Beyond Repair
⏣ 1 ⏣
St. Louis, Missouri
May 10, 1906
Owen Cassidy had woken to the sight of a pretty woman before. This was the first time, however, that he’d woken to find said pretty woman gripping his severed limb.
“Jesus Fucking Christ!” he screamed. Or tried to. It actually came out more of a breathless, “Guaaaargh.”
Seemed his voice wasn’t working. Nor were his muscles. A tiny twitch of his head was all he could manage. The world was a blur of harsh, bright light, a shimmering halo around the terrifying siren standing over him.
“I told them one injection wouldn’t be enough for the likes of you,” the woman said, a rueful little smile playing across her lips. She shook her head, tossing her chin-length, red-blond hair.
The likes of me? Owen’s muscles would have clenched in anger, if his body was working. He’d heard that same damn thing so many times, these days usually from people who would be mortified if they realized who he was. Who the hell was this woman to be spewing such contempt with a smile on her face?
She was rich, that was absolutely certain. Not a hint of a tan, so if she ever ventured outdoors it was beneath the shade of a parasol. And only a woman of means could get away with her unfashionable short hair and avant-garde clothing. Her loose, brown trousers sat low on her hips, held up by a leather belt with an array of tools dangling from it. A white shirt much like one Owen might have worn covered her torso, topped with a corset-style cropped tweed vest laced snugly across her breasts. Definitely an I-wear-whatever-the-hell-I-like outfit.
“Don’t move,” the woman warned, as if such a thing were a possibility.
Owen lifted his gaze—at least his eyes worked—to study her face. Pointed chin, dainty nose, peculiar blue-green eyes. What a bizarre color. He fixed his attention on it, trying to discern whether it was only a trick of the light.
A good thing to focus on, those odd but pretty eyes. Kept his gaze from wandering. Kept him from looking at…
She moved, pulling his attention back to the arm she held clasped in her hands. His arm. Disconnected from his body. Owen tried to scream, but again his vocal cords produced nothing but a pathetic choking sound.
The woman fiddled with a wire, and he saw his disembodied fingers twitch. Felt them twitch.
“Hmm,” she murmured.
Fuck!
Taking as deep a breath as his frozen body could manage, Owen allowed himself to take a proper look at his detached limb. His not-quite-detached limb, it seemed. Oh, the flesh and bone was all severed, certainly, but a series of wire filaments ran from the end of the arm to the stump of whatever was left of his shoulder. He couldn’t quite see because he couldn’t turn his head. Blood flowed through thin, transparent tubes. The strange woman moved another wire, nodded, then set the arm down beside Owen—on the bed, or whatever this was he was lying on.
Who the hell are you? he wanted to demand. What are you doing to me?
She crossed the room, as calmly as if nothing the slightest bit unusual was happening, rummaged inside a drawer, and returned with a syringe in her hand.
“No,” Owen tried to say.
Either she didn’t understand or she didn’t care, because she jabbed the needle into his not-dismembered arm and pressed down on the plunger.
When he next woke, he was whole. More or less.
*****
Nora’s patient twitched in the slightly too-small hospital bed. Her surgery at home would have been more comfortable for both of them, but she couldn’t complain too much. Several electric lights allowed her to illuminate the small room to suit her needs. The hospital provided access to the necessary tools and supplies, and here in the sanitarium wing, everything was quiet and spotlessly clean.
The man on the bed twitched again.
“Good morning!” Nora smiled down at him, pleased with how well his body was adapting to the biomechanics. The swelling around the splice points was minimal, and the skin less red and tender than it had been last night. He would only be a three-weeker. Probably because he’d been so fit to begin with. The hard muscles of his bare torso attested to that.
She was curious to meet him. Clearly he worked for a living, yet the suit she had cut from his wounded body had been bespoke. Wealthy, but not afraid to get his hands dirty. Interesting. The sort of man she could respect.
His eyes fluttered open, and she took a moment to peer into them. The light-brown irises were clear, pupil dilation normal, no signs of redness. Excellent.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “What have you done to me?” He jerked, trying to sit up, but his body failed to cooperate.
“Please try to lie still,” Nora said, trying to inflect her voice with both comfort and authority. “The drug takes time to wear off.”
“Who the hell are you?” he repeated. Rather irritable, this one. Most of her patients suffered from a bit of bewilderment after surgery, but they usually weren’t angry.
“Dr. Eleanor Taylor.” Nora declined to extend a hand, not wanting him to attempt to lift his right arm yet. “And you are?”
“None of your damned business. What have you done to me?” He grunted and tried again to move, managing to lift his head a bit.
“Your muscle function will return more easily if you relax and allow your body to adjust little-by-little,” Nora explained. “You’re coming out of two days’ sedation. I suggest you begin with gently wiggling toes and fingers, then—”
“I suggest you answer my goddamned question!” he snarled.
Nora put her hands on her hips. “I am a skilled biomechanologist, and it is thanks to my work that you still have both your arms. If you can’t speak to me with a modicum of respect, I will be happy to sedate you once again.”
His eyes narrowed. Who was this man that he would respond to a healer and helper with nothing but fury and suspicion? Had he been mistreated in other ways? She knew nothing of him, and nothing of how he’d come to be lying in the street, his shoulder torn to pieces by a nasty splatter-bullet. He’d had no money, no identification, and he’d been too insensible up until now to give so much as a name.
“What have you done to me?” he repeated, the words soft, but clipped, his teeth clenched.
“You were found with a grave shoulder wound, too severe to heal properly with ordinary medicine. For you to live, the arm would have needed amputation. Fortunately, I was there to offer an alternative. All the damaged tissue has been removed, and your shoulder replaced with a mechanical joint. After recovery, you will have full use of the arm.”
“And what if I didn’t want to be turned into some sort of machine?”
“Would you prefer to be missing an arm?”
He paled. Several seconds passed before he spoke again. “How was I wounded? What happened?”
“Gunshot. The bullet fragmented on impact. A weapon meant to maim in the event the shot isn’t lethal.”
“Who? Why?”
“I have no idea. It had already happened when we stumbled upon you. Now, might I have the pleasure of your name, sir?”
“No.” He wriggled and managed to sit up. Impressive. “No, you’re going to do the talking, Dr. Taylor. You’re going to tell me exactly where you found me, who you were with, how you got me here, where the hell ‘here’ even is, and every other scrap of information you think might be useful. And then I’m going to go home.”
Nora couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Home? I’m afraid, Mr. Furious, you are not leaving this room or that bed for the next three weeks.”
His eyes widened. “Three weeks? Are you mad, woman?” He tried to push himself up further using his right arm, but the newly repaired limb wouldn’t respond. He pushed with the left instead, straightening his spine and swinging his legs around to dangle over the side of the bed. “I have work to do. And apparently an enemy to find.”
“Don’t attempt to stand up, please,” Nora cautioned. “It won’t be pretty.”
He glared at her. “I’ve had quite enough of your help, Doctor.”
Nora shrugged at the sneer he put on her title. Fine. If the jackass wanted to demonstrate how little brains he had in his head, that was his prerogative.
He shoved himself from the bed, teetered for a few seconds, then collapsed.
“This is why you ought to listen to your doctor,” she scolded, just before his eyes rolled up and he lapsed into unconsciousness.