Retribution - By Denise Jeffries


“I’ve got your medicine.” Denver’s voice chimed as she entered John Doe’s room. She always talked to her patients even if they didn’t or couldn’t respond.

She’d been a registered nurse for as long as she could remember. The amount of years, decades paled. Not exactly what she thought she’d be doing for almost 100 years of her life but as jobs went… it worked. She should have flicked on a light, but her night vision was better than most people’s day vision, and her patient hadn’t come out of his coma since they’d brought him in.

If she’d been paying closer attention, she would have seen it… felt it coming. But tonight, her mind was elsewhere. The air started crackling two weeks ago. The coldness of it tingled across her arms and raised the hairs at the nape of her neck. It tugged low in her gut so strong sometimes she thought she might throw up. The only thing she didn’t know was what it was. Where it came from or where it was going.

In an attempt to stave the eerie electrical impulses slamming her body, she shivered, shook her head and stepped up to her patient’s bed. Mr. John Doe had been brought in nearly two weeks ago and hadn’t awakened since the doctors had surgically repaired the torn ligaments, set the broken arm, bandaged up the busted knee and stitched up the multiple knife wounds darting across his body in a, ‘connect the dot,’ pattern which she knew spelled out ‘Filth’. No one else saw it. Someone or many some ones had beaten the crap out of him and left him for dead. If a driver hadn’t seen the chaos taking place in the dark alley he would be dead. However, given his injuries and the rate the stab wounds and incisions knitted back together, she knew what healed at lightning speed. However, that shouldn’t be in existence. She was rare and knew there was only a handful left. What she thought he was, was impossibility. She hadn’t seen this debauchery in years, three decades to be exact and had hoped it would never surface again. The past does have a funny way of catching up with you.

But why him? A mere man. Who’d he pissed off? She smiled down at his still form, eyed his marred face, full lips and closed eyes. She’d looked in them every four hours for the past two days as he slept. She’d been transfixed by the darkness of them. Her gaze trailed down the length of his body and across the muscled legs and thick thighs. She drew her hand up, lifted the blanket and peered at his manhood. Even in a coma it was impressive.

“Hum, maybe in another time, another day.” She mumbled to herself and allowed the soft smile to curve.

Running her hand across the expanse of his muscled chest, her mind slid to a forbidden place, her body snuggled in his strong arms all hot and tight and…

“What the hell!” Denver blinked back to reality but not fast enough before Mr. John Doe’s hand shot up and clamped around her throat.

So much for the coma. Instinctively her fingers curled around his wrist, tightened, but she didn’t exert any pressure. Confusion and fear lit his eyes, shining like the full moon, or was it anger. It shimmered across her skin like a blast of cold windy air when someone opens a door in the dead of winter. She stared back as she patted the back of his hand. Energy sizzled through her fingers and up her arm. She forced herself to not snatch her hand back, but continued to caress his skin.

“Where?” His voice sounded dry and strained. He tightened his grip as he sucked in a breath of air. “Are they?” Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he stood and back walked her to the wall.

“Not here.” Denver tried to soothe but it didn’t work. His hand squeezed tighter, cutting off what little air she reserved in her lungs. Okay, now would be a good time to get this man off me. “Listen buddy,” Denver coughed, “It’s all right. Nobody here’s going to hurt you. Let me go.”

“Why?” His voice sounded stronger than it did a second ago.

She could make him, would make him in another second if he didn’t release her. Denver curled her lips up into an ominous snarl and grunted a laugh. Being mindful of his injuries, yet ignoring his grunt of pain,