|
Healer |
||
| Main Page |
Healer - a novella of the Terran Times Available now!
Evah
has been healing the Wyoran village of Senatha for months, but when
Rapal is brought to her savaged and dying, her skills are pushed to
the limit. So is her self control. No other man has woken the woman
beneath the healer, but will he stay long enough to enjoy the result?
Excerpt: Five
armoured guards were behind the nervous Mayor Nalish. Four carried a
litter with another male on it. One
of the newcomers stepped forward, pushing the mayor aside. Based on
the gold trim on his armour, he was very close to being in charge.
“Our leader requires healing. He was hunting and struck by a minth.” “Bring
him inside. Up the stairs, second door on the right. Place him on the
bed and remove his armour.” She waved them inside and watched the
four carriers take his litter up the stairs. “Your
mayor assures us that you can do the job.” The spokesman was almost
touching her. “If he dies, there will be consequences.” “If
he dies, then it will be because you keep me from him. Or because you
waited too long to seek help and the venom has permeated all of his
organs. Now get out of my way.” She moved to go around him and he
blocked her. “What
will you require in payment?” “It
will be discussed when I see the extent of his injuries and heal them.
The effort cannot be guessed at if I haven’t even seen him.” “My
lord, we have prepared him as she requested.” The four had returned
from upstairs and their commander looked away from her. It was all the
distraction she needed. She had them put the patient in her bed
because she would need the space. They had taken the armour off, but
left the clothing, that would have to go. She whipped out her dagger
and approached the bed. A hand stopped her. “What
the hell do you think you are doing?” “I
need to get his clothing off. I have to have skin to skin contact for
a set of wounds this severe.” “Fine,
but you put one finger wrong and I will slit your throat.” She
was working to get the tunic and trousers off her patient when that
last statement hit her. “You can’t watch the healing.” He was
naked and he was a big boy indeed. About six foot six if she didn’t
miss her guess. She was going to have a helluva time covering him. “I
can and I will.” He took her chair from the corner and sat in it, as
if she was about to put on a play. One
of the first tenants of the Citadel training was that there was no
shame in the marks left on the body by the graft healing. They would
fade with time and she should bear them proudly. Sighing in
resignation, she stripped her robes off and removed her veil. When she
was naked, the commander’s sharp intake of breath announced his
shock. Fortunately, he didn’t comment on her patches of red and
shiny skin or the ridge of scars lacing across her flesh. Climbing
onto her bed, she straddled her patient and examined him. Thick black
hair waved off a forehead that had a silvery tinge under the tan—Wyoran
heritage in action. The velvety nap to his skin was a sensory delight
and, when he groaned under her, she got her mind back on business. Three
claw marks angled across his face, had puffed the flesh into a
caricature of his normal face. Another claw strike had caught him low
on the abdomen, under his breastplate. That wound was septic already.
She had to work fast. She
stretched his arms out at his sides and lay on top of him, her
forehead touching his and her hips resting on the wound of his belly.
Another gasp penetrated her consciousness as she started to heal her
patient. The glow that her skin gave off was blinding to her own eyes
and the pain seared her as she took his injuries for her own. Graft
Healers had the unenviable talent to take on a wound or infection to
their body and letting their own superior biology heal the damage. In
return, they gave their flesh to their patients, replacing damaged
organs and patching skin. It left a distinct mark on the patient for a
few days, but rapidly absorbed into their bodies harmlessly. When
her head and belly were screaming in pain, she knew that the healing
was done. Shaking, she slowly moved off her patient, only to realize
that he had a raging erection. “That isn’t supposed to happen.” “Holy
mother of stars. Look at you!” The guardsman was freaked out. There
was no other word for it. “I
would rather not.” She checked on her patient and measured his
vitals with a light touch to his wrist, then gathered her clothing and
left the room. The guest room was not as comfortable as her room, but
it would do. She needed rest and she needed it in the worst way.
Available Now from Extasy Books! Viola Grace Copyright © 2009 All rights reserved |
