The Experimental Murders (Elysium #2)

Chapter Forty-One

 Trinket eased Booker onto the settee before she ran to fetch his medical bag. The shadows were still haunting her, but their numbers had decreased, even in the dark laboratory all alone. Thankfully, the voices had disappeared altogether. Her hands shook as she searched for the bag. When she found it beneath Booker's desk, she grabbed it and rushed back up the stairs.

Daphne was with him in the parlour, and as Trinket entered, she looked to her for answers.

"Ambush," Trinket said. "The Mice. He got shot. In the arm, I think."

Booker was leaning forward, his elbows propped against his knees and his fingers twisted in his hair. His teeth were clenched, and she wasn't sure if it was because of the pain or his frustration.

Daphne motioned to the hallway and disappeared. Trinket sat beside Booker and opened up the bag. She recognized a few of the tools, but she had no idea what to do with them.

"You're going to have to talk me through this, Booker," she said.

Sitting up, he glanced into the bag and nodded at a pair of scissors. "You need to cut the sleeve off."

As she picked up the scissors, Booker removed his coat and tossed it onto the floor along with his suit jacket until he was down to his white button-up shirt. Carefully, she cut the seam at the shoulder. The fabric stuck to the bleeding wound, but he helped her gently remove it.

"Rip that up and tie it above the bullet hole," he said as he handed her the fabric she had cut away.

She did as he told her and tied it tight.

"Tighter."

She pulled again.

"Tighter."

Her fingers were white as she pulled at the fabric until he was satisfied. She then knotted it and let him inspect it.

"Should be some alcohol in there to clean it," he said as he nodded at the bag and examined his upper arm.

Dousing some on a rag, she dabbed at the wound. Booker winced, and she paused before offering the bottle to him.

"Need to take the edge off?"

He shook his head. "Not a drinker."

"I think it's more for the pain than the pleasure."

He gave a wry smile. "Just keep going."

She continued to apply alcohol to the wound until she could see where the bullet had embedded itself.

"Take it out with the forceps," Booker said.

She fished out the tool and held it above the wound, hesitating. She had never done this before. What if she hurt him? Or what if she hit something inside of him that was important and he bled out?

"Trinket, it's fine," he said, his voice gentle but firm.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to grasp the bullet with the awkward tool. It took several tries, and though Booker gritted his teeth as she hit the tender sides of his wound with each failed attempt, he did not cry out. Finally, she grasped the projectile and pulled it out, tossing both it and the forceps onto the table.

"All right, you're going to need to sew it up." He smiled. "This I know you can do."

As she threaded the needle, she recalled the last time she had sewn him up. Granted, this wound was far less serious than the Wolf bite had been, but her heart still beat in her throat when she made the first stitch.

"What happened back there?" she asked as she maneuvered the thread through his flesh.

"I think the Mice are after Benedict's abilities."