4. Brody

The persistent gurgleof the coffee machine in the corner of the conference room pulls my attention away from the dry statistics on the projector screen. Thirty-six hours and counting. It's the longest shift ever, and the rich, earthy aroma of brewing coffee taps directly into my deep-rooted caffeine craving. As a spiritkin, my stamina is extraordinary, but even I have my limits, and I'm rapidly approaching them. The thought of crashing in my own bed, away from the hospital's sterile walls and fluorescent lights, is increasingly appealing.

The coffee pot emits another gurgle, and it isn't just a siren song for me, but for the others too. At the head of the conference room, Dr. Elizabeth Martin, our director, exudes an air of controlled exasperation. "How can all of you get so distracted by one lone coffee pot?" she questions, her voice tinged with the weariness that comes from leading a team of spiritkin doctors.

Beside her, Ms. Kayla Lopez, her assistant, offers a smirk that belies her calm demeanor. With the grace and poise of someone well-versed in the intricacies of our world, she leans in to whisper to Dr. Martin. To ordinary human ears, her words would be inaudible, but with my heightened spiritkin senses, I catch every syllable. "Most of these doctors have been on shift for far too long. Let them have their coffee," she suggests, her voice a soothing balm in the charged atmosphere.

Dr. Martin sighs, the sound laden with the weight of her position, and slumps back into her chair. The shadows under her eyes, reminiscent of bruises against her otherwise impeccable appearance, speak volumes to her dedication. Her cinnamon-colored irises scan the room, resting briefly on each doctor who, driven by an almost primal need for caffeine, hastily stand, their chairs scraping against the floor. It reminds me of dinnertime for a bunch of animals.

Resisting the call of the coffee until the line dwindles, I reach for a doughnut instead. Its sugary glaze sticks to my fingers, a sweet contrast to the bitter coffee I'm forgoing. For now. These meetings, which are always on the first Friday of the month, drain us mentally and emotionally. They are necessary to review the statistics and assess the impact of our work over the past month, and the duration of these meetings varies, sometimes stretching into what feels like interminable hours, depending on the severity and complexity of the cases we've handled.

I glance at Ms. Lopez, who is already coordinating the arrival of more coffee carafes. Her efficiency and foresight are a godsend, especially in moments like this, when the collective energy of the room is flagging. Dr. Martin, recognizing her assistant's indispensable role, gives her a nod of gratitude—a small but significant gesture.

With another doughnut in hand, my mind wanders back to the relentless pace of the emergency department. My spiritkin nature navigates the controlled chaos instinctively. Unlike human hospitals, our spiritkin facility operates on extended shifts—a practice that, while logical, takes its toll, even on those of us with enhanced endurance.

Dr. Martin's gaze sharpens, and a hint of her inner shifter surfaces in the intensity of her eyes. "All right, let's get moving. We all have places to be," she declares, her tone commanding yet infused with an understanding that only someone who has walked in our shoes can possess.

In this work environment, the candor is starkly different from the more reserved human hospitals. We've all undergone double residencies—a grueling requirement that has given us a unique perspective on the divergent worlds of human and spiritkin medicine.

The duality of our training, born from a contentious Supreme Court ruling that allows patients to refuse treatment from spiritkin, weighs heavily on me. As a doctor and a spiritkin, I navigate this chasm between humans and spiritkins daily, feeling its rift in both my professional and personal spheres.

Dr. Martin's assistant dims the lights, casting long shadows across the room, and the large television springs to life. I absently lick the sugary remnants off my fingers, bracing myself for the news we all dreaded yet expected. "Hunter murders are up," she announces, her voice echoing somberly in the hushed room.

A chorus of groans and moans reverberates around the conference room, mirroring the collective unease. I drop my head, a heavy sigh escaping my lips. As one of the three emergency department doctors here, the stark reality of these reports isn't just numbers, it is blood, tears, and pain that I confront every day. Sometimes, in the quiet moments of the night, I find myself longing for the simpler path of a paramedic within my pack. However, a deep-seated sense of duty anchors me to this hospital, where my unique abilities are indispensable.

Dr. Martin patiently waits for the restless murmurs to fade. She attempts to restore order with a gesture of her arms, but it's the subtle surge of her alpha power that blankets the room with silence. I feel the familiar ripple of dominance wash over me, provoking a brief stir within my inner wolf. There's an unspoken acknowledgment between our primal selves before my inner beast, acknowledging the lack of threat, settles back into the recesses of my consciousness.

"It gets worse," she continues, the fatigue in her voice now laced with a hint of bitterness. "Last month saw the highest number of deaths at the hands of hunters on record." This revelation suffuses the room with a subdued, heavy air. "To make matters worse, a spiritkin hospital in the Midwest fell victim to a hunter with fake injuries. He strapped himself with bombs and obliterated half the hospital."

"Why wasn't this on the news?" Dr. Cassandra Thorn from the ED demands, her cheeks flushed with a righteous anger that makes her eyes blaze.

A colleague, whose face is familiar but whose name escapes me, chimes in from the back. "The humans probably covered it up." His voice drips with a mixture of cynicism and resignation.

Dr. Martin dismisses the speculative murmurs with a wave. "The incident only occurred a few hours ago," she reveals, her expression somber. "I wanted to address our most immediate concerns first. The hunters are escalating their attacks. Vigilance is paramount."

Cassandra, visibly shaken, reaches into her pocket and discreetly pops a THC gummy into her mouth. The temptation to ask for one myself nips at my resolve. "What's more pressing than the hunters' war against our people?"

"Humans," Dr. Martin responds, leaning heavily on her chair, the weight of her next words seeming to burden her. "Do we continue to accept them?"

Her question detonates like a bomb, igniting a discord of voices. The room dissolves into chaos, and I rub my temples, trying to ease the inevitable headache. My enhanced spiritkin hearing makes the commotion almost unbearable as the loud voices clash against each other—a testament to the diverse and passionate crowd before me.

Everyone has opinions,I think to myself.

Like assholes. The thought comes from Tyler, whose laughter bounces around in my head until I block him out. Damn pack bond. The three of us bonded over a decade ago, and sometimes, Tyler's mental monologues still shock me.

"Enough!" Dr. Martin bellows, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade, her alpha power flaring up once more. "One at a time, please. Let's start with Lysander." She gestures toward Dr. Lysander Black, the head of the emergency department and a vampire whose agelessness belies his wisdom.

Or rather he is a pretentious asshole.

Lysander, poised and unflappable, surveys the room with a steady gaze. "We can't turn them away," he states. "To deny humans help would make us no better than those seeking our destruction."

His words resonate with a profound truth, echoing through the room and into the core of my being, reminding me once again of the complex and delicate balance we strive to maintain in our spiritkin existence.

"At what risk?" someone across the room mutters, their voice dripping with skepticism. I can't help but think we're going to be here all night. Every department head who can be here is crammed into this room, creating an eclectic mix of two dozen spiritkins, each with their own aura of power and weariness.

The door creaks open, revealing a brownie barely taller than four feet. She maneuvers a cart full of steaming coffee into the room, her movements nimble and graceful. Her slight frame contradicts the strength within, and her smile, warm yet full of razor-sharp teeth, offers a comforting yet eerie presence. She places the coffee on the table, a welcomed interruption in the tense room.

Lysander, his poise unshaken by the growing tension, continues. "We can't turn humans away. For every two humans, we get about ten spiritkin. The tragedy in a similar hospital is heartbreaking, but refusing humans will only widen the already gaping divide between us."

Only last week, hunters struck a spiritkin hospital, killing too many innocent lives. The event alone has many of us on edge. If it can happen to one hospital, it can happen to another.

I refuse to allow our hospital to be one of them.

Cassandra, with a fire in her eyes that speaks to years of dealing with inequality, argues, "There's already a divide. We're segregated into specific areas, with separate cities and slums for humans and spiritkin. Why not have separate hospitals too?"

I hate that she has a point. The divide wasn't of our making, but theirs, and they have nurtured its growth, feeding it with prejudice and fear.

"Brody." Dr. Martin turns to me, her eyes reflecting the burden of leadership. "You, Lysander, and Cass handle the humans. You are the tie breaker." Her voice carries a weight that suggests the gravity of the decision at hand.

She's right, as usual. Other departments typically see humans who end up having issues due to a grandparent they didn't even know about, usually from an affair or something more nefarious—like blood disorders from a vampire ancestor, or a human driven to madness by unnatural hearing from spiritkin lineage. Just recently, dermatology diagnosed a woman with what they thought was severe eczema, only to find out she had dragon ancestry and what she had were scales.

I lean back, my mind racing with the implications of our choices. The beeper interrupts my train of thought, its shrill sound slicing through the room. "Shit. It's the ED," I announce, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline that comes with an emergency.

"Take it," Dr. Martin says firmly, understanding the urgency, "but I need your decision later."

The weight of the decision presses on me as I stand to the conference room. The hunters' attacks are escalating, becoming bolder and more malicious. A part of me wants to advocate for directing humans to a human hospital to safeguard our hospital—the only otherworld facility in a hundred-mile radius—but I hesitate, the words stuck in my throat as I stand there.

"Here." Dr. Martin slides a phone down the table, and I quickly dial the extension for the ED.

"Appreciate it," I mutter as the phone rings once, then twice.

Elara's voice greets me. "Mystic Med, how may I direct your call?"

"It's Brody. You paged me," I reply, my pulse quickening.

"Oh, I sure as fuck did," she answers, her gum snapping in the background. It's a sound that has become a familiar backdrop to our conversations. It tells me how annoyed she is at any given moment by the number of snaps she makes with her gum. "Your pack is on their way in. They said you'd want to handle this case. Tell Mercy in surgical to prep the OR."

A frown creases my forehead. "Did they say why?"

"No clue. ETA is five," she answers briskly before the line goes dead.

"Go," Dr. Martin says again. "We'll handle this."

I hesitate for a moment, my suggestion to divert humans to their hospitals lingering unsaid on my lips. Instead, I look at Mercy, her dampire features a blend of ethereal beauty and hidden strength. "Prep the OR," I instruct.

"Why?" she asks, her eyebrow arching in a way that accentuates her otherworldly features.

"No idea. Ethan and Tyler called it in," I reply, my gaze fixed on the clock. Time is slipping away, and I need to hurry.

I don't know why, but something inside me is telling me that it isn't just important, it's a matter that involves my future.