Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(97)
Rue shook her head as well.
“Right, hold course into the desert. Let’s find our missing escort,” Tasherit acknowledged.
Rue took a breath and padded over to where Quesnel lay. She sniffed at him, whiskers twitching at the smell of blood, thick and coppery. Rue was lucky she wasn’t a true werecreature. The scent did make her hungry but it did not make her crazy. She tried a tentative touch with one paw. He was still warm. Her throat rumbled. He’s alive! She nosed against his good side, trying for the scent of oil and smoke that always permeated his skin.
She stretched out next to him, for he must be in shock and she was warm in cat form.
Tasherit, judging them safe enough for the time being, came over as well.
“Condition?” she asked Anitra.
“Gunshot to the back, upper right near the shoulder blade. I think it’s missed the important stuff. Through and through, thank goodness, out the front here.” She pointed.
Rue winced. That had been her favourite place to rest her head.
Anitra continued. “Bleeding’s slowed. No sucking sounds. He’s unconscious. Blood loss or shock or both.”
“Suggestions? Healing mortals is not my area of expertise.” Tasherit gave a smile that looked more like a grimace.
“We need it clean. Hard alcohol, the stronger the better. Grain if you’ve got it.”
Tasherit took off.
Anitra evaluated Rue the lioness, her long furry form stretched along the length of Quesnel’s body. Anitra had loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirtwaist. It exposed him to the cool night air, but they needed to see to his wounds. “Um, Miss Prudence?”
Rue lifted her head.
“Amazing. I mean, I’d heard of your particular skills from Grandfather, but I never thought to see… Where is Grandfather? He would be useful right now.”
Rue realised that Anitra couldn’t go anywhere. She was holding pressure to Quesnel’s wound, one hand under his back, the other on his front.
“If you could stay in cat form and keep him warm? Soon, however, it would be better to have you able to issue orders.”
Rue nodded.
The missing Floote appeared. He looked older and shakier than ever.
Anitra’s face relaxed into profound relief. Until that moment, Rue hadn’t realised how frightened the girl was.
“Granddaughter. You are doing well. Hold steady. Is that the werecat or our captain?”
“That’s the captain. She was shot, too. Fortunately, Lady Prudence has a quick way of healing. I’ve asked for strong alcohol to clean the wound. What else?”
Tasherit reappeared with a bottle of Percy’s best cognac.
“Good enough.” Floote took it. “Now, Lady Sekhmet, we need linen bandages. If none are available, a clean silk shawl. Lighter colour. Ask Miss Primrose. And blankets, we need to keep him warm.”
Tasherit dashed off again.
Several of the decklings appeared with their own blankets at that juncture, the ones they stored about the decks and used in their hammocks. Floote piled them over Quesnel’s lower body and arms. They were not very clean, but it was a kind gesture.
Tasherit reappeared with Primrose in tow. Prim had her arms full of linen bandages. Rue had no idea Prim stocked the shipboard medicine cabinet that thoroughly, but she shouldn’t be surprised. Primrose did tend to think of everything.
Prim fell to her knees next to Quesnel’s body with no care for her lovely dress. In times of great stress, Prim was one of the better elements. She instantly began unfolding the bandages. She was weeping copiously, although it did not affect her efficient handling of the necessities.
Floote grabbed a strip, wadded it up, doused it in cognac, and handed it to Anitra. She used this to swab the back of Quesnel’s wound, the side they could not see.
“I’ve iodine as well.” Prim produced a small bottle of the stuff.
“Alcohol first,” said Floote. “Iodine once it’s clean.”
“Should we roll him onto his side?” Anitra wondered.
Floote considered. “Yes, to check. Lady Primrose, you’ll be the brace. Decklings, man his legs. On my mark, slow but steady and gentle. We need to know if he is bleeding out.”
They rolled.
The entrance wound oozed out from Quesnel’s jacket.
“Cut away the cloth,” advised Floote. “Anyone have a sharp knife?”
A rustle and then Percy, of all people, appeared and passed over a gleaming blade, from the look of it, silver, kept as sharp as one could keep silver. A vampire’s son was raised to take werewolf precautions. He remained looking on, strange given his contentious relationship with Quesnel.
Floote doused the knife with the cognac and then shook his head. “My hand’s too shaky. Miss Sekhmet, if you would?”
“It’s silver!” the werecat hissed.
“You aren’t immortal at the moment.”
“Oh, of course. I forgot.” She still looked uncomfortable.
Primrose tsked and handed Tasherit the bandages. “You hold these. I’ll do it.”
Face pale but determined, Primrose took hold of the knife and began to smoothly cut away the layers of fabric around Quesnel’s wound. The decklings steadied the Frenchman, who remained blessedly, but scarily, insensate.
Primrose pulled the layers of clothing off. Anitra returned her free hand to the wound in between layers, applying pressure with the alcohol-dampened rag.