Page 40 of Monsters and Mocha

With a growl of frustration, he turned away, intent on finding another way inside.

“Dr. Shelton! Dr. LeBlanc!”

The words had his head whipping back towards the front door. His breath left him in a sigh of relief as he caught sight of Darby, letting a pale-faced and clearly injured Lacey off her back. Even after the incident with the cyanide, she was still too noble to leave her coworker behind.

That’s my girl.

His relief quickly turned to apprehension when Darby, after speaking to a young man on a pair of crutches, looked over her shoulder and started running back, clearing favoring one of her legs. She disappeared into the smoke.

“Darby! Stop! What are you doing?” His voice was choked with panic.

She either ignored or didn’t hear him. He pushed his way to Lacey and the young man. “Where is she going?” he demanded sharply.

The young man’s eyes widened with fear as he took in Fitz’s imposing form. “She’s looking for Merry. He didn’t come out with the others.”

“George!” As if summoned, Merry’s sweaty, dirt-streaked face appeared from the other side. “What’s going on?”

George’s face went pale, and he looked from Fitz to Merry and back again. He took a step back, nearly tripping over the end of his crutches. “Where were you?”

“One of the hall doors blew shut and locked from the other side, and I had to go the long way out.” Merry did a double-take as his eyes landed on Fitz. “Captain Monstrego!”

But Fitz was already moving toward the front doors. “Where would she go?”

George and Merry both looked at him in confusion, and it was Lacey who answered. “We were outside the surgery.”

He nodded and ran, following in Darby’s footsteps and ignoring the cries of protest from the fire brigade. The smoke was hot and thick as he stepped over the threshold, and his eyes and lungs immediately started burning. He shuffled forward, using his metal hand to feel his way along as he tried to recall everything Darby had told him during their brief tour of the hospital.

The air grew hotter the closer he got to the surgical wing, and the transfer of heat from his metal limbs to the newly-healed flesh around them was starting to become painful. He turned down a hallway that led further into the building, away from the fire, desperate for relief.

“Darby!” His voice was hoarse, choked with smoke and fear.

The crash of something metal sounded from somewhere near, and he rushed forward, throwing open every door as he passed.

“Darby!”

Every room was empty, the signs of a hasty exit evident in the disarray of strewn supplies and half-eaten trays at bedsides. Fitz was beginning to think that what he heard was just a coincidence, when a flash of blue on the floor of the last empty room caught his eye. He lunged forward, scooping the fabric from the floor. His gut churned as he held it up.

It was Darby’s medical coat.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DARBY

Darby was swimming in a pool of heavy molasses.

Everything was heavy. Her muscles refused to move. Her tongue felt fuzzy, and a stale, sweet taste clung to the roof of her mouth. Her consciousness crawled forward at a sluggish pace, slowly reaching for the light from the dark depths of nothingness.

Her eyelids fluttered, letting in a flicker of dim light, and she gradually became aware of her surroundings. There was a sharp, slightly sour scent in the air that made her nose burn, reminding her of the few trips she had made to the mortuary. She was lying on something flat and hard, and as strength returned to her limbs, she realized that her arms wouldn’t move because they were secured at the wrists to whatever surface she was lying on.

The last moments before she lost consciousness returned to her, and Darby’s eyes flew open. She tried moving her legs but found them just as restricted as her arms. She lifted her head, craning her neck to get a look around the room.

Where am I?

The dark, windowless room was clearly some kind of laboratory or workshop. Her feet pointed to the only door, which was slightly ajar and revealed a set of ascending stairs beyond. A long table sat on one side of the room to her right, covered with different configurations of tubes and beakers, some bubbling over tiny flames. Shelves with neat rows of books lined the wall with the door, and the other had an array of tools—hammers, turnscrews, long-handled tongs, and tweezers of various sizes were hung on tiny pegs. But it was the assortment of saws and cleavers that made Darby’s heart rate double. It looked as if a butcher and steam mechanic had pooled their resources, and the effect was rather unnerving.

Especially to someone bound to a table.

She turned to the other side and nearly lost the contents of her stomach.