Chapter 6

Dylan

"What the fuck is going on?" the love of my life snaps. His voice is raspy, and his face is still a little swollen and discolored with bruising, but his eyes are open and they're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

He's alive.

He's conscious.

And he's being bitchy.

Everything's going to be fine.

"Do you remember anything?" Connor questions. "I went out to the warehouse you were found at, but there's nothing there. Not your kit, not any sign of demon activity. It's a shitty area, Matt. Why were you there?"

The blank expression on Matt's face is answer enough: he doesn't remember. He tries to shake his head anyway, then winces. "I don't know. I checked into my motel, and I was going to check out the location that got reported to the Collective. That's the last thing I remember."

Connor and Gabe exchange glances. "That location's on the other side of town from where you were," Gabe says. "You drove there in your car—which the police say they'll release to us once you've been interviewed—but your kit is gone , Matt. We checked your motel too, got your bag. Whoever beat you up must have taken your kit."

"Maybe they thought it was worth something?" Ian hazards. "The sword, at least. Your daggers. But that doesn't make sense, because they left your phone and smartwatch. The nurses gave us the stuff you were brought in with."

"They took all my weapons?" Matt sounds bewildered. "What, even the blade from the sole of my Vans?"

"You keep a blade in the sole of your shoe ?" Gabe demands, while Connor grins.

"I'm so proud."

"Even that," Ian confirms, ignoring the older men. "They searched you from head to toe and took your weapons, everything that identifies you as a hunter, but they left your expensive tech."

Something tugs at the back of my mind, a thought… but I'm so tired, and the emotional roller coaster of the past week has been so intense, that I don't have the brainpower to chase it down.

"Is that how you found me?" Matt asks. "When I didn't check in with the office, they tracked my phone?"

"No." It's my turn to speak, and Matt's gaze comes to me. I know I'm not imagining the way it softens, just like I didn't imagine his relief earlier when he first saw me. "I tried to call you, the night you were attacked, and the doctor answered." I scrape together a smile and a lighthearted tone. "That means you're not allowed to complain anymore when I forget the time and call you in the middle of the night. It saved your life."

His lips, which were starting to tug upward into a smile, turn down instead. "What do you mean? You said the doctor answered. So I was already here, right?"

Shit. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. His brothers haven't had a chance to talk about when they're going to tell him what Marc's been doing for him. I shoot Gabe an apologetic grimace, which of course Matt sees.

"Someone tell me what's going on, right now. Has this got something to do with why you want to transfer me even though I feel like roadkill?"

Gabe and Connor exchange glances, and Gabe opens his mouth, but Ian's already talking.

"You were gonna die. The doc said that, remember? You're lucky, and they were surprised you stabilized. Dude, you weren't lucky. Marc's healing you, and if we hadn't got here so quickly, you would have died."

Matt's mouth opens on a wheeze, and his eyes widen, but he doesn't look as surprised as I thought. Probably because Marc already calmed his heart rate while the doctor was talking to him, so it's not that big a jump.

"He can only do little things while you're here, or the norms will get suspicious," Ian continues. "We gotta get you out."

"Did he fuck with my head?" Matt narrows his eyes at Marc, who's been unusually quiet. "Are you fucking with my mind?"

Marc sniffs. "I doubt you'd notice any difference if I did. But no, I've resisted the urge to look into your sordid little mind."

"The doctors say you had no head trauma, so there was no reason for Marc to go near your brain," Gabe says, but it's not hard to hear the doubting note… or to see Connor's glare. They accept the need for what Marc's doing, and I think they're even grateful to him—in their way—but it's a hard thing to swallow.

Matt doesn't look entirely convinced, but he lets it go. "Can I have more water?"

I rush to grab the cup and position the straw at his lips. This close, he looks even worse, his skin gray under the mottled bruising, the lines around his eyes etched deep. He needs to rest.

He needs to get out of here so Marc can finish healing him.

Once he's had a few sips, I take the cup away but stay beside him. "Better?"

He huffs. "That's a relative kind of question. I know the doc said I'm on good painkillers, but even my hair hurts."

"Push the butt—" Gabe starts to say, but Marc cuts in.

"Do not push that button. I can deaden your pain receptors for the time being. I didn't want to before because if you'd woken completely pain-free, the doctors would have been suspicious."

Connor and Gabe exchange another glance. "The less pain he appears to have, the more likely the doctors are to agree to a transfer," Connor says reluctantly. "But I don't like the idea of him having sensory loss."

"Lucky for you, it's my decision to make," Matt snipes. His gaze goes to Marc. "You're saying you can reduce the pain without the brain-fog effect the morphine would give me?"

Marc nods.

"Do it, then. I need a clear head while I think about all this."

A second later, his face relaxes, the lines of tension releasing. "Whoa, that's good shit." He starts to sit up, but I put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"No pain doesn't mean you're better," I remind him. "There's still a lot that needs to heal."

"Plus if you start moving around, the staff is going to wonder what the fuck is going on," Ian adds. "Just lie there and pretend everything hurts, like you used to when we were kids and you wanted to get out of a test."

Matt rolls his eyes. "That was you, not me."

"It was you," Gabe says dryly. "Many times."

"You're misremembering. But we're way off-topic. What's the goal, to transfer me to a Collective medical facility?" He sounds doubting, and I know why. The Collective has an assortment of clinics that we run ourselves, but nothing equipped to help him recover from this kind of trauma.

Connor shakes his head. "No. We don't think it's a good idea for the Collective as a whole to know what Marc's capable of." His voice is stiff. "The education program he and Ian started is working, but reminding everyone of exactly how much power he has might cause a setback."

"I've been creating a medical center," I interject. This was a conversation that got very heated yesterday, ending with Ian and Connor yelling at each other, and we don't need that now. "An exclusive private hospital with top-shelf facilities. It's looking pretty solid already, and in a couple of days, when the doctors here see how well you're progressing, we'll convince them to let us move you there."

He blinks. "I don't get it. You're going to move me to a medical center that doesn't exist? How will I finish recovering?"

The concern that maybe he has head trauma after all makes me frown. Maybe I should convince him to let Marc have a look in his brain.

I barely restrain my shudder at the thought.

"Connect the dots faster, Matty," Ian says. "Marc's been healing you, but he has to go super slow to keep the staff here from getting suspicious. So if we get you out of here…"

Matt visibly makes the correct leap of logic, and he looks at Marc again. "You can do that? Heal me that fast?"

"The second we have you on the helicopter, you'll be completely healed," the demon replies in a bored tone.

"But… what will the pilot think? And the medical staff? They send people on those flights, don't they?"

There's an uncomfortable little silence. We've all had a few days to come to terms with what Marc will have to do. He's assured us several times that altering such a surface-level memory won't have any impact on the people involved. And I'll be in the hospital's computers, updating records to show the transfer was successful, and then, in a week or so, alter the file so it's inaccessible. It'll look like an accident—files get corrupted all the time. Without the specific case details to refer back to, and with so many other patients, their memories of how severe his injuries were and how quickly his prognosis changed will get fuzzy. If anyone gets suspicious and reaches out to the "new" medical center to get an update, well, I can cover that too.

Matt's lips press together in a thin line as he realizes what we have planned. "We're gonna let him mindfuck them?"

"The other option is for you to stay here a couple more weeks and then go through a long and painful rehab process," Ian snaps. I've learned over the past week that he's fiercely protective of Marc. Considering there's literally nothing on this planet that can actually hurt the demon, and the only person he cares about is Ian, it's weird. "And we'd have to report the extent of your injuries to the Collective."

At Matt's uncertain glance, I say, "We told them you'd been beaten up and were concussed but were doing better and would be back soon. The main compound thinks Ian and Marc came up to look after you and drive you back."

"And the Illinois compound thinks we're doing that," Gabe says.

"What do they think you're doing?" Matt asks me, and I shrug.

"As far as anyone knows, I'm still in my apartment, working as usual."

He sighs. "I hate the idea of fucking with anyone's brain."

"We all do," Connor agrees.

"We all do not ," Marc demurs. "Please do not presume to speak for me."

"Not helping," Ian mutters as Connor's face darkens.

Gabe steps in to play peacemaker. "The final call is yours, Matt. We need to know, though. If you're healing naturally, we'll need to take some other steps and arrange for your rehab. Maybe you could come to Mannix for that. I could come back and drive you out to us when the hospital's ready to discharge you." He looks uncertain, and I can guess why. Matt's not going to be up for a multi-day road trip when the hospital discharges him. He'll need to do at least some of his rehab here in Reno, or we'll have to convince the Collective to stump up the money to have him transferred comfortably to somewhere else. Which they're not likely to do, given keeping him comfortable with the extent of his injuries would mean some kind of private plane.

Either way, it's a lot more complicated.

Matt sighs and looks at Marc. "I know you don't like me, and I know you think all we humans are worthless, but be straight with me now. Would this cause any harm to the people involved? Would it endanger their souls? Would it?—"

"No." Marc's interruption is smooth, flat, and final. "This is the equivalent of correcting a typographical error. The pilot and the transfer staff won't know you. This will be a job for them, something they expect to check off a list. Routine, ordinary, unmemorable. We'll have them set you down in the desert at a prearranged meeting point. They'll be on their way to their next job with no memory of ever having picked you up, and it won't impact their day at all. That's why I won't be altering the memories of any of the staff who've been looking after you here at the hospital. That would be more complex, and Ian prefers I not do it."

Biting his lip, Matt glances at me. "And you're going to take care of the flight records and all that shit?"

"You know it."

He blows out a breath. "Fine. Let's work on convincing these doctors to transfer me to… what's the name of your mythical hospital?"

I grin. "The Matt Swift Wellbeing Center. I named it after you and your future wife."

His indignant gasp is drowned out by his brothers' laughter.