As everyone woke, I was brewing another pot of coffee—a much-needed energy boost before continuing our escape. This would be a challenging undertaking; we were deep within the mines, several hours from the exit and the waiting cars. The shift change meant new personnel, more guards, and the need for heightened vigilance.
My eyes stung; I felt depleted, my reserves long exhausted. Yet, I tapped into my inner darkness, surprisingly finding clarity and a diminished, yet potent, sense of it. My bloodlust surged, invigorating me. I ensured everyone had at least two cups of strong, albeit almost unpalatable, coffee, heavily sweetened and creamed, reserving sugar cubes as well.
While not ideal for absorption, even a placebo effect would help; we needed every advantage. We usually needed special sugars for best absorption, and mere table sugar was less than ideal.
I ran a hand through my unkempt hair, feeling massive knots. It might be best to cut it short and let it regrow. Although I could create substances in my sinuses (not mucus, but hair growth stimulants or hair dye, for example), my missing fangs and other extracted teeth left my mouth feeling oddly empty and chewing agonizingly slow. My jaw ached, and my nostrils remained irritated from the rough nasogastric tube feeding. Despite the discomfort and irritation, I pressed on.
"Will we even get out of here?" Mariella's tired voice broke the silence. "I mean, sure, we've come this far, but Mimi, tell me, what are our odds?"
I swallowed. "We get out," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "Don't doubt it. We are chaos—literally chaos personified. They have no idea what's coming. We have experience, the ability to fight, to shoot if it comes to that, and several of you still have your fangs."
Mimosa looked at me, pleading, "Could you let me into your mind? I can't... I just can't..."
I shook my head, adopting a firmer attitude. "Nope. Don't quit. Don't let them win. Fight. Show them you're not broken."
She nodded, stopping her sobs and pulling herself together. Shame, pain, and a host of other negative emotions were etched on her pretty face, but this was definitely not the time to break down.
That time would come, and I wasn't sure Wulfe would be enough to pull me back. Without my rage, I was nothing—a pretender leading, saving everyone. It was a blessing that I had no pheromones; they would have betrayed my true state.
I sat there as everyone woke, stiff, tired, and drained. The heaviness of our situation—our continued entrapment in this hellhole—weighed heavily. We were still inside a freaking mountain, in a nasty place in a long time. Escape, and the safety it promised, felt impossibly distant. This wasn't anything Damon could conjure; the feeling of being this much chased was something else.
I had taken care of my pack. My blood would erase the ugliness, or at least the vivid memories, from their minds. Once the Salvatores were functional and free, they could pluck out or fully fade the rest. Whenever it might be, then. My lack of pheromones, however, meant I had time to suppress, bury the past, and plan my revenge. Torturing every villain here was foremost in my mind; that time would come, and my freaking victims would feel the full force of my retribution—oh boy, it would be perfect.
I had concocted many nasty new substances in my mind, but my sinuses, clogged with what felt like a sponge, rendered them purely imaginary. Lacking fangs only compounded the frustration. My warped, hate-filled mind felt like it was teetering on the brink of collapse, held together only by a thread.
I didn't have time for that; besides, it wasn't like me. I was supposed to be strong, the caregiver, the savior—and I had utterly failed. Their suffering was a direct consequence of my inadequacy.
It was time to move, but first, I needed to prepare everyone mentally. We couldn't afford to mope; that could come later, hopefully after the rest of the pack had rejoined us and could help. I knew that our trauma was profound—nesting wasn't a magic solution; we simply weren't capable of it. I sensed, and knew the males would sense it too, that recovery would be a long, hard, and brutal journey for all of us. I wasn't sure what the future held, or even what was left of us.
After a few more rounds of pep talks, I got everyone moving. We entered the corridor and began to make our way out. The tunnels stretched before us like endless highways, and the time it took to simply walk felt never-ending.
My heart pounded in my throat, ready to react if anything surprising happened. When we finally saw rows of three elevators leading to the surface, our collective sigh of relief was immense. I swiped the access card Katherine had taken from the guard, opening the elevator doors. We all shuffled inside, and I pressed the button for the top floor.
Even with Bran and Shadow supporting her on either side, Mariella grunted in pain. She was badly hunched, making it agonizing to walk upright for the first time in months. Her muscles were weak, and she was drenched in sweat.
The elevator whirred to life, bringing us closer to freedom, but also to a more dangerous situation. More people awaited upstairs, necessitating action. I regretted not taking a guard's gun; it was too late now.
Although I could fight, my slight frame, less than 20 kilos, was hardly ideal. Yet, I would fight if necessary. Katherine and Elena, despite being vampires, looked pale and sickly. My fever spiked, abdominal cramps intensified, and I'd managed to acquire some scrubs and padding for us. A torrent of blood and tissue gushed from my pussy, a secret I kept for now.
My darkness thrived on my weakness, fueling a desire for revenge, which offered some solace. The elevator stopped, the doors pinged open. We cautiously exited, finding the area silent and odorless. We moved swiftly toward the nearest exit.
Another restroom loomed; we slipped inside. Checking the fridge for sustenance proved futile; my infection, attracting new complications, consumed me. Mariella looked shaky and moaned, clutching her abdomen. A dark stain spread across her pants—she had it too.
"It's the abortion," I said, "unpleasant, but we're almost out. I have it too, but my darkness helps. Come on, a little further. Can you make a painkiller from your fangs?"
As I spoke, Elena cried out, Katherine cursed, and the wolves reacted similarly; we all suffered from this affliction. Now I questioned whether I'd infected them or if our transformation had made this a universal consequence of rape. Mariella's throat convulsed, and then she bit Elena's neck, followed by Katherine and the wolves. I found a set of car keys and took them. They seemed to be less in pain, as whatever Mariella had gotten done had helped them. I did not ask anything for myself as I needed to keep my mind as clear as possible.
This abortion, since we are our own species, incapable of breeding with humans due to the lack of a compatible DNA polymerase, resulted in a random mass of cells, triggering a massive immune reaction. I experienced this in the past, and now that others are experiencing it too, I'm unsure if they have the same condition or if this is simply an immune purge of foreign DNA and sperm.
Although I'm a doctor, everything concerning our pack is new and unusual, unlike the experiences of other shifters. We are chimeras, a new species, and I am a unique subspecies. I have children and cubs, but they are half-Damon; therefore, they are a blend of us, not identical to me.
Time will determine the outcome of this infection or abortion. While usually sterile, considering our recent experiences—the treatment, the rapes by men and wolves—I question whether it was sterile from the outset. The fever is an immune response, but it could also be a symptom of a severe infection, possibly leading to sepsis.
We were nearing the exit; the signs guiding us, and everyone was pushing themselves to the limit. I sensed their weakness, yet I still lacked access to the hive. It's as if I could sense a breeze, its temperature, but couldn't influence or manipulate it. I wondered how long this debilitating weakness would last and if I would ever regain my strength.
As we walked, I brought up the rear, watching for threats. We reached the exit door when Bran yelped. I spun around, saw a man pointing a gun at Bran, and reacted instantly.
Pulling Bran behind me, I twisted, taking the bullet in my side as he fired. The searing pain shot from my left flank, settling into a dull ache in my right hip due to my pivot and jump, deflecting the bullet slightly downward. I leaped at the man before he could fire again, snapping his neck and seizing his gun.
Bran lunged at me. "You fool! I could have taken the bullet!"
I remained silent, my darkness surging. It took tremendous effort to restrain myself, to curb the power it gave me without unleashing it completely.
With a touch of irony, I said, "You know, you should be proud. Once, I believed I'd never take a bullet meant for you. I was wrong."
He stared, speechless, for a moment.
"Come on," I urged, "we have to get out of here. I'm not sure how many more there are."
He nodded. Searching the guards' pockets, I found a phone—a necessity. I still had one more thing to do to ensure our safety. It was a protocol within my resistance organization, designed to keep us safe, but known only to the upper echelon—not even Mariella or Damon were aware of it.
I hadn't considered the aftermath: the men freed from the spell, their guilt, the potential chaos of the Salvatores and Charles flocking to Mariella, others to Mimosa, Elena, and Katherine. I hadn't anticipated anyone worrying about me; once the truth came out, and if I were even capable of speaking, Wulfe, Murdoc, Magnum, Dexter, Alaric, Tim, and Taylor would be on their way to tear the place apart.
But since I had protected everyone else, shouldered most of the ugliness, I wouldn't divulge the details. Burying them deep would be difficult, but I had time, and I knew how to manipulate those men into taking action.
The stale, industrial air never smelled so sweet as we filed out the door. Rows of cars lined the area. I retrieved the fibs, pressing buttons, until a vehicle responded. The first was too small. Hoping for something larger, I tried another fib.
A large jeep flashed its lights, its locks popping open. It was a monster of a vehicle, but I could drive it. We piled inside; no one objected as I slid into the driver's seat and adjusted it as best I could.
The smell of our bodily fluids—a repulsive stench of death, suffering, and blood—wafted through the air, forcing us to open the windows. The combined reek of so many was truly horrible. Silence fell over us as I started the car, backed out, and drove away.
The car was heavy to drive; the wheel felt stiff and cold in my hands. My vision swam, and I felt nauseous, shivery, and on the verge of passing out. The pedals were heavy, but I pressed on.
Running on fumes, I desperately hoped to reach safety. However, I first needed to ensure those bastards wouldn't follow us to the hospital, barging in with forged documents and demanding our release into their custody under the guise of dangerous patients. This tactic had been used in several previous missions, necessitating our current protocol.
We had driven far enough to reach some rural housing. I dug out the phone that I had taken from the guard—an old-fashioned model without a code or fingerprint lock. Villains prefer these; modern phones are easier to trace and leave behind incriminating evidence. Burner phones like this were much more popular.
I punched in my code and sent a text to a specific number—my personal protection order code. This alerted my organization to my location, signaling that I needed protection and had possibly escaped pursuers.
This would trigger APBs, warrant checks, and countermeasures against false charges, keeping us safe and identifying any individuals looking for us as persons of interest, usually handled by our special group, QDE (Question, Determine, Eliminate). Villains would be captured, interrogated, and, if necessary, eliminated. I had just bought us some time and some very much needed safety.
Mariella, in a tired voice, asked, "What did you do with that phone? Send Damon a message? He doesn't care; he's fucking other women. I think he might divorce me, and you, too. Maybe I'll marry Magnum just for fun."
I said tersely, "Men are under a powerful spell, and no, I wasn't contacting Damon, but my organization, to ensure our safety."
She countered, "How the hell do they know it's you when it comes from a weird number?"
I rolled my eyes. I was driving, barely aware of my route, but I saw a sign and turned without thinking, answering, "I sent my personal alert code to our hotline. They know it's me, and I'm in trouble. They'll make sure no one comes after us—no APBs, falsified charges, or anything else."
Mariella, irritated, complained, "I don't have one! I had no idea about this system. Why am I excluded?"
I retorted, "Listen, it's only for the upper echelon, not everyone. You and Damon aren't there yet, so stop whining."
I continued driving, following a red cross on a white background, guiding us toward a hospital or clinic. We needed medical attention, but my vision continued to swim. Darkness encroached, and within minutes, silence fell over the car as others more or less passed out.
I pressed on, clinging to the fading remnants of adrenaline that had fueled my desperate drive. My earlier despair had lifted, replaced by a single-minded focus on reaching safety. The car swerved, jolting me awake again and again, until finally, I saw the larger building with its prominent cross—a beacon of hope.
My leg remained heavy on the gas pedal, nearly sending us crashing into the wall before I slammed on the brakes, halting the car directly in front of the ER doors.
This was a small, rural hospital; a facility with fewer than thirty beds, long slated for closure, but kept open due to its isolated location. Staffing was minimal—a single doctor and three nurses covered the ER and wards during this quiet summer week.
With only five patients currently admitted, the atmosphere was calm. Unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the car door, I stumbled out, shaking, dizzy, and with my eyes fluttering closed. But I had to get help.
I staggered through the doors, which hissed open, and into the ER. A nurse, noticing my condition, rushed to my side as my legs gave way.
I collapsed to the floor just as she reached me, my last words a desperate plea: "Please help them… in the car… There are others…" Then, I passed out in the arms of the young, inexperienced nurse.