Page 27 of Legacy Ascended

"So the good news," he says, "is that the whole campus thinks you fought off a wolf pack with your bare hands, and I have done absolutely nothing to correct that—"

Then he actually looks at me under the entrance lights. At my face, my injuries, and the bloodstained shirt.

"Okay," he says, much quieter. "Okay. That's — yeah."

"It looks worse than it is."

"It looks terrible, bella."

Declan is already at the doors holding one open with his hip. He has a canvas bag over his shoulder and my room key in his free hand.

"There's soup in this and it's still hot. Do you want it now or after?"

"After."

"After." He puts the key in the bag's side pocket where I can find it. "Anything else, you say it and I'll go and get it."

Freya hasn't spoken since the car door opened. She's got the back of the wheelchair in a death grip, walking at exactly my pace, and when the doors swing she puts her free hand out to stop one coming back.

The others follow us inside. Luke goes ahead to give the clinician what she needs. Soren moves a cart out of the corridor. Jon hands over Doc's folder with the medication sheet already on top. Ander stops at the edge of the light and waits.

"You can come in," I tell him.

"Are you certain? There are going to be a great many people in that room."

"Ander."

"Coming," he says.

The clinician's name is Bergström, and I like her almost immediately, because the first thing she does is read Doc's sheet cover to cover before she touches me.

"Whoever wrote this deserves a drink," she says. "Doses, times, and her own observations of your neurological status at each stage. Do you know how rarely I get any of that?"

"She was extremely thorough."

"She was a professional. Right." She clicks her pen. "I'm going to image your shoulder, because a through-and-through that's crossed muscle deserves a proper look, and because you've then used that arm in ways I don't want described to me tonight. Then I'll look at your flank, your wrists, and the injection sites. I'll tell you what I'm doing before I do it. If you want anything stopped, say stop and I stop. Questions?"

"Two. Can I sleep in my own room?"

"Possibly. Ask me again in an hour."

"When do I get cleared for physical activity?"

"Not tonight," she says, and something in her voice is almost sympathetic. "Ask me that one in a few days."

The imaging is deeply boring, which after today is practically a holiday. Bergström comes back with the results and puts them up where I can see them.

"Doc's assessment was right. No bone involvement, no damage to the joint, and nothing left inside. It looks great, all things considered." She points. "That's the channel. It'll fill in. You'll have a dent and a story."

"And the arm?"

"Sling when you're upright. No lifting above shoulder height, nothing heavier than a cup in that hand, and if you feel it pull, you stop whatever you're doing, immediately." She looks at me over her glasses. "And no shifting. Not for anything. I'll reassess with you, in writing, and I will not be persuaded by somebody who feels much better on day four."

The flank gets a fresh dressing. My wrists get cleaned and wrapped and she is quietly appalled by them. The dart sites get something cold and something that stings, and she's careful around the two that are red and swollen.

Halfway through, one of the orderlies comes past behind my chair and reaches over my left shoulder for a swab pack off the shelf, and my whole body goes rigid.

"Sorry," she says immediately. "I should have gone around."