Still, her skin did nothing to hide the smirk she couldn't keep off her face. She went straight to her customary computer at the nurses’ station without looking directly at her friend.
"It was good," she said. "How has work been while I was away?"
"Fine," Lindsey replied slowly. "What's with the desk focus? Our first patient won't get here for an hour."
"Just a lot to catch up on, that's all," Wren replied as she fished her cell phone from her bag, checked the screen—no calls or texts—and put it to vibrate.
"That's bullshit and you know it," Lindsey remarked under her breath.
"It is not!" Wren laughed. Okay, it sort of was. But that wasn't the point. She turned and leaned a hip into the counter, staring at her friend and crossing her arms over her chest as if to say, “Fine. I'm looking at you. You happy now?”
Lindsey’s eyes narrowed. "You were up to no good on your days off," she said. Then one eyebrow rose. "Or it was very good."
Wren fought, but ultimately lost the battle to keep herself from grinning like a maniac. "Damn it," she hissed with a laugh as she turned back toward the desk.
Lindsey gasped with delight. "I knew it! You'll give me all the details over lunch, right?"
Wren took the stack of files in the inbox left over from the night before and sat them alongside her keyboard, then she plopped down into her chair before turning to Lindsey. "Absolutely not."
"You are the worst!" Lindsey exclaimed. "Just some of the details, then? You can't beam like that and give me nothing!"
Wren laughed, shook her head, and turned to her work once again.
In one grand movement, Lindsey pushed her rolling chair across the short distance that separated them. "You're glowing," she said, voice low and private. "Does it have to do with..." she paused as one of the medical assistants walked by. When she went on, her voice was lower. "You and the girlfriend?"
Wren appreciated Lindsey’s discretion. Not everyone she worked with knew she wasn't straight. Even fewer knew she had a girlfriend. None of them knew her girlfriend used to be a patient—including Lindsey. Only Dr. Mason, the cardiologist she used to work for, the cardiologist Bridgette still saw, knew that part of the story.
Wren glanced at Lindsey and rolled her eyes, but her smile gave it all away.
"Oh my god!" Lindsey gushed. "It's something big! Are you getting hitched? Who asked who?"
"We're not getting married," Wren laughed. Though, now that she thought of it... "It's nothing like that." She lifted the stack of files she'd sat on her desk, before. "Now I have to file these before rooming the first patient or I'll never get ahead of it today. And I will not be staying here late—I have much better things to be doing with my time."
"Like your girlfriend," Lindsey mumbled suggestively.
Wren choked a laugh as another MA walked into the nurses’ station. Then she composed her expression, turned to her computer, and began the day in earnest.
⫷⫸⫷⫸⫷⫸
Last appointment before lunch, Wren told herself as she led the way down the hall toward exam room seven for what felt like the hundredth time today.
One of the medical assistants had called in sick, so she was doing double duty for most of her patients. She didn't mind—they all had to cover for each other sometimes. It could just as easily be Wren who was sick next time, leaving the nurses short staffed. So she kept her low enthusiasm for rooming yet another patient to herself, slapped a smile on for each and every person she spoke to, and kept up the pace.
Not that it was hard to smile, knowing she was almost halfway through her shift, which meant she only had another six hours until she could go home—to Bridgette.
"Take a seat anywhere but the rolling stool," Wren said as she let Ms. Romero into the room ahead of her. Then she stepped in and closed the door behind her. "How has your wrist been since the cast was removed?"
She turned to find Ms. Romero sitting in one of the taupe side chairs along the wall.
"Very good," the woman, mid-sixties, replied. "Will the doctor let me start playing tennis again?"
"I can't say for certain," Wren replied. "I'll just ask you a quick list of questions, then I'll get the doctor and she can make the final call."
A knock at the exam room door interrupted whatever Ms. Romero had been about to say in response.
The doctor was running ten minutes behind—there was no way she was the one knocking on the door. Unless maybe she needed Wren to assist with a procedure?
Wren threw Ms. Romero an apologetic smile as she crossed the room. Then she cracked the door just far enough to stick her head out—only to find Lindsey standing on the other side of it.
She looked worried.
"What's up?" Wren asked, her brows furrowing in concern and question. Lindsey was normally pretty jovial. She'd never seen her look so stressed.
"Doctor Mason just called up," she replied. "He said he needs you in the ED. Now."
What the hell? Wren felt her brows quirk in question. What did her old boss need her for?
Her chest went cold.
Her old boss. Bridgette's doctor.
Wren shoved the chart she was holding into Lindsey’s hands. "Ms. Romero needs vitals." Then she walked into the hall on legs she couldn't feel.
Out of the orthopedic clinic on feet that carried her of their own volition.
The farther she walked, the faster she moved.
In the elevator, forced to stand still, Wren fished her cell phone from the pocket of her scrubs. No calls. No texts. With numb fingers she brought up Bridgette's number and hit send.
It was ringing in her ear by the time the elevator doors opened into the Emergency Department.
Bridgette had a heavy metal song Wren hated as her ring tone. It had started as a joke, but then it had stuck. Bridgette had kept it, almost as though she'd forgotten to ever change the damn thing.
Wren had never hated that song more than when she heard it across the ED, coming from a bay for patients in critical condition.
"Bridge?" She didn't recognize her own voice. Her chest was cold.
Wren's feet were carrying her across the floor, straight through the nurses’ station that sat like an island in the middle of the department, on a direct line to that glassed-in room. To the white curtain, printed with brush strokes of greens and purples, pulled across the open door.
"Where is that music coming from?" she heard someone within the room ask when she was steps away.
"It must be her phone," another replied.
Wren didn't remember reaching forward. Didn't remember pulling the curtain aside.
But then Dr. Mason was in front of her, stepping out from behind the curtain and closing it behind him.
"Wren. I know she'd want you here, but I can't let you go in just yet," he said. "Let them finish up."
Wren tried to look around him but he stepped into her line of sight. "What happened?"
"Her ICD failed," he replied but she could barely hear him. The sound of rushing water had filled her ears. "She was driving but managed to pull off the road. She must have felt it coming."
Wren’s head was shaking though she wasn't telling it to. "No. No, you aren't—" That's not what he was saying.
He wasn't saying...
He lifted his hand to lay it on her shoulder, but Wren knew that gesture.
And she didn't want it.
She yanked herself away before he could make contact.
This wasn't happening.
This couldn't happen.
"Wren, I'm so sorry. I know you were close."
Close? Close wasn’t the right word for it. Bridgette was her match. They were a pair. Bridgette was her future. "We're more than close. You know that. What are you—?"
His expression was one of professional patience. An expression she recognized, just like she'd recognized his attempt at connection, before.
Her head was shaking again. This could not be happening.
Don't say it, she thought
at him.
Don't you fucking say it.
"It's important you know, all signs point to it having been peaceful," he said. "Like falling asleep."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Callum craned his head back to get the final drop of beer from the bottle he held between his fingers, his head swimming gently. He was alone at the house, free to drink as much beer as he damned well pleased while Scott was at work, and he was exercising that freedom today, thank you very much.
Yeah, it was Wednesday. So what?
The first two days of the week had sucked. So much so that when Callum had crawled out of bed this morning, he hadn't been able to make himself leave the house. The thought of facing that goddamned Shadow was more than he could handle. So instead, he'd pulled the twelver of beer he hadn't been willing to throw away when Scott had gone clean two years ago from the back of his closet and stuck it in the fridge.
And he was on a mission to finish them before Scott got home.
Not that Scott would actually be pissed. Nor would he be tempted—alcohol had never been his downer of choice—but that wasn't the point.
So, here Callum was at one o'clock in the afternoon, drinking his seventh beer and pretty solidly buzzed.
He stood from the sofa and headed for the garbage with his bottle. His legs were wobblier than he expected.
Okay, maybe buzzed was not quite the right description.
He was probably drunk.
Since when did seven beers get him drunk?
Welp, might as well keep going, he thought as he headed for the fridge. Not like there was anything waiting for him outside. He had nowhere to be, and nothing to do.
Not entirely true, but at this point it was totally accurate.
He was safe and sound in his house, where all of the runes and sigils painted around it kept him invisible to the other side. Which was, apparently, the only way he was going to get any kind of peace anymore.
He hadn't been able to go anywhere, or do anything since Saturday without that Shadow tailing him. At first, it had been the quiet-lurking routine. On Monday it had turned the coffee shop where Callum had a meeting with a new client into an icebox. It had gotten so bad that one of the baristas had actually called a repair guy to come look at the air conditioner. Luckily, Callum had managed to get through the meeting despite his freezing fingers.
On Tuesday, irritated by the Shadow's very presence, and growing more and more convinced that he was on a one-way street to alone-and-committed, Callum had become a walking black cloud—which only gave the Shadow more energy to pull from. Rhia’s presence hadn’t been any help in getting it to stop following them except for the couple of times she’d turned and gone full attack mode on the thing—but she couldn’t exactly do that in a grocery store, so Callum had been forced to endure the Shadow’s lurking as he’d done his errands. By mid-day, it had had a heyday with a display of potato chips at the grocery store, sending bags flying in a grand eruption as Callum walked by.
Then the real fun had started.
After being trailed through the store, watching people shiver and pull their jackets closed, or ask their companion where that draft was coming from in every aisle, and after picking up at least twenty separate items that had randomly fallen from shelves near him while he'd shopped, Callum took his items up to the check-stand with Rhia by his side. He was exhausted and annoyed as hell, so by the time he was facing the guy at the cash register, he so wasn't in the mood for polite conversation. But, as societal norms dictated, he put on his best friendly-shopper smile and looked up to return the employee's greeting.
The Shadow was hovering behind the kid, pushing forward then fading back by inches, getting closer and closer to the clerk with each press.
"Should I do it?" the gravel voice hissed.
Rhia’s growl was long a low, and all the more menacing for the quietness of it.
But Callum couldn't respond. Even if he didn't care about this poor kid working the cash register and what he thought, he couldn't respond to the Shadow. Acknowledging it was bad enough—speaking to it was the worst thing he could possibly do.
So he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on his wallet as a shard splintered off from the shadowed torso. Rhia barked and Callum looked up in time to see it reach forward, but without enough time to do anything. The Shadow speared the kid through the back.
Callum knew he'd never forget the way the guy's back arched, the way his face lost all its color before he spun and crumpled to the ground.
He didn't die. The Shadow wasn't solid, it hadn't broken the skin when it stabbed him. But he'd been scrambled, shaking with cold and incoherent, his eyes glassy and wild when Callum darted around the counter and yelled for help.
Other employees had come running, an ambulance had been called. Callum had told them what he'd seen—everything except the important parts, everything except the Shadow. Which meant he hadn't been able to tell the kid to go home, take a hot shower, and go to bed. That he'd be fine after twelve hours or so.
So instead, he'd watched them pack the kid into an ambulance, knowing all he'd have for it was a bunch of normal test results and a hospital bill he likely couldn't afford.
Callum had been so fucked up over the whole thing he'd broken his own rule as he beat feet out to his car after the ambulance had pulled away.
"Not fucking cool," he hissed under his breath. "You fuck with me, fine. You don't bring other people into it."
The Shadow had just chuckled, the sound like crunching gravel instead of any real laughter.
The shitty thing was Callum knew the whole thing was his fault. The only reason the Shadow had been able to lower the temp in the coffee shop on Monday, or knock shit off shelves and hurt another person on Tuesday was that Callum wasn't doing his job. He wasn't keeping the veil closed. He wasn't keeping his emotions in check. And that meant he was giving the Shadow power. When he spoke to him, he might as well have put him in the driver's seat.
He had to let go of all this shit with Zander and his mom and everything else so his energy could skew positive again. Then he needed to regain his ability to shut out the world so he could go back to ignoring the Shadow completely.
Basically, he needed a fast track, get-over-yourself kick in the ass.
Cue the alcohol.
Callum was standing in the kitchen with a fresh bottle of beer to his lips when he heard the key in the lock. He swallowed down his latest sip, closed the refrigerator door and crossed into the front room as Scott pushed his way through the front door. He stopped mid-step like he was surprised to find anybody home.
In the middle of the day.
On a Wednesday.
Go figure.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Scott asked as he tossed his keys on the table by the door.
"I work from home, remember?"
"Not on Wednesdays," Scott replied. "You go to the library on Wednesdays."
"I took the day off," Callum said.
"You just signed a new client last week."
"And?"
Scott just stared at him. So Callum took a sip of the beer he'd been holding down by his side.
"How drunk are you?" Scott asked.
"Not at all. Very." Callum caught himself. "Not very at all."
Scott's brows rose above his glasses and, for a second, Callum worried he was about to get a lecture. But then Scott laughed under his breath as he headed for the kitchen. "Okay. Well, I'm just home for lunch. You wanna go grab a bite somewhere? I bet Burrito Mary's is open."
Oh my god, Burrito Mary's was the best idea Callum had ever heard! He almost said yes. He opened his mouth—and then remembered why he was staying home to begin with. Damn it. "Nah. I'm good."
Scott's brow furrowed. "You love a burrito when you're drunk. What's doing?"
Callum gave a shrug. "I'm doing the introvert thing today."
"No. You're doing the avoiding-something thing today," Scott countered calmly. "Seriously, what's up? Spill it."
Now Scott's expression was all concern and question. "It's still following you?"
"Like a lost fucking puppy," Callum sighed, then looked to Rhia, who'd lifted her head where she was lying on her dog bed in the living room. "No offense."
She snuffled her forgiveness and laid her head back down with a sigh.
"Is that weird?" Scott asked, opening the fridge and peering inside, likely looking for something to eat.
"Very," Callum replied. He flopped down onto the sofa, careful not to let his beer slosh. "I've encountered angry spirits, before.” There was even that time he’d been visited by the spirit of a guy who was clearly trying to exact revenge on someone he’d known in life and thought he could get Callum to exact it for him. Ugh, that had been a mess. “But they never stick around. It's like I'm this fucker’s favorite or something." Callum chose not to go into how his own failure to ignore the thing had made this all so much worse.
"Well, don't you feel honored," Scott remarked, his upper half hidden behind the refrigerator door. He stood, suddenly appearing with a quizzical expression. "Is that your eighth beer?"
Callum froze for a second, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. "Yeah. Why?"
"Holy shit, dude. It's only two in the afternoon. When did you start drinking?"
"Eleven or so. I had to wait for them to get cold."
Scott rolled his eyes and ducked back into the fridge. A moment later, he came out holding a take-out container of leftovers. "I get needing a break. Just remember to give your liver a break too, k?" he said as he dumped the leftovers into a bowl.
Callum's response was to raise his beer and take another drink.
A minute later, Scott reappeared, holding a freshly microwaved, steaming bowl of Chinese food. "So what about that cloak—sorry, Zander?" His smile and tone turned all kinds of suggestive. "Seems like the two of you were getting along just fine the other night. Can't you get a break by hanging with her?"
The Cloak's Shadow Page 14
