by Vivian Shaw
No one else had had multiple instances of the fainting episodes. She had given orders that every mummy who had experienced it at all was to be on bed rest or in a wheelchair until they figured out what the hell was going on; she didn’t want to have to spend another eight hours repairing someone who had collapsed and broken parts of themselves into powder.
She hurt all over. Her neck and the base of her skull were tight with a tension headache; the small of her back ached like a rotten tooth, her feet throbbed. The smell of resin and hot bone from the Stryker saw seemed to have coated the insides of her air passages with a thin but tenacious film.
Greta watched as the nurses wheeled Maanakhtef away, still under Tefnakhte’s spell. He’d be under constant observation until he woke, and she was going to insist that a nurse stay with him for at least the next twelve hours. She stripped off her gloves, pulled the surgical cap off and shook out her hair, lank and limp, and tried to crack her neck.
She still didn’t know what was happening.
That was the worst of this. Much worse than the work. Much worse than the difficulty of the work itself. The fact that she simply had no idea what was happening, and could not stop it, was absolutely worse than every other aspect of the situation.
At least Maanakhtef was stable, and no one else seemed to have gone into crisis while she was working. Greta thought she could maybe catch an hour or two of sleep, and make up for the rest of it with coffee, before going back to work; by her watch it was getting on for eight in the morning. She should call Varney back, let him know what was happening, tell him not to come over until she had a handle on the problem. She should call Ed in Cairo and tell him, too, and ask for his help, and that would be a great deal worse than talking to Varney; Ed might have to leave what he was doing and come back here because the person he’d left in charge had no fucking clue what she was up to and he’d clearly picked the wrong doctor to run the place…
Oh, shut up, she thought tiredly, turning off the overhead lights. There were still tiny scraps of linen wrappings all over the operating table, and they hurt to look at. You aren’t incompetent. You’re just—currently unable to figure this out, that’s all.
It comes to the same thing.
She tossed her discarded gloves and mask and cap into the trash and left the operating theater, shuffling like an old woman, her back and shoulders one solid chunk of pain. Passing through the hallways took much longer than it should, but at last she found herself back at her personal quarters, and had to remind herself how to unlock the door. She’d just—fall over, for a little while, on the bed, and then get back to business. Yeah. That was the ticket, all right.
“Dr. Helsing,” said the loudspeaker. “Dr. Helsing, there’s a phone call for you.”
It was probably Ed calling to ask what the fuck she was doing and why she hadn’t figured it out yet. Greta stared blankly at the wall for a moment before hauling herself up off the bed and crossing the room to pick up the handset.
“Ed?” she said. “I’m so sorry—”
“Greta,” said a voice she hadn’t heard in a while. “Greta, I need you.”
“Grisaille?” She sat down on the edge of the bed again, blinking. “What—”
“It’s Ruthven,” he said. Even over the phone the aching worry was very audible. “He’s—he’s not well, I didn’t know what to do so I tried to call your clinic and they said you were away in France for four months and I finally got whoever it was to give me the number for this place and I need you, Greta, he’s—he’s very bad.”
“What happened?” Everything had gone cold and clear and slow. She could still feel how much she hurt; she just didn’t care.
“He’s—he says it’s migraines but I’ve never ever seen anyone this sick with them, he’s had three in a row now and he can’t see and he’s been vomiting for hours and the pain is—excruciating to watch, let alone experience—”
“Wait,” she said. “Back up. Tell me how it started.”
“Out of nowhere,” said Grisaille. “He was fine and then he wasn’t fine at all, and it went away so I thought he was going to be all right and then he was very much not—and it’s getting worse.”
“Are his pupils even?” she asked sharply.
“I think so?” he said, sounding miserable. “It hurts him so much to open his eyes, though—the light is painful when he can see at all—”
“Any weakness down one side or the other? Can he stand up?”
“No, and yes, but it hurts more?”
“Where are you?”
“Still in Rome,” said Grisaille. “He said he didn’t want to go home, but—that was yesterday and it’s worse now and I don’t know what to do, I’ve never seen anyone like this—”
She closed her eyes tight. “You’re going to get him here, is what you’re going to do. You can’t take him to a hospital, even a completely idiotic doctor would notice he’s not alive, but I need to see what’s going on inside his skull. This place has the best imaging suite I’ve ever seen, and I’m the medical director for the moment so I can admit a non-mummy patient if I want to. I don’t care how you manage it, Grisaille, I have every confidence that you can get him here, and rapidly.”
“Is it—do vampires get brain tumors, is that a thing that happens—”
“I don’t know,” said Greta, “but we have to find out. Throw money at the problem. He’s got more of it than God; you can undoubtedly get hold of some of it. Just get him here, as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” he said, still sounding miserable and shaken but less lost. “I can—do that. Somehow.”
“Good. Call me when you land in Marseille and I’ll come down with the helicopter.”
“You have a helicopter?”
“This place has everything,” Greta said. “Including our own problems, but right now I want him here where I can see him. I’m going to call Varney and tell him what’s going on.”
She needed him. She’d been going to tell him to stay put, not to come over here until she had a handle on what was happening; but now, with another crisis looming over her head, Greta very desperately wanted Varney there with her, if only to reassure her that he wasn’t mysteriously indisposed.
The trees in Central Park blazed under a clear autumn sky, vermilion and flame-yellow and bronze, reflected in the mirror-flat surface of the lake; and halfway across the elegant understated arch of the Bow Bridge, two angels were having their hair and makeup touched up mid-photo-shoot.
Amitiel and Zophiel held blankly still under the brushes and sprays, as expressionless and perfect as marble statues. They were wearing about thirty thousand dollars’ worth of clothes and accessories between them, and this was only the second wardrobe change of the afternoon.
Only once had Amitiel forgotten about the wings. Their mortal seeming wasn’t quite infallible; they had to put a little effort into making sure their reflections were consistent with the disguise, and earlier he had forgotten briefly. Fortunately, the only person who happened to be looking at his reflection in the lake at the time had been a young man on the shore whose bloodstream was full of enough chemicals to make the idea of a white-winged seraph in Central Park appear perfectly understandable. Still, Zophiel worried.
They were so close now. So close. Both of them had felt it the last time the woman used the spell they had planted for her to find—that had been a significant level of mirabilic flux—and both of them knew it would not take so very much more of that to reach their goal, but they could not afford mistakes. Not now. It was not certain enough that the woman’s sin of vanity would prompt her to use the spell enough times to cause the level of damage they required. And they could not return home with their mission half-completed; without that weakening of the border between worlds, the Archangel Michael of their Heaven could not hope to lead his army to invade and destroy the blasphemous creatures posing as angels on this side. It was up to them, a great and terrible responsibility to prepare the way for their Host; they had
been vastly honored by the Council of Archangels with such an assignment, and Zophiel could not imagine failing to complete it as instructed.
Amitiel had seemed a little happier after the encounter with the abomination in Rome. That was good. All Zophiel had to do now was make sure nothing went wrong.
“Okay, darlings, let’s get going here, give me fierce but vulnerable, all right? Sell it. Make me believe.”
With uncanny grace, they took up their poses as the camera began its frantic clicking, and—not for the first time—the photographer thought to herself, How the hell are they so fucking good?
The first time Sir Francis Varney had ever flown had been to Paris, to rescue Greta, back in the spring, although she had turned out to be largely self-rescuing; this time, he thought as the plane made the long slow turn into the sunset for the approach into Marseille, he didn’t know if rescue was precisely the term. It wasn’t Greta herself in dire straits, precisely. It was—well, everyone else.
She’d sounded quite calm on the phone, but Varney recognized that particular tone: it was okay, we’re in a very bad situation, here’s what needs to be done—and he knew she’d be able to keep that up for quite some time, before the inevitable crash.
The box in his pocket felt slightly absurd, under the circumstances; one of their dearest friends was desperately ill, some unknown malady was attacking Greta’s patients, and here he was showing up on her doorstep with an engagement ring in hand, as if anything about him mattered—
Varney closed his hands around the ends of the armrests firmly, and reminded himself that wallowing in his own melancholia was something of a luxury they could not necessarily afford just at the moment. The cabin tilted slightly as the pilot began the landing flare, and he was grateful for the distraction.
In the terminal he called her from one of the lounges, watching the last of the light fade from sea and sky, and received instructions. Grisaille had thralled someone into flying him and Ruthven the three-hundred-something miles from Rome, or possibly just chartered a plane, Greta wasn’t quite sure and didn’t care, but they were due to land in half an hour and Varney was to meet them and Greta, arriving separately in the helicopter.
“Of course,” he said, and slipped his hand into his pocket, touched the ring box. “I wish there was more I could do.”
“That’s plenty,” she told him. “Grisaille is understandably extremely upset and scared, and he’ll need someone trustworthy there to help—and comfort. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have with them right now.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You’re immensely reassuring when you want to be, and excellent in a crisis. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you soon.”
“I love you,” he said, wincing at how young it sounded when he said it.
“I love you back,” said Greta, and hung up.
He had been told about Ruthven’s condition, but nothing could have prepared Varney for the sight of him in a wheelchair, being rolled across the tarmac by a woman in the airport’s flight services uniform, with Grisaille hurrying alongside. Ruthven was not white but grey and sweating, half his face hidden behind huge sunglasses that didn’t conceal the twisted expression of agony. He was breathing in ragged gasps between his teeth, lips white and drawn back. The fangs were very evident.
Varney’s first thought was he won’t even make it to the spa, quickly followed by what the hell is wrong with him? Aloud he said, “Edmund, Grisaille, Greta’s on her way,” hurrying over.
Grisaille was an unpleasant ashy color himself. Varney could see the whites all the way around his red irises. “She has to fix him, Varney,” he said, his voice not quite steady. “She has to fix him, he can’t stand much more of this—”
“She will,” said Varney. “If she can, she will.”
He had never in his life been gladder to hear the thudding of a helicopter’s blades approaching. It came down fast, faster than he had expected, the rotor wash blasting them with stinging force, and almost before it had touched down—a great sandy-gold thing, with the spa’s logo on its side—Greta was jumping out and running toward them, bag in hand.
Varney was very grateful that only he caught the brief horrified look on her face; it was there only for a moment, and then gone as if it had never been, replaced with her calm clinician’s expression as she came up to them. She’d raised her hands to her neck to grab the stethoscope, but clearly decided not to bother, simply bending over the chair.
“Edmund, it’s me,” she said, taking Ruthven’s hand and gasping slightly as he squeezed her bones together in a tight grip. “I’m here, I’ve got you now. We’re going to fly back to the spa and I will find out what’s wrong and do everything I can to make it stop, all right?”
He didn’t nod—Varney thought moving his head must make it worse, if that was possible—but Greta gave another little gasp as his fingers tightened briefly and let go. “Help me with him,” she said to Varney and Grisaille, and, “Thank you, that’s everything,” to the airport services woman, whose dealing-with-rich-customers expression was much the worse for wear. Together Varney and Grisaille lifted Ruthven from the chair and carried him to the waiting helicopter, and Varney was only mildly surprised to find the thing was kitted out as an ambulance inside, complete with gurney and banks of monitoring equipment, crates of supplies. Greta nodded for them to set him down on the stretcher.
“Carefully. Very carefully. I know moving makes it hurt worse, Edmund, but you need to lie down. The rest of you strap in. Raoul, get us out of here as soon as you get clearance, expedite.”
The pilot flashed her a thumbs-up, and Varney watched as Greta went through a rapid examination; winced when she took off the huge dark glasses to reveal Ruthven’s eyes squeezed shut, the delicate skin stained violet with exhaustion and pain, winced more when he opened them at Greta’s request and made a helpless little noise through his teeth, just a rag of sound. Whatever she saw seemed to reassure her somewhat, though, and by the time the helicopter lifted off, she was already starting a line in Ruthven’s arm, clear fluid in a snaking tube, keeping both herself and her patient perfectly steady as the cabin around them shifted.
Varney glanced over at Grisaille, and wished he hadn’t. The expression on his face hurt to see: it was the terrible misery of someone watching their loved one in pain and being completely unable to help in any way. He wanted to say something reassuring, but—despite his beautiful voice, the most appealing thing about him by all accounts—for once, Varney had no words at all to give.
CHAPTER 7
Swallowing hard as the helicopter tilted, carrying them away and up into the mountains, Grisaille had had a very horrible moment of thinking, If this is the exciting world of interpersonal relationships, I should have stayed the livid hell away from it, and immediately afterward, I am a terrible person.
Not that that’s news, he thought bitterly now, pacing back and forth in the pleasantly appointed waiting room, arms folded tightly. It had been a very long day; it had, in fact, been part of the previous day as well. He couldn’t remember exactly when he’d last not been worried.
Ruthven had slept, as he had foretold, and woken not magically restored to health but curled up in agonized dry-heaving, clutching at his skull and making noises Grisaille would very much rather not remember. The worst of the nausea seemed to subside, but the pain had continued, and Grisaille had registered with a kind of anguished fury that Ruthven couldn’t see him at all; couldn’t see anything but glittering, sickening, sliding patterns behind his eyes.
He’d called Greta. And as soon as he’d gotten off the phone with her, he had called a friend of his, who had called another friend, who had arranged it that when he got Ruthven to the Rome airport, they were taken directly to a tiny Cessna; and he absolutely did not want to remember that hour and a half in the air with Ruthven making small horrible choked sounds of pain against his shoulder.
As soon as they had landed at Oasis Natrun, there had been a phalanx of whi
te-clad nurses waiting for them, and with Greta holding up the bag of whatever she’d been dripping into Ruthven’s veins, the group of them had lifted the gurney out of the helicopter and hurried him inside, leaving Varney and Grisaille to trail behind. He’d demanded to be told what was happening, and a nurse who’d stayed behind had not told him anything reassuring whatsoever. The waiting room was pleasantly designed and furnished. Grisaille hated it on sight.
“What the hell is taking so long?” he demanded for the second time. He could tell very clearly that Varney was hideously uncomfortable, sitting upright in one of the chairs, and wished the vampyre would just fuck off and let him pace alone.
“The scans do take time, sir,” said the remaining nurse, looking up from his clipboard. “Dr. Helsing and the team will tell us as soon as we have results.”
“What are they doing to him?”
“It’s a spiral CT scan,” said the nurse. “That’s computed tomography, a kind of X-ray—”
“I know what it is,” Grisaille snapped. “How is it taking this long?”
“Sir,” said the nurse, “it’s been half an hour. I understand your concern, but please try to be patient. Mr. Ruthven is in excellent hands.”
Grisaille made himself sit down by the force of will alone, and stared at the carpet, trying to think of something—anything—to distract himself. Song lyrics. The entire roster of the coven he’d been running with in Paris, including the truly stupid made-up names. The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain. The catalog of Ruthven’s gorgeous embroidered dressing gowns, all twelve of them, the first thing of his that Grisaille had worn, back in the beginning, a delicious shiver of intimacy—
It was no use. He was up on his feet again and pacing, wanting very much to put his fist through the tastefully painted wall, which wouldn’t help, either, but might relieve his feelings slightly.
Grisaille had no idea how much time had passed when behind him Varney cleared his throat. “Could you tell me a little more about how it began?”
