Leah's Hero - Miranda Martin Page 0,17
it once he’s conscious. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. In, out, in, out, in with calm, out with stress. A few seconds, that’s how much time I give myself. Ten breaths. It’s a trick I learned years ago when I was in nursing school. Okay.
“Hold him down,” I order the two men standing by watching. Rakstan looks askance at me as he’s already holding the Zmaj by his shoulders. I shake my head. “Tighter. This is going to hurt.”
I’m staring at the arm, and they pick up on my intent, or at least they move around and get a better grip on him. I run my fingers over the arm, feeling the wrongness and visualizing what I want to do before I do it. I get a firm grip on his wrist, take a deep breath, then pull, fast and sharp.
His eyes snap open and he bellows in pain. His roar echoes off the walls, deafeningly loud, and he fights. Rakstan loses his grip holding down the arm, and a massive fist swings through the air wildly.
Angota grabs the arm before it connects with anyone or anything while Rakstan throws himself across the newcomer’s chest, pinning him to the table. He talks, soft and soothingly, in his ear. Too soft for me to make out the words and too fast. I’m not fluent in their language. I know enough words to put together an understanding in a normal conversation, but I have to concentrate on it. Something I can’t do right now.
I run my hands up both sides of the arm. It’s not right. Close, but not close enough. If I don’t get the bones aligned correctly, they’ll heal wrong, crippling him further.
“I’m going to have to adjust it,” I say.
“Do it,” Angota says, adjusting his grip.
I gently run my hands over the break, visualizing the bones, feeling the wrongness. Once I think I’ve got in mind what needs to happen, I take my grip. I look at Angota, who nods, and then I jerk. The newcomer’s scream is cut short when he passes out.
The arm looks better now. I exhale heavily and wipe sweat from my brow as I step back. Everyone is looking from him to me. My face warms, and prickles climb up the back of my neck.
“That did it,” I say, staring at my feet. Having all eyes on me is uncomfortable. I glance up and everyone is still staring. Involuntarily I shuffle my feet and shrug. “What?”
“That was amazing,” Ziva says.
“It was nothing,” I counter, shaking my head.
“No, that was a hell of a lot more than nothing,” Mick says. “That was… wow.”
“We need to lock it in place,” I say, staring at the arm. It’s badly bruised where the break is, but the blood is flowing through now. The vessels are no longer pinched off by the bones, so the color is returning to normal. “I don’t have any way to make a cast.”
“Could we do some sticks and tie them down?” Allie asks.
“Best we can do,” I agree with a nod.
We dig around the pile of wood we use for cooking and find two thick sticks that are mostly straight. Someone produces some thin strips of leather and I rig together the best brace I can. It’s not perfect but it’s better than nothing. I hope it’s enough to get his arm to heal straight.
When it’s all finished, we’re left with a new Zmaj passed out on our dinner table and everyone standing around in awkward silence. The excitement is over, leaving me feeling shaky as the adrenaline drops out of my system.
Rakstan and Angota talk to each other, but they’re talking too fast for me to catch more than a few words here and there. Riley keeps up with them, talking along with the two men, but the rest of us aren’t fluent enough to contribute. The only thing I pick up is this man is supposed to be dead.
I don’t think they mean because of his wounds either. Which doesn’t make sense because he’s here, obviously. While they talk, I do the only thing I can that’s of any real use. I study him.
He has a strong face. I like that. It’s has hard lines, a strong jaw that comes down to a solid square. It’s more square than the other two Zmaj. His scales have a gorgeous light purplish tinting to the edges that gives him an almost delicate air. Not in a weak way but