The Strange Path (29 page)

The intoxicating flow of Margaurethe’s blood in her mouth magnified her lust.

Flash.

Whiskey’s stomach rebelled at its most recent meal, and she vomited into the garbage can. She staggered away in defeat when she finished. The taste of blood in her memory ignited the need for more, and the cramps stormed through her with a vengeance. She stumbled, falling.

“Jesus! Is she okay?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’s strung out.”

“Hey! You’d better call an ambulance. This girl just collapsed out here!”

Whiskey heard the voices, but the roar of their heartbeats filling her ears muted them. Unable to respond, her eyes rolled up, and blissful darkness claimed her.

***

Whiskey blinked sleepily, wincing away from the dawn pouring through the window. She muttered, crisp sheets scraping across her sensitive skin as she turned over.
Sheets?
Freezing in place, eyes closed, she extended her senses. Someone’s heart beat close by, and she heard a muted paging system, muffled and echoing. The antiseptic smells held an undertone of sickness, an after-odor rich and repellent with disease. She grimaced, squinting one eye open. A thin ivory curtain met her gaze.

Fully awake, she struggled to sit up, ignoring the complaint of her sore abdomen. Chrome bars boxed her into the bed, and she found a cable with the controls near her pillow. A nightstand and phone sat beside her, and several electronic devices hung from the wall above her head. She found a medical shunt taped to the back of her right hand, embedded in the thick vein below her thumb.

A hospital?

Whiskey tried to remember what had happened. She recalled being in Tacoma, and eating something. Then came the memory, and severe cramps. Her mind veered away from the vision, glad to note her stomach merely rolled over. Someone must have called the paramedics. How’d she come to be here and not in the emergency room? She didn’t have any money. Certainly the admitting staff figured that out early on during the intake process. 

The growing sunlight pierced her eyes. She raised a hand to shade them. She fumbled for her sunglasses before she realized she wasn’t in street clothes. She wore a shapeless hospital gown of light blue. Whiskey pursed her lips. She had to find her clothes, and get out of here. Who knew what would be found by a thorough exam from a Human doctor? That had to be why Daniel had studied to be one. The world had Sanguire politicians and police, why not medical personnel to help keep the Great Secret?

It took a few moments before she figured out the railing mechanism. Her knees gave a perilous wobble when she slid out from beneath the covers. She swallowed a thrill of fear.
God, I’m so weak. Can I make it out of here without fainting?
Her bladder asserted its dominance. She shuffled across the room, wondering if she’d fall before making it to the can. Peering past the curtain, she saw an open door leading to a bathroom, and hobbled inside.

She left the bathroom with a bit less haste, pausing at the door to glance around. Another bed occupied the room, its occupant snoring softly. A green exit sign glowed above the other door. Moving gingerly back to her side of the room, Whiskey located a small closet, relieved to find her clothing inside. She tossed her things onto the bed, and prepared to dress.

“Here now, you can’t leave quite yet.”

Guiltily, Whiskey glanced over her shoulder to find a nurse bearing down upon her.

“Watch me.” She began to untie the flimsy hospital gown.

The nurse, obviously used to dealing with stubborn patients, scooped up Whiskey’s clothes. “Not yet.” She easily kept them out of reach. “You need more rest, and to eat some breakfast. The doctor will be by later in the morning.”

“Give me that!” Whiskey stumbled as she flailed for her belongings, disliking the helpless feeling. “I’m fucking leaving, you got it?”

“No, Jenna. You’ve got to let Dr. Mulligan do his job. He’ll no doubt release you this afternoon.”

She stopped, glaring at the woman. “How did you know my name?”

Taken aback, the nurse said, “Your brother called looking for you. He’s no doubt on his way here.”

Brother?
Whiskey’s sluggish mind prodded at a sudden new relation.
Reynhard?
A rush of weakness washed over her at the thought of seeing him. The nurse barely caught her in time.

“There now. You see? You need to stay in bed for now, and regain your strength.” She helped an unresisting Whiskey back under the sheets. “I’ll have breakfast brought to you. The doctor makes his rounds at about seven. In the meanwhile, you sleep.” The nurse tucked Whiskey under the blanket, making sure the bed controls were within reach. “If you need anything, just push this button, and one of us will come to you. Okay?”

Whiskey fought the dizziness, barely nodding in response. Her eyelids felt so heavy. She found herself fighting to keep them open with no success. She watched the nurse gather up her belongings, and return them to the closet. She’d try to leave later. Until then, a nap wouldn’t be remiss.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Whiskey didn’t know how long she slept. She woke again to the sound of voices, her body feeling somewhat stronger. The sun had risen above the horizon. Fortunately, it now hid behind low-lying clouds, saving her from a potential headache. Not much time had passed. She wondered if Dorst had arrived.

The curtain drew aside, and a middle-aged man in white came into view. “Good morning, Ms. Davis. I’m Dr. Mulligan. How are you feeling?”

“Ready to get the hell out of here.” She scooted up in bed. She did feel stronger. Her stomach grumbled with real hunger.

Mulligan smiled, and glanced over her chart. “Well, let’s just see if that’s a possibility, shall we?”

Whiskey suffered through a round of poking, prodding and a cold stethoscope placed against her skin. Her blood pressure a little low, her skin still a bit sensitive, she still appeared to be in good health. The medical shunt was removed from her hand, leaving a bruise in its wake.

“Do you have any idea what happened last night?” The doctor made notations on her chart.

“Not really. I thought I had the flu. Vomiting, stomach cramps.”

He nodded and scribbled something down. “Jenna, did you have any drugs in your system last night?”

She pursed her lips. “No.”

“I have to ask. Your blood tests haven’t come back from the lab, yet. What about alcohol?”

“No.”

Mulligan finished writing. “All right then. Breakfast will be served in a matter of minutes. I want you to eat all of it, if you can. Your lab results should come through in the next couple of hours. Once I’ve assessed them, I’ll let you know what’s going on.”

“I want to get out of here.”

He peered over his glasses at her. “If you’d like, you can get dressed after breakfast. From what I’ve seen so far, I’ll probably release you today.”

Relieved at the concession, she nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

“But after breakfast.” Mulligan’s expression brooked no argument.

He left her, pulling the curtain back in place. As he began his examination of her roommate, the nurse bustled through with a tray.

“Here’s the meal I promised you.” She placed it on a bedside table, and rolled it into place. She helped Whiskey with the controls until the bed supported her seated form. “Now eat every bit of it.”

Whiskey nodded, finding herself hungry for the first time since the meditation. The tray held scrambled eggs, a patty of what could laughably be called sausage, two tiny pieces of toast and a fruit cocktail cup. “Has...my brother come to see me? Do you know if he’s on his way?”

The nurse frowned. “Unfortunately, I don’t know. You were transferred to this ward after he called the emergency room, and identified you. It hasn’t been that long, though. I’m sure he’s on his way.” She fussed with the blankets, and gave her the television remote. “Visiting hours are at nine, and it’s just past seven thirty. I’ll let you know when he arrives.”

“Thank you.”

Ravenous, Whiskey barely tasted her breakfast as she ate. It was probably just as well since the eggs appeared undercooked and the sausage patty was suspect. She knew she should try to go slow to allow herself time to get used to the food, but couldn’t help herself. In response, her stomach cramped once or twice, but the pain wasn’t of the same nature as before. Lying back, now overfull, she groaned with contentment. Maybe this sickness passed with time, just like the first one. It certainly had taken long enough, much longer than the other two. She didn’t want to repeat the incident that got her in here, and refused to dwell on the visions and cravings that would trigger another round of vomiting. Maybe later when she’d had time to digest breakfast, and gain some strength.

An hour and a half before visiting hours. Whiskey wondered if Dorst had already arrived. On a lark, she closed her eyes, and let her mind drift, searching. A tenuous flicker of dark chocolate tickled the edges of Whiskey’s mind.
Shit! The padre.
She sat up straighter in bed, scanning farther. Her mind brushed across three other Sanguire presences, none of whom she knew.

To protect herself, she yanked herself back from making full connections with any of them. Other Sanguire? Were they working with Castillo or Valmont? She didn’t think the padre would betray her after his many denials, but that wouldn’t stop the
Agrun Nam
from watching his every move. Would Valmont have thought to check hospitals, too? Did he send people to all of them in the area to locate her? Or maybe Alphonse and Zebediah had called Fiona last night, filling her in. Maybe these people worked for her.

Her initial complacence gone, Whiskey climbed out of bed. Noticeably stronger this time, she took a deep breath to relax. She had to get dressed. Then she’d debate staying, or going in search of Dorst. He had much more experience and knowledge than she; if anyone could protect her, it would be him.

The flimsy hospital gown soon lay on the bed. Whiskey stood by the window, fully clothed. From her position, she saw past the curtain to the door beyond, and the foot of her roommate’s bed. The television droned on, the volume low, portraying a morning news station. A picture of Dominick appeared behind one of the newscasters. Whiskey stared.

“Still no leads on the slaying of a young homeless boy, Dominick Filardo. Filardo, who was fifteen years old, was beaten to death early Wednesday morning in the University District. He was a reported runaway at the time. Current theories range from a revenge killing or drug bust gone wrong. The police are urging anyone with any information to please call.” The newscaster gave a number, and the screen changed to a weather map. “Now to Hank with today’s forecast.”

Whiskey turned off the television. Before she could react, a nurse entered the room, barely noticing her. The woman went to the other bed, and chatted with the person there.

“And how are you this morning, Mrs. Draiman? Did you sleep well last night?”

“Surprisingly, yes. The doctor said my tests were inconclusive this morning?”

“I’m sorry to say.” The nurse fussed with some instruments. “I’ve come to get another blood sample from you. He’s got some more tests to run so we can pin down what’s wrong.”

Whiskey’s mouth watered, her senses focused on what happened on the other side of the curtain. She heard the rustling of cloth, the squeak of rubber, and the faint click of plastic on plastic as the nurse uncapped a syringe.

The odor undid her. Rich and thick and sweet, it called to her. She felt an odd sensation in her mouth. Running her tongue along her teeth, she came in contact with fangs where none had been before. The strangeness in her mouth distracted her from the activity beyond the curtain. She flopped into the chair by her bed, carefully exploring the new fangs with her tongue.

Oh, my God! Is this supposed to happen?

Her heart raced. She swallowed, returning her attention to the other half of the room. The nurse had left with her sample, but the smell of it still drifted in the air. Too faint for Human senses, it beckoned Whiskey. She swallowed again, noting her stomach didn’t rebel as it had the day before. Instead of cramping, it merely complained of a hunger she hadn’t assuaged.

The teeth wouldn’t go away. Adrenaline whisked through her as she considered they might not until she’d...fed. Her memory of being with Margaurethe, literally dining on the woman, brought her to her feet. She didn’t come to her senses until she was halfway across the room.

Stopping herself, Whiskey gaped at the old woman in the bed. What the hell was she doing? Her stomach growled louder in demand, and she imagined the feel of the flesh as her teeth pierced through. With a grunt, she turned away, stumbling to the door.

I have to get out of here. Now.

Whiskey slipped down the hall. Despite the hour, people bustled back and forth on important errands. Nurses went about their tasks, checking on patients. A pair of uniformed men delivered trays of food to each room, checking a clipboard as they went. Passing close to her, a doctor with a trail of interns rounded the corner and entered a room, looking very much like a mother duck and her ducklings. An elderly patient hobbled along with his IV stand as a walker. Two technicians loitered at the nurses’ station, flirting with a little blonde. The number of people helped hide Whiskey’s escape attempt; no one noticed her except one intern with an armload of medical files. “Waiting room’s over there. No visitors yet.”

She nodded, and kept walking, not trusting she could speak with the mountain of teeth in her mouth. Passing the indicated area, she headed for the elevator beyond.

“Jenna.”

Too quiet for Humans to hear, the whisper shouted at her. She spun around, eyes wide. Castillo stood in the doorway of the waiting area. Opening her mouth to speak, the fangs got in the way. She clapped her hands over her mouth, blushing as she realized she’d shown them to the padre, and anybody happening to look in her direction. She looked wildly around the area. Too absorbed in their activities, no one had noticed.