Destiny's Child (Kitsune series Book 3) (7 page)

“We’ve only been out a couple times, Fenn, and I’ve hung out with Onyx too.”

“He’s gone back to his shadow world, for now anyway.  Let’s not ruin things by talking about him.  Or Shaun.  Why not give me a shot at your heart, Grace?  Do I need Tukka’s blessing?”

“Maybe.”  Feeling sleepy, I yawned.

“Oh well, it’s all right if you’re not convinced yet.  I’ll believe for the both of us.” 

My eyes couldn’t seem to stay open.  “You do that.”  I yawned again.

He said, “Take a nap.  When you wake up, I’ll be back.”

My eyes snapped open.  “What happened to hangin’ around and keeping me safe?”

“I’m running back to HPI for a few things.” 

Actually, Fenn leaving had a side benefit.  Once his jealous self was removed, I could call Shaun back into the room and indulge in a few more fantasies.

He added, “And Jill and Drew called.  They want me to bring them here to see you.”

Feeling cut off from my old life, I looked forward to having my suite mates fuss over me.  The human family that had raised me was flying apart.  Big Sis was out on her own, a pole dancer in a crappy little club in
Sacramento, California.  Mom and Dad were getting divorced.  The big cruise trip they took to work on their marriage didn’t seem to have paid off.  And I’d been transplanted cross country to East Texas, hiding out from the internet viral-frenzy that had kicked up when a convenience store robbery caught on a cell phone outed me as a total freak with weird powers. 

Can I ever get normal back? Deep sigh.

I murmured, “Okay, jus’ gonna take a nap.” I never heard him leave the room.

A hot-stud doctor with ruffled, beach-bum blond hair, a killer smile, and deep blue eyes—and several adoring nurses in tow— woke me up.  They checked on my vital signs, transferring me to a gurney.   Out in the hall, I picked up an armed escort: Sanchez and Kendall, Special Forces.  Virgil and I had worked with them only a few weeks ago.

“Hey, babe, looking good.” Kendall grinned, blue eyes flashing.  With matching looks, he and the hot doc could have been related. 

I returned the smile.  “You’re lying, but thanks.”

He’d had a little attitude last time we saw each other.  Maybe Sanchez had beaten some sense into him.  She was all-soldier, with a Hispanic intensity and
a temperament that didn’t suffer fools lightly.  If she was going to be around a while, I thought I might try and talk her into giving me a few shooting lessons, just between us girls.

“Hi, ya, Hon,” Sanchez grinned.  “Figured we’d meet again.”

“Just trying to keep your spirits up,” Kendall said.  “You’re quite the national resource now.”

I saw uniformed cops down the hall, standing around manfully, trying not to seem bored.  Their eyes scanned me as I was rolled past.  I could almost hear their mental voices:
She’s what this is all about?

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“MRI,” Doc said.  “Other wing.  Won’t take long, Jane.  I hope you’re not claustrophobic.”

“Nah, closets don’t scare me.”  I caught Sanchez’s eyes, lowering my voice, “Jane?”

She grinned.  “Yes, Miss Doe, that’s our story and we’re sticking to it.”

Ah, yes, Virgil’s idea, no doubt.  Spy games forever.

The walls around us smelled of fresh paint.  We passed a shower room where plastic protected the tiles and chrome.  Buckets of paint were stacked inside next to a couple ladders.  We reached an area of the hospital that was in use, and grabbed an elevator down a few floors.  Soon, I was wheeled into a room with a massive machine.  Its maw was open and a long tongue stuck out of a tunnel.  A wall with a window showed another room where an operator ran things.

After searching me for every stray scrap of metal, they put me on the machine’s tongue and slid
me in, a tasty snack for the cyber-beast. 

My better-than-human hearing picked up outside chatter: “What happens if she’s still got a tiny bit of shrapnel from the explosion left in her?” That was Sanchez sounding concerned as hell.  Doctor Hotness said, “We got it all, and have the x-rays to prove it.  We’re professionals.  We wouldn’t do this if there were any danger.”

If he were wrong about shrapnel, then turning on the machine would pull it violently out of my body, cutting through any tissue in the way.  A shiver went down my spine. 
Not a happy thought
. 

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe normally, as instructed. 

Unexpectedly, pain prickled as though army ants covered me.  “Hey, stop.  Get me out of here!”  Hot knives felt like they were carving me up.  The ants penetrated deeper, determined to strip me to the bone.  Every nerve ending was screaming.  My stomach clenched.  My mind red-washed with pure agony, as every particle of matter in my body tried to shatter the molecular bonds.  I choked on fire as it surged up with my breath, and ignited from my pores.

A scream rent the air.  It took me a moment to recognize the inhuman sound as mine. 

Footfalls running my way were suddenly cut off as a fierce electric jolt replaced the usual
cross over
tingle.

I remained in one piece, but close to my skin, nearly clear as glass, my ragged aura fluttered, thinner than I’d ever seen it.  Moments from aura failure, I flailed and whipped myself sideways into the cylinder wall encasing me.  I left the outer casing of the MRI and drifted several feet off the floor. 

Another electric tingle shimmered through me and sound returned along with normal gravity.  I smacked the floor, shielding my face from impact with my arms.  I lay there, a huddle of misery, muscles twitching, heart pounding, the memory of pain almost as intense as the real thing had been.  I sobbed, completely uncaring that I felt a draft where my hospital gown completely failed to protect my dignity.  Drenched in sweat, I felt like a soggy dish towel that had been wrung out—and run over by a fleet of trucks.

The area filled with panicked voices.  The hospital people probably thought they’d accidentally disintegrated me when I vanished from the metal tongue.  The guards were agitated, yelling questions. 

I shifted sideways, covering my butt, and tried to figure out what had happened.  I’d been forced into the ghost world—either by the machine, or my gift kicking in on its own to save me from some kind of damage a human wouldn’t have taken.  Either way, I now knew to avoid MRIs in the future, at all costs. 

Next time could be fatal. 

Sanchez blocked the hospital personal wanting to take control of me.  Her steely glare allowed no argument.  She checked my bandages for signs of broken stitches and bleeding.  “Looks good,” she muttered.  “You got lucky.”

“Yeah, I feel so lucky it hurts.  How long do those things stay in?”

“New development: the stitches dissolve after a while so they don’t have to be removed.”

Kendall
knelt.  He carefully picked me up as if I were a small child, placed me back on the gurney, and wheeled me out.  He and I both ignored flurrying questions from my doctor.  Kendall looked grim.  Sanchez waved ID and snarled at the doctor’s persistence.  “This is a national security matter.  Nothing happened here, got it?”

Worn out, each breath seemed labored.  My thoughts sunk into a miasma of fatigue.  I happily returned to my bed, settling in to finish my nap.  Really, d
reams are much safer.  Usually.

SEVEN

“A dragon on wings drops in for the kill,

flaming my heart, as dark dreams spill.”

                             
                         —Warrior’s Bride

                          
                               Elektra Blue

Someone was crying.  The sound dragged me from a deep, foggy sleep.  I forced my eyes open, wiping away grit, and looked at my visitor’s chair.  Mom was there.  Not Cassie. 
Mom
—the woman who’d raised me.  She clutched a Kleenex, mangling it in both hands.  Her bony wrists were thick with glossy, indigo bracelets that matched a navy blue sweater.  The sweater’s gold buttons had anchors on them.  Her head was bowed, crowned by thick, silver curls that had the faintest suggestion of blue.  Her real hair was short and pinned under the wig.  She had a dozen of them, all the same style and color.  Her skin was remarkably free of wrinkles.  I could easily smell the lotions she wore.  But then I was half kitsune.  There wasn’t much I couldn’t smell, except for where the cleaning staff had sloshed too much ammonia with their cleaning products.

“Mom?”

She forced a trembling smile into place, daubing at her eyes.  “Yes, dear, I’m here.”

“I’m okay, honest.” 
Except for this strange feeling inside me that I want to hit someone repeatedly, with a great deal of force.  Mothers shouldn’t ever be made to cry.  It’s not right.

She stood and leaned over the
siderail to hug me, doing so gingerly, as if I were brittle.  I devoured a new element of her scent, closing my eyes to savor it.  This was the smell of love, of home.  I felt better with her just being there, with the most important things understood and left unsaid.  A freak or not, I would always be her child.  Finally, she pulled away.  Her smile became more real, taking the sting out of her words, “How dare you scare me like that.  I have a good mind to stage a frightful scene, rife with weepy excess.”

I grinned, unrepentant.  “You can always force feed me Jell-O with a turkey baster.  That will teach me.”

Her face grew solemn.  Shadows stirred in her eyes as fresh tears brimmed.  “They called and said you’d been … shot by burglars.  I couldn’t believe it.  I told them, ‘I don’t appreciate such ill humor.’  The man on the phone was very kind and patient with me.  Shot…  My girls don’t get shot.  They get honor roll, or they get things pierced that I’d rather not know about.  They burst into flame, or pole dance, for God’s sake.  But they don’t get
shot
.”

“Wait ‘til sis finds out.  She’ll be green with envy.  I’ve got
street cred
.”

Mom glared at me.  “I don’t even want to know what that means.  You have got to promise me you won’t ever do this again.”

I sighed.  Necessary lies.  Our family had always needed them.  But I can’t lie.  As a kitsune, honesty is a pathological obsession.  Ancient legends warned that lying might even short-circuit some of my abilities.  I gave her what I could.  “Not if I can help it.  Not that I’d seen this coming.”

“Yes, your Mr. Langley explained to me that you’d walked into a crime in progress.”

You could say that
.

“He seems a nice man,” mom said.  “Do you happen to know if he’s single?”

I stared at her.

“What?  I’m entitled.  It’s not like I’m—dead.”  The last word came out low with shock.  She brushed her eyes with the Kleenex.  “Sorry, didn’t mean to go there.  I can’t believe you’re awake and talking
to me.  There should be an oxygen mask, tubes and drips, bustling nurses and good-looking doctors gravely poring over your chart.  My God, Grace, they said you came in suffering from massive blood loss, shot, with a collapsed lung.  This is just … just…”

“Unnatural?” I suggested.

Her eyes darkened with fear.   Her hands trembled until she clasped them together.   “I don’t like that word.”

‘Cause you’ve always known how well it fits me.  That’s one of the things we never talk about.

Time to make a virtue of necessity; a distraction was needed.  “Mom, do you think you could come around to the other side of the bed and help me get to the bathroom?”

“Oh, sure.  Just a moment.”  Given something concrete to focus on, she became more her usual self, energetically rounding the bed.  She drew aside the covers. 

I still wore an open-backed hospital gown.  It was puke green, matching the paint on the walls and the simulated marble tiles on the floor.  The only remaining obstacle to my bladder’s happiness, the other bed, was empty, the bathroom beyond it.  Mom helped me swing my legs off my bed, taking things achingly slow as I winced and groaned.  I felt weak as a kitten, as she gripped my upper arm.

I gasped at the tenderness of the demon mark.  The skin felt sunburned.

Mom jerked her hand away, staring at my arm.  “Sorry, dear, I didn’t know you’d hurt your arm.  It’s not even bandaged.”

That’s all she had to say?

“How’s it look?” I asked.

“Red, swollen.  Does it hurt a lot?”

“No, not really.”   My arm looked normal to me—except for the demon brand.  It was strange that mom couldn’t she see the black mark.  If I had something that looked to her like a tattoo, she’d have been unable to resist jerking my chain.  I’d razzed my sister relentlessly about her inking herself up—not that I actually objected in principle.  Tormenting one’s pole dancing sister is a constitutional right, in there somewhere with the right to bare arms and legs and whatever else needs baring.