Chapter 4

Doc

 I kept my eyes on the table, but I could feel Don’s presence closing in.

The air was thick with a nauseating stench. He staggered closer, the scent of advanced rot, mold, the sickly sweet tang of something long past its prime—and it clung to Don like a foul cloud.

His face was a canvas of grotesque anatomy, flesh rotting away in patches, revealing glimpses of muscle and bone beneath. Embedded in his decaying skin were nails—rusted, jagged—that pierced through flesh, holding a crumpled scrap of paper in place. The message was unreadable, smeared with blood and decay, yet it was unmistakably meant to be seen. Shelby had orchestrated this nightmare, his twisted signature etched into every detail.

 Don’s eyes fluttered open, a flicker of consciousness amid the chaos. His hands convulsed, clutching tightly onto a small, familiar red box—neat, pristine, a stark contrast to his battered body. The box seemed almost sacred in his trembling grip, as if it were a lifeline in this sea of decay.

 “For fucking bloody fangs’ sake,” I muttered under my breath, my voice sour with frustration. The sight of him—this walking corpse—had knocked my good mood flat, replaced by a gnawing sense of helplessness.

 From behind, Don lifted the box, presenting it to me with a strained, grimace-smile.

I set the box down gently on the worktable beside a freshly cleaned bone saw, the cold metal gleaming ominously.

I Guided Don toward the central stainless table—the one with the deep drain channel, the one currently soaked in the dark, dried blooms of this mornings Kill.

    “What did you do to piss Shelby off now?” I asked, voice steady despite the strange energy hanging in the air. I reached out, grabbing the box and placing it carefully next to the saw, trying to mask my curiosity.

    Don emitted a guttural growl, a ghoul’s version of a chuckle.

 “Grr, Grr,” he replied in his guttural tongue, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

    My stomach clenched. I froze, a cold sweat prickling at my forehead.

 “You did what?!” I demanded, voice rising slightly.

    “Grr, Grr, Grr,” Don repeated, voice low and gravelly, as if trying to communicate something urgent. His claws tapped against the table, a rhythmic tapping that echoed in the empty embalming room.

    Usually, Don’s mischief was harmless—a stolen bone here, a misplaced scalpel there. But this? This felt different.. Something was off

“Well, no one told you to walk in on Rain in the shower, especially at Shelby’s sanctuary!” I said, my voice casual, almost amused, but with a hint of warning. 

“Grr, Grr, Grr,” 

“Well, of course Maggie can stay in the shower with Rain,” I said matter-of-factly, voice deep and unwavering.

 Maggie is a woman ghoul—tall, with a pale, almost translucent complexion,

“Maggie was made to be her helper. It’s no big deal.” 

Don used his hands to show me how big Rain’s wet and soapy breast was.

 “That’s a very bad thing you did. You probably scared her half to death.”

“Grr, Grr”

   I rolled my eyes and steadied myself, gripping Don firmly by the armpits. He was heavy—like hauling a sack of decaying meat—each movement laborious as I hoisted him up. His back collided with the cold steel of the table with a dull thud, echoing in the sterile silence of the room.

I can’t believe he walked in on Rain in the shower. No wonder why Shelby took his rage out on Don. Justifiable. I probably wouldn’t have been that forgiving if it had been my mate, caught in a vulnerable state.

Don's head lolled to the side, eyes unfocused as he fixated on the buzzing light above, its flickering glow casting eerie shadows across the room. His lips curled into a faint, almost contented smile, despite the decay that riddled his skin. 

I leaned in, a strange warmth in my voice that contrasted sharply with the grotesque scene before me.

 “I know,” I said softly, almost affectionately. “I think rain is nice too.”

 The words seemed to hang in the air, but a flicker of something darker shone behind Don's eyes—jealousy. It was a new emotion for him, one that made him tense, his decay-ridden face twisting into a grimace. Shelby’s presence had stirred something unfamiliar—and unsettling—in Don’s mind.

 Suddenly, Don’s growls grew more aggressive, a guttural chorus of “Grrr, Grrr,” echoing through the silent room. His jaw clenched as he lunged forward, tearing at the remnants of flesh that clung to his bones, an expression of primal anger mixed with a strange, almost possessive desire.

He can’t be jealous of Shelby?, can he?

 I chuckled softly, observing this bizarre tableau. I had to get his mind off of Shelby, and back on track to me. I spoke.

“After you walked in on her in the shower—she still gave you a treat? What did she give you?” I asked, genuine curiosity lacing my voice. I wondered why Don was so visibly excited—what reward could she possibly give that made his decaying mind so elated?

 Don’s growls intensified, a frantic chorus of “Grr, Grr, Grrr, Grr,” as if protesting or emphasizing something only Doc understood. 

“She gave you your favorite rat?, you lucky dog,” I chuckled,  His eyes flickered with a mix of frustration and gratitude.

 “Grr, Grr, Grr,” Don growled softly.

 I tried to mask his irritation with dark humor. “He really nailed you to the spot, huh?” I teased, a crooked smile tugging at my lips. I knew his pride was wounded more than his body.

 In the flickering shadows, I reached for a pair of heavy-duty locking pliers from the rack nearby. The metallic click as I closed them into place was oddly soothing, a ritual I found oddly calming in moments like these.

 “Grr, Grr,” Don repeated, his tiny fists clenched but still trembling.

The room was a chaos of scientific equipment and strange contraptions, remnants of experiments that had long since gone awry. It was the kind of place you’d expect to find in a horror movie, but tonight, it was my battlefield

 “Alright, buddy,” I muttered softly, Not meeting his gaze. “Let’s get you out of this mess.”

 I carefully opened the pliers, 

“Grr, Grr,” he protested softly, still upset, but I could tell he trusted me—at least a little

“This may hurt” 

“Grr, Grr,”Don suddenly muttered, a strange, guttural sound that seemed to echo from the depths of his throat. Without hesitation, Doc reached out, gripping Don’s face firmly, forcing him to meet his gaze. His fingers pressed into the tense flesh, firm yet desperate. 

“Repeat what you just said,” Doc demanded, voice low and unwavering.

 “Grr, Grr,”Don repeated, almost a whisper now, trapped between confusion and fear.

 “Bruises and fingerprints? Are you sure that’s what you saw on her body?”

I  asked, his brow furrowing as he studied the tremors in Don’s eyes. Don nodded slowly, the affirmation heavy in the silence that followed. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak

“Did you tell Shelby what you saw?” 

I pressed further, voice softer but still intense, trying to get to the truth beneath the surface. 

Don shook his head. 

The movement was unsteady, guilty perhaps, or simply overwhelmed. His shoulders slumped, and he avoided eye contact, knowing that whatever he saw, whatever he knew, it wasn’t his story to tell yet.

 Doc finally released Don’s face, stepping back as he glanced around, weighing his next move. His mind raced, piecing together fragments of a puzzle that refused to fit. But one thing was clear: Shelby had some explaining to do. 

“Good,” I said softly, patting Don’s shoulder. “I want to confront him. If he’s hurting her, I’ll put a stop to it, I promise.” My voice betrayed a mixture of resolve and dread. Don looked at me with a steady, reassuring gaze, but I could see the flicker of worry lurking behind his eyes.

“Grr, Grr,” Don growled softly, a quirky little noise he made when he was trying to lighten the mood. 

I chuckled despite myself. 

“This is going to hurt, buddy,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. My voice was flat, edged with a stubborn determination. I knew the confrontation wouldn’t be easy—damn, I hoped Shelby wasn’t putting his hands on his little baking assistant. It’s not only me he would have to answer to, but apparently now it included Don.

The thought alone made my stomach churn.

I took a deep breath, grasping the rusty, serrated pliers, feeling the weight of the moment settle into me. The first nail was buried deep within his flesh, a remnant of a reckless mistake made long ago. I knew this wasn’t just a simple removal; it was a battle of willpower, a test of patience. 

“Alright,” I muttered, voice steady despite the chaos in my mind. “Let’s get this out.” 

Don flinched as I clamped the jaws of the pliers around the nail’s head, just above the torn skin and bruised flesh. His body went rigid, muscles tightening like a spring. I could see the pain flickering behind his eyes, but he refused to scream. Instead, he clenched his jaw, a silent testament to his stubbornness. 

I leaned my weight into it, twisting gently to break the suction of the clotted blood. There was a terrible, wet pop—the sound echoing in the silence like a gunshot. As I tugged, the screech of metal pulling free from bone pierced the air, sharp and unforgiving. The nail finally came loose, dripping with dark, congealed blood, and I dropped it into a metal basin with a sharp clang. 

Don exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before opening again. A groan escaped his lips, low and guttural. Then, unexpectedly, I heard a strange, raspy laugh from him, a crack in the otherwise tense atmosphere. 

“Grr, Grr, Grr,” he growled, voice muffled but unmistakably mocking. 

I couldn’t help but chuckle, a grin curling at the corner of my mouth. I reached over to pat his shoulder, voice warm despite the grim task. “Yeah, I agree too. He can be a dick sometimes.” The pain was still visible in his eyes, but so was something else—a flicker of humor, of camaraderie born from shared suffering. 

In that moment, beneath the chaos of blood and metal, a strange bond solidified—one forged through pain, patience, and the unspoken understanding that sometimes, the deepest wounds are the ones hidden beneath the surface, waiting for someone brave enough to pull them out.

Don blinked his eyes, in agreement, a slow, deliberate gesture that seemed to acknowledge the strange weight of the moment. I moved to the next nail, each one embedded.  It was an odd scene—like a bizarre ritual or perhaps a secret code, but I wasn’t quite sure which.

 “So, we need to have a little talk about something,” I said, pulling the nail out carefully. It clinked softly as it left its place, revealing a tiny, glowing slot behind the panel. The air grew tense, thick with anticipation.

 “Grr, Grr, Grr,” came a guttural growl from the corner of the room, a sound that felt both alarmed and resigned. It echoed in the hollow space, making me glance nervously at the source.

 “No, you're not in trouble,” I soothed, trying to sound reassuring. “It’s just that we have a permanent guest arriving in a little while.” My voice was calm, but I could feel the pulse of uncertainty beneath it.

 Don’s eyes flicked toward the last nail, a silent signal that our strange conversation was far from over. He pressed his hand against the wall, as if anchoring himself to some hidden truth. His expression was unreadable, but I knew he understood the gravity of what I was implying.

 Next, I reached for the final nail, hesitating briefly before pulling it free. 

“Grr, Grr, Grr”

“Awe. Thank you, buddy. So here’s the deal: while she’s here, I need you to hide. You can use the hidden walls to go  anywhere in the sanctuary—except where she’s at.”

“Grr, Grr, Grr” that sounded almost like a protest.

Doc chuckled softly, “What? I’m not ashamed of you,” I said gently. “I just need time to figure out how to introduce you guys. You understand, right?”. Each extraction was brutal, a little surgery on living flesh, 

Blood—thicker and darker—welled up in the neat holes punctured into his collarbone and ribs. It pooled in the hollows, dark and thick, staining the whiteness of his skin and the cold surface beneath him. Don’s agonized sounds, a guttural growl mixed with muffled shouts, filled the room, echoing off the sterile walls like a grim symphony.

“Grr, Grr, Grr,” he rasped, voice strained and trembling, as if fighting against an unseen force clawing him from within. 

“Now you're blackmailing me for extra rats?” I asked, voice low. My words hung in the air, heavy with suspicion. Don’s eyes fluttered open briefly, bloodshot and wild, then shut tight again as he nodded weakly. 

“Grr.”

“Fine,” I said, voice devoid of emotion, as I took a step back, carefully set down the bloodied pliers, the metal gleaming faintly in the flickering light  “But don’t think you can play me that easily next time” On the battered basin before him, nine bloody spikes lay in a haphazard pile, stained crimson, an unsettling testament to what had transpired.

“Done,” I muttered, voice strained but steady. I reached for the crumpled piece of paper, now soaked in blood and sweat, tangled in the mess. The note had once been pristine—perhaps just a scribbled warning or plea—yet now it looked like a fragment of a nightmare.

I hesitated, then carefully peeled the note from the cold, sticky flesh of his patient. The skin was necrotic in patches, and the paper clung as if it were a part of him—tightly bonded. With a wet, sucking sound, he peeled it away, tiny shreds of decay peeling off with it. The message was brutally simple: “DROP DEAD.”