Chapter 7

Jace carried Eleanor into the camp.

The tribe was not asleep. The central square was lit by roaring bonfires. Chaos reigned. The air was thick with the copper stench of fresh blood.

In the center of the dirt square, a man lay on a blood-soaked animal hide. It was Silas, one of the tribe's best hunters. His abdomen had been laid open by the claws of a saber-toothed cat. Bright red blood pulsed from the wound in a steady, lethal rhythm.

His mother, Martha, knelt beside him, her hands pressed desperately against his stomach, weeping hysterically as the blood slipped through her fingers.

Malachi, the tribe's Shaman, stood over them. He held a handful of dried herbs and gray ash. His face was grim. He spoke loudly to the crowd, declaring that Silas's spirit was leaving and preparing for the death rites.

Jace frowned. He handed the unconscious Eleanor to Amos and strode toward Silas to inspect the wound.

The noise and the sharp smell of blood jolted Eleanor awake. She gasped, her eyes snapping open. She pushed out of Amos's grip and stumbled forward.

When she saw the gaping abdominal wound and the Shaman preparing to dump dirty ash directly into the open cavity, her modern medical training overrode her fear.

"Stop!" Eleanor screamed.

She shoved her way through the crowd and slammed her hands into Malachi's chest, pushing the old man away from the dying hunter.

The crowd gasped in collective horror. Malachi stumbled backward, dropping his ash. His face twisted in outrage.

Greta leaped forward, pointing a trembling finger at Eleanor. "The outsider! She curses him! Chief, throw her out!"

Jace stepped instantly between Eleanor and the crowd. He let out a low, vibrating growl that silenced the murmurs. He gripped his spear, his eyes daring anyone to step closer. He looked at Eleanor, confusion in his eyes, but he held his ground.

Eleanor ignored them all. She dropped to her knees beside Silas. She ripped open her backpack.

She pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them onto her hands. The tight rubber squeezed against her backward-snapped fingernails, sending blinding spikes of agony shooting up her arms. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, forcing her violently trembling fingers to remain perfectly steady despite the excruciating pain. She grabbed a bottle of sterile saline solution and a pack of gauze.

Eleanor didn't waste breath on English words Martha couldn't understand. She grabbed Martha's hands, her grip bruising, and forced them down onto a specific spot above the wound. She pressed with all her body weight, locking eyes with the older woman, and let out a fierce, commanding yell that transcended language. Martha flinched, but the absolute, unquestionable authority in Eleanor's fierce glare made her instantly understand.

Eleanor squeezed the saline bottle, flushing the dirt and ash out of the wound. She located the severed artery.

She grabbed a pair of stainless steel hemostatic forceps from her kit. With a quick, precise motion, she clamped the bleeder.

The pulsing flow of blood stopped instantly.

The tribe let out a collective gasp. They stared at the shiny silver tool pinching the flesh, unable to comprehend the magic they were witnessing.

Greta shrieked, "Dark magic! She is drinking his blood!"

Jace shifted his weight, his massive body completely blocking Greta's view. He shot her a glare so lethal she instantly clamped her mouth shut.

Eleanor pulled out a curved suture needle and a packet of catgut thread. She had no anesthesia. This was going to be brutal.

"Hold him down! He's going to fight!" Eleanor yelled, looking up at Jace.

Jace understood the urgency. He dropped to his knees on the opposite side of Silas and pinned the hunter's shoulders and arms to the ground with his massive weight.

Eleanor pierced the skin.

Silas's eyes flew open. He let out a blood-curdling scream and thrashed violently. Jace's muscles bulged as he held the man completely immobile.

Eleanor's hands were steady. She worked with frantic precision, stitching the muscle layers, then the skin, pulling the gaping wound tightly closed.

Ten minutes later, she snipped the thread. She swabbed the area with iodine and taped a large sterile dressing over the stitches.

She dug into her bag and pulled out a blister pack of broad-spectrum antibiotics. She popped two pills out, forced Silas's jaw open, and poured a splash of water down his throat to make him swallow.

Eleanor stripped off the bloody gloves and collapsed backward onto the dirt, her chest heaving, sweat dripping from her forehead.

Silas's screams had faded into a weak groan. His breathing, previously shallow and erratic, settled into a steady rhythm. Color faintly returned to his pale lips.

Martha touched her son's chest. She felt the steady heartbeat. She let out a wail of pure joy, threw herself at Eleanor's feet, and kissed the mud on Eleanor's boots.

The square was dead silent. The tribe stared at Eleanor. The suspicion and hostility were gone. In their eyes, there was only absolute, terrifying awe.