Page 64 of Bone Year

And an actual bone saw hanging from a loop at my hip.

What in the hell is happening in this place that I need a bone saw strapped to my waist? I don’t want to find out, but I have a feeling I’m going to.

I adjust the belt, feeling the unfamiliar weight settle against my hips. Everyone else probably got training for this. I got Malric and a grumpy vampire who couldn’t wait to get rid of me.

Nella Thorne, whoever you are, please don’t be a nightmare. I’m fresh out of patience and armed with a bone saw. Room 503, here I come.

Chapter Sixteen

“Some wounds want to stay open. Some wounds are hungry.”

— On Corrupted Tissue, Restricted Archives

I grab the chart hanging outside room 503 and scan it quickly. “Nella Thorne. Fourteen years old. Fissure wound, left wing. Three weeks admitted. No improvement.”

She’s been stuck here for three weeks, and no one has figured out how to help her.

I push open the door and stop short.

I see her wings first, a dark-gray membrane spread wide across a padded frame that extends the entire width of the room, like an oversized headboard. Delicate bone structures are visible beneath the surface, thin as the skeleton of a leaf held up to light. Vampire wings. I’ve seen Draven and Malric’s, brief flashes of dark leather before they vanished back into wherever they keep them. But I’ve never seen them like this, forced open and vulnerable.

The girl they belong to reclines against a pile of pillows, her back to me, facing the window. She’s watching the gray sky outside or maybe the birds that cut across it. Things that can fly when she can’t.

I smell rotting flesh masked by something chemical, the sharp tang of experimental treatments that burn the inside of my nose. This is the smell of desperation. Of healers trying things they’re not sure will work on wounds they don’t fully understand.

“I know you’re standing there.” Her voice is raspy, annoyed. She doesn’t turn around. “I can smell you too.”

So much for introductions.

“I’m Maelis, bone year.” I step further into the room, letting the door close behind me. “I’ve been assigned to help take care of you.”

“Fantastic, another one.”

I circle around the bed so I can see her face. She’s small for fourteen, thin in a way that makes me wonder if she’s been eating. Or maybe that’s how vampire girls are built at that age, all sharp angles and limbs they haven’t quite grown into. Dark hair falls around her shoulders, tangled like she’s stopped caring about brushing it. Her face is sharp, high cheekbones and a stubborn jaw, but there’s something soft underneath. Something she’s trying very hard to hide.

A small table beside the bed holds a cup of water, a half-eaten roll going stale, and a stuffed animal that looks like it’s been loved within an inch of its life. Some kind of fox, missing an eye and patched in three places with mismatched thread. It’s tucked against her hip, and I notice her fingers resting on its worn fur. She’s probably embarrassed to still have it but hasn’t let it go.

A chair in the corner is buried under a pile of books, spines cracked and pages dog-eared. Escapism, I understand that. When everything around you is falling apart, sometimes the only safe place is inside someone else’s story.

“Another one?” I grab the chair, dump the books onto the wide window ledge, and drag it around so I can sit facing her.

“Bone year, baby healer, whatever you want to call it.” She finally looks at me, amber eyes narrowing. “You’re human.”

I’m getting used to that reaction by now.

“I am.”

“Huh.” She studies me with an intensity that feels too old for her face. “They let humans in here now? Things must be getting desperate.”

I could take offense. I probably should. But there’s something underneath the sharpness in her voice. Something tired and scared that she’s working hard to bury. I’ve seen it in my own mirror on the nights I can’t sleep.

“Desperate enough to send me to deal with sarcastic vampire teenagers apparently.” I settle into the chair across from her. “So, Nella, how are you feeling today?”

She blinks at me like she can’t figure out what to do with someone who doesn’t cower or apologize.

“I’ve been stuck in this bed for three weeks with my wings pinned open like some kind of fucking butterfly collection.” She gestures weakly at the frame behind her. “How do you think I feel?”

“That sounds miserable. I’d be losing my mind.”