End of Days (19 page)

He cleared his throat. It sounded like rocks breaking. “It's the cancer treatment. If the chemotherapy doesn't kill me, the radiation will.”

“I hope not.”

For a long time he looked at me without speaking. I tried to stare back and nod so that he'd know I was being honest, but it was hard to focus on anything because my eyes wouldn't open all the way. The room seemed to be shifting, as if I were seeing it through a hazy waterfall. It made him sound far away.

“Are there any rumors of him? Of Vlad? From Ophelia or Entwistle?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“Do you know why the Coven wants you and Charlie dead?”

I tried to focus. It seemed this was important. Why did they want us dead? There could be only one reason. “They just don't know us very well. We're actually really nice guys.”

“What can you tell me about this creature—this vampire hunter?”

He must have meant Hyde. “Ophelia and the others are hoping he's a werewolf. I don't know why. We call him Mr. Hyde, although he doesn't hide. He attacks people with these huge claws.”

“Why does she hope he's a werewolf?”

I hummed for a while—until he repeated the question. “I don't know. No one tells me anything.”

My uncle rose from his seat on the bed and started lacing up a pair of heavy black boots. When he took off his gown, I could see scars on his torso. He had lost a bit of weight, but he still looked like a powerhouse. He slipped on a shirt.

“What is Entwistle planning to do?” he asked.

“He wants to face Hyde on his own. He told me I needed to survive.”

“You will. That's a promise. Why does he have to face Hyde alone? He didn't mention it to me.”

“He saw it in a vision. He's going to die.”

My uncle stopped. Whatever he'd put under his pillow he removed and tucked into the back of his jeans. “He told you this!”

I nodded.

“Did he say when? Or where?”

I tried to remember if he had. Nothing was coming back to me, so I shrugged.

“What did Ophelia say about this?”

“She doesn't trust him because he's a murderer.”

“Who's a murderer?”

“Mr. Entwistle. But his real name is John something or other. Or it was. He was the Barber of England.”

“The Barber of England?”

That didn't sound right. “No. The Butcher of England.”

My uncle was putting on a windbreaker. His moving blur became a stationary blur. “John Entwistle is really John Tiptoft? The executioner for the House of York?”

“Yes. Well, not anymore.”

“Who told you this?”

“Ophelia did. And Baoh.”

My uncle moved closer. His face took up the whole screen. The words seemed to echo in my head.

“You met Baoh? The prophet?
Unbelievable!
So he does exist!”

“We played Nintendo. I beat him, but only because he let me win.” It was funny—our little men pulverizing one another.

“What did he tell you?”

I wondered what my uncle was talking about.

“Baoh. What did he tell you?”

He told me lots of stuff, but one thing stood out. “To be righteous.”

“That's it?”

I sat up. My uncle's tone was serious. “The End of Days is here. I have to die with a clean soul.”

My uncle reached down to a black bag that was on the floor. “You're not dying on my watch.” He took out something in a thin leather case. “I'm leaving this with you. Be extremely careful. It's lethal.”

“What is it?”

“It's a knife. The blade has been treated with dioxin. It's sixty thousand times more potent than cyanide, so leave it in the sheath until you need it.”

I looked at the knife. The blade was buried inside a narrow leather sleeve, but it must have been about the same length as my hand. My hand . . . It really did look like an ice cream cone, especially when I made a fist. Then I lifted my other hand and the two started waving to each other.

My uncle dug back into his black bag. This time he pulled out something that looked like a space gun I'd once seen on Teletoon. “This is going to cause some swelling.” He put the gun against the back of my shoulder blade and pulled the trigger.

I felt a jab of pain. Right away the area under the skin started to bulge. It felt like a pimple.

“Don't pick at it.”

“What's that for?”

“It's a microtransponder, so I can find you if I need to.” He took out a small case and removed a syringe. He screwed a needle into the end and stuck it in a small bottle. After drawing some fluid into the syringe, he told me to roll up my sleeve.

“Is that poison?”

He shook his head. “No.”

He helped me roll up my sleeve, then injected my arm with something.

“You're going to sleep for a while, but you'll be safe here. The door's locked. Mr. Entwistle will be back before the sun comes up.
I'd stay, but this Hyde creature appears to be nocturnal. I have to see if I can find it before Entwistle gets himself killed.”

Was he crazy?
My head slumped forward. It was too heavy to lift again. My eyes were starting to close. I fought against it. There were things I had to know. “How can you kill this thing?”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the chair, then slipped his shoulder under me and tipped me onto the bed. “Poisons work best. Cyanide, arsenic, or dioxin. I've used
Conium maculatum
effectively in the past, but your father preferred venom from
Hydrophis belcheri.
”

Hydrophis belcheri?
What was that? It sounded like a burping water dragon. “Do you have any?”

“Only what I've given you. The dioxin. It's the Cadillac of poisons.” He was moving toward the door.

The Cadillac of poisons? What I needed was the bulletproof, floating Cadillac of poisons with huge tires and twenty-four hundred horses under the hood. Then I could drive back to Weed World. Hyde would never find me there. I laughed. Why hadn't I thought of that before? I was full of good ideas tonight.

My uncle was leaving. I needed to ask something else. “Where have you been all this time?” I hadn't seen him in a year. He was sliding in and out of focus.

“Hunting a werewolf.”

“Was it Hyde?”

“No.”

Now he was a complete blur. “Did you catch it?”

He said something, but I couldn't make it out. I wanted to ask him to repeat his answer, but my tongue got all tied up and my eyes just wouldn't open. I heard the door. Then it closed and I fell asleep.

I awoke feeling like death. My tongue was sandpaper and my head was a swollen wound. I couldn't move. I wondered for a minute if this was what a hangover was like. Charlie had once described one to me, but they couldn't have been this bad or no one on earth would have risked taking a drink. The thought of moving made my stomach tremble and my brain scream. I didn't want to move a muscle, but the clock on the wall said 4 a.m. I'd been asleep for several hours. If I fell asleep again and didn't wake up in time, I'd wind up on fire.

I sat up. This required I wait a few minutes while my head adjusted to its new elevation.
Why are you doing this to us?
it asked. It repeated the question when I stood. Then I noticed the knife on the bedside table. A parting gift from my uncle. I would say this for him, he was a hard guy to figure out. I picked it up and examined the handle. It was molded and had a compass built into the knob on the end. I wasn't wearing a belt, so I stuck the sheath in my back pocket and pulled my shirt over the top to keep it out of sight.

Charlie was asleep on the floor beside me, a towel balled up under his head like a pillow. I gently touched his shoulder.

“Ohhhh,” he groaned. “Go away.”

“Charlie, wake up,” I whispered. “We have to get going. The sun will be up soon.”

That got his attention. His eyebrows rose on his forehead as if he were trying to force his eyelids open. “What happened?”

I wasn't sure what to tell him. I suppose the truth would have
worked, but Charlie hated Maximilian, and his feelings were well-founded. “You were shot with a tranquilizer.”

I heard footsteps outside. Then the window in the door darkened. I ducked around the curtain—the one that you see in most hospital rooms that hangs around the bed to create the illusion of privacy.

“Charlie, someone's in the hall. We need to hide.” He seemed not to hear me.

“Whose idea was this anyway?” he asked. “Can't you give me five more minutes? I feel like I just stepped off the Time Warp at Canada's Wonderland.”

I heard the rattle of the door handle. It was locked, but someone clearly wanted in. We were in no condition for a confrontation. I looked for a hiding place. There was none. At least, none in the room. But the false ceiling had tiles hanging on a plastic frame so that ductwork and plumbing could easily be accessed. They had the same kind back in the ward. I'd once used it to hide. No reason it wouldn't work again.

“Keep it down,” I whispered. I quietly hauled him up to his feet. Then I stepped up on the bed, onto the machine beside it, and slipped a ceiling tile out of place. Overhead were the heating vents, wiring, and plumbing for the hospital. I grabbed a pipe and pulled myself up, then hooked my legs over so I was hanging upside down like a three-toed sloth.

Charlie stepped up onto the bed, then took my hand so I could pull him out of sight. As soon as he had a hold on the plumbing beside me, I slid the tile back. My coordination was a bit off, so I didn't get it set right. It left a slender crack open.

An instant later, I heard a key twist in the door lock. A man whispered, “Thank you,” and walked in. The privacy curtain slid back and he stepped into view. He was short, bald, with legs that belonged on a rhinoceros. Detective Baddon. His head was angled to the side as though expecting to find someone in the bed. When he saw no one there, he sighed, disappointed. He moved closer, checked around
the bed and table, then noticed a depression in the center of the mattress. A footprint. He gazed up at the ceiling, drew a gun from a holster strapped around his shoulder, then turned and reached for a chair.

Well, I wasn't sticking around for a shoot-out. My best projectile was a spitball. I slipped the tile down.

“We've got to move,” I whispered to Charlie. Using my hands, I pulled myself away. I tried to be quiet, but I think the detective must have heard us because he was looking in our direction when his head popped up above the tile. He'd used his gun to lift the near end up out of the frame. It was pitch-black. I was hoping it was too dark for him to see. We didn't stick around to find out. I kept moving until I heard the tile drop. The faint light coming in from the room below disappeared. I stopped and listened.

“Did he see us?” I asked.

Charlie was staring back through the darkness. “Well, he didn't shoot, that's the main thing!”

We were above the hallway. I could hear Detective Baddon's footsteps as he exited the room. Another set, moving faster, swishing on the floor like slippers, was coming toward him.

“Oh, hi there,” said a female voice. She sounded friendly, but surprised. “Sleepwalking again?”

I heard a gentle laugh. “No,” said Detective Baddon. “I was hoping to talk to a patient, but he appears to have checked out.”

“Did you want me to look into it for you?” I assumed the woman was a nurse.

“No. He's definitely gone. I'm just going to check in on my son. Who's on call tonight?”

“Dr. Bell. Do you want me to send for him?”

“If you don't mind. I was hoping for some news, but I don't have much time tonight. I'm not staying long.”

“Oh, of course. I read the news about the police station. I hope no one was hurt.”

“Not seriously.”

“Have you found the boy?”

“Not yet, but we're hopeful.” The tone of the detective's voice changed. I couldn't see him, but it sounded as though he was looking up. I had a flash of panic, as if he knew we were here. Sweat started to break out on my hands and forehead.

“I'll be down the hall,” he added. “I'd appreciate an update as soon as possible.”

“I'll pull his charts,” the nurse said. “Someone will be in to see you right away.”

He said thank you, then the two headed off in opposite directions.

My mind was racing. The detective had been looking for Maximilian. Why? It must have had something to do with Hyde.

“What do we do now?” Charlie asked.

The dawn was nearing. It was time to get going. “We should split,” I whispered.

Charlie nodded, but he didn't move. “What's he doing here?”

I didn't know. But there was one way to find out—follow the footsteps as they faded down the hall. Common sense suggested we should leave. Ophelia would definitely want us to play the safe card and get home. But Charlie wanted to stay. What to do? Follow the Detention King of Adam Scott Collegiate, whose decisions had, arguably, driven his mother into rehab, or go with the most responsible person I'd ever met, whose levelheaded decision making had kept me safe for almost ten years?

Naturally, I went with Charlie.

Something about hanging upside down must have been beneficial because my grogginess vanished once I got moving. My head started to clear and my strength returned. I followed Charlie, hand over hand, down the hall in pursuit of the detective's heavy footfalls. We were quiet. The only real danger seemed to be the dust. I was worried one of us might sneeze and give ourselves away. But I'd never read about a vampire being thwarted by unclean plumbing, so we slothed onward.

The detective quietly entered one of the rooms farther down the hall. We had to take a detour around a heating duct, which took an extra minute. By the time we were overhead, he'd settled himself into a chair beside the room's only bed. I eased a tile up just a finger's breadth and listened. A boy was asleep in the bed beside him. He might have been six or seven. Judging by his features, he must have taken after his mother—slight, with fair hair and skin. Tubes ran into his arm and nose. The detective was sifting through a stack of what looked to be magazines. Only when he took one out of the middle did I see they were children's books. I recognized the picture on the front. It was
Where the Wild Things Are,
by Maurice Sendak—one of my all-time favorite stories as a little kid.