurse answered while tucking loose bedsheets around him. "There's an incoming patient. It's emergent. We need the space to treat him."

The nurses finished packing Walter up and carted him out of the Infirmary within the minute. Wil watched and Oliver hovered behind her, holding her shoulders so she wouldn't be tempted to run after them. Moments after her father was gone, Wil saw two men rushing in, carrying a third.