A man lumbered out. He’d been making a deposit on his scotch belly, judging by his breath. “What’re you selling?” he asked.
“I’m looking for a dining room set. A guy brought it by last week. He said I could still buy it back?”
The proprietor stared up at the ceiling for a moment, ignoring me. I followed his gaze, expecting to see a security camera, but found a diligent spider instead. “Fucking exterminator—”
“My table? And four chairs? Wood, metal, and glass?” I gestured to indicate the space they might have taken up, were they still in my possession. “Carved legs?”
“Yeah—sorry. They were nice. Sold fast,” he answered, squinting at the spider like his eyes could shoot lasers.
“But—they were mine!”
“Sorry.”
“But—they—” I stuttered.
“Talk to the police, file a report. I’ll tell them what he looked like.” The man shrugged, making his wife beater dance over his heavily furred chest.
I inhaled to protest and then sighed in defeat. Fucking Jake was what I wanted to say, but “Damn” came out instead. I looked around—nothing else here came near what I’d had before, either in quality or size. I’d purchased that set back in the real nursing days, before the minuscule paychecks of Y4 began. I turned to leave, and then—my eyes spotted something familiar on the lower shelf of a grimy glass case. A CD player. Almost exactly like Shawn’s. “How much is that?”
He bent with a grunt to unlock the case and fish out the plastic clamshell. “Five dollars.”
I glared at him. “You sold my dining room set.”
“Two fifty.”
“Does it even work?”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course.”
“Prove it.”
“Prove it yourself,” he said, shoving it across to me.
I held up empty hands. “I don’t have a CD. And you sold my things.”
“Fine, whatever.” He lifted his hands and made a shoving motion toward me. “Take it. Go.”
* * *
I drove my preternaturally awake self back to the hospital, slung my badge back on, and went back up to the pedi floor. I walked through the day shift nurses without question, back to beds sixty-two and sixty-three, their rooms strangely quiet without any German.
“Hey, Shawn!” I said from the doorway. His eyes flickered in my direction. The day shift nurse was nowhere to be seen, but there was a professionally dressed woman sitting by Shawn’s side of the bed.
“And you are?” she asked, her tone as sensible as her heels.
“I was his night shift nurse. His CD player got broken—I came to replace it.” I lifted the dusty one out of my bag. “Who’re you?” I asked, as she fished a CD out of his nightstand.
“His mother.” She gave me a glare. “Don’t you people ever read the chart?”
Don’t you people ever wear visitor badges? I wanted to say—and then I remembered that Shawn’d said his mother was dead. I gave him an accusing look and he forced a grin.
“You are trouble!” I told him.
“Come here—” he whispered.
I leaned over, one hand pressing my collar to my chest.
“Closer.”
I got so close my ear almost touched his lip.
“What was it?” he hissed around his uncuffed trach. “Last night. What was it?”
I rocked back a bit. He wasn’t supposed to remember anything. The Shadows were supposed to take care of things. Of everything. I looked down at him. “It was just a bad dream. That’s all. It’s taken care of, honest.” His eyes were wide and earnest, and I could tell he didn’t believe me. Luckily for me, no one would ever believe him.
“Well,” his mother said, breaking up our moment. “I appreciate your sentiment, Nurse—” Her eyes found my badge. “Nurse Spence. But this CD player seems to be nonoperational.” She popped her CD out and then handed me the player.
“Oh.” I took it and shook it some. “Maybe you should—” I offered it back.
“I’m getting him an MP3 player,” she said, then looked away, much as the pawnshop man had. I inhaled to say more, but I knew from her expression that I’d already been dismissed.
I glanced down at Shawn, first trapped in the bed, and now trapped with his memories. “Sorry, buddy.” I saluted him with the CD player in one hand, and walked out the door.
* * *
As soon as I sat down in my car, fatigue fell on me like a cloak. I put the CD player in the passenger seat beside me. For a second, I thought I saw its power button flicker on. I stared at it, entranced in my exhaustion. Hoping that it would come on was the only thing stopping me from crying.
Behind me, a car that had stalked me to my parking spot gave up on being polite and honked. I started, looked at the man gesticulating wildly behind me in my rearview, and found my ignition with my keys.
Before I could turn the engine over he honked again. And when my cold engine didn’t take, he honked a third time.
“Look, guy, unless your wife is in your backseat giving birth—just give me a break, will you?” I said. I sniffled in a huge breath to hold so I wouldn’t start bawling. Who could I call to get me at this time of day? Everyone I knew was busy working, or busy sleeping, I couldn’t afford a tow truck, and I sure as hell didn’t have Triple A. “Come on.” A twist, a cough, then silence. Then, honking. “Please. Please,” I implored my car, the asshole behind me, and the universe at large, turning the key one more time.
Grandfather spoke up beside me, and my engine sputtered to life. I sagged forward in relief, pressing my head onto my steering wheel. The guy behind me honked again. “Schädel in Bechern!” Grandfather exclaimed.
“I hope you’re cursing him out in German, Grandfather.” Grandfather kept talking as I reversed out of my spot. The incoming visitor zipped past me with only an inch to spare. I flipped him off and then I wound through the rest of the parking lot. When I hit the highway, I picked up the CD player and held it to my chest as it talked, letting it comfort me like a purring cat.
* * *
I scheduled myself for an STD exam when I got up that afternoon, for eight A.M. the next morning. It was embarrassing to call in to the County’s own employee health clinic for that, under my real name no less, but I consoled myself with the fact that at least it was free.
I still had one night off. Instead of picking up an extra shift, I opted to go back to the club.
It wasn’t the scientifically sound idea, but I had some questions that needed answers. Namely, if I’d accidentally slept with a syphilitic were-dragon. I found myself envying normal people more and more.
So I went downtown, looking plain and feeling wrung out, to make a round of the club. It was Friday and the place was packed, everyone ready to get their groove on but me. I looked everywhere but the men’s restroom and was about to give up. It’d been a stupid idea to begin with. I wove for the door around the edge of the dance floor, envious of the people dancing upon it like they had no cares.
“Well, hello there,” said an achingly familiar British voice from behind me. I turned.
It was him! I’d almost physically run into him. It’d have been cosmically laughable if I’d seen it on TV. As it was, I exhaled in deep relief.
“You’re not a dragon!” Sure, I might have other STDs—bad Edie, impulsive Edie—but at least I could scratch were-syphilis off the list.
“Not last I checked, no.” His eyebrows rose. I looked past him at the glamorous woman standing behind him. I couldn’t tell if she’d come in with him or was just making time, but she seemed distinctly peeved.
“Um, anyhow, nice to see you again,” I said, waving from the hip. I tried to walk backward, but found myself trapped by the crowd.
“Hey—” He reached out and caught my hand again, and again seemed surprised by the skin-on-skin contact. I could almost see the emotions flicker over his face as he tried to figure out what to say next. “I still owe you.”
“What?
” I pulled my hand back a little, but not much.
He took a step nearer to me, taller, the scent of vetiver strong between us, even here. He bent his head down to put his lips by my ear. “I owe you,” he enunciated, with his lovely accent, his breath warm against my skin.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I told him. The woman behind him, blond, lean, high-breasted—the look on her face said she was going to owe me an eye-gouging in a second, if I didn’t get the hell away.
He pulled his head away from my ear, and addressed me directly. “The other night. I owe you. And I don’t like having debts.”
“Oh? Oh!” Light finally dawned, and I flushed red, from my head to my toes, glad for the camouflage of the club’s surreal light show all around me. I’d never had a man try to cash in on an orgasm debt before.
“So, may I repay you?” he asked, a light smile playing on his lips. It became a wolfish leer that was not at all unattractive.
“Thanks, but—” I glanced over his shoulder.
He turned toward the woman. I didn’t hear what he said, or see what expression he’d said it with, but almost instantly she bowed her head and melted away into the crowd. The brief noninstant part was occupied with staring daggers at me.
“I’m Edie,” I said, putting out my other hand when he returned his attention to me. He released my hand and shook the other.
“I’m Asher.”
“Nice to meet you, Asher.” I smiled and gave a goofy curtsy. With his accent, it seemed appropriate, after all.
Asher returned with a slight bow and offered me his hand. “Dearest Edie,” he said with exaggerated formality, “it will be lovely to take you home.”
Chapter Seventeen
I made sure I got some sleep before getting up for my employee health clinic appointment the next morning, sitting with others in the drab waiting room on a hard plastic chair. I was the only employee I recognized, and I hoped it stayed that way.
Obviously Asher hadn’t been the were-dragon, and obviously a lot of things that I might have gotten from him wouldn’t be testable yet, but I felt compelled to keep the appointment anyhow. It was always good to know your baseline. We’d used condoms the night before and Asher hadn’t questioned me about the change.
He’d also made sure I’d been repaid. With interest. Which was nice. But really, it was one thing to go home with a girl like me on a Wednesday, and something entirely other to choose me over that woman on a Friday night. It didn’t feel right. I hadn’t expressed this to him, as I did have some pride that even my occasionally scrupulous honesty could not cure me of, but I’d made it clear to him that I didn’t believe in an orgasm credit plan. Asher had foisted his phone number onto me regardless. The responsible nurse in me had felt compelled to take it, just in case anything came back positive today.
Trapped in the waiting room, I could see his number in my mind’s eye, pinned to my fridge with a magnet. I tried to imagine having a good reason to call, one that didn’t involve reporting test results to him, one that somehow resolved into us going on an actual date.
The door to the back office opened, and thankfully a nurse I didn’t know leaned out. “Edie Spence?” she read from a folder in front of her.
“That’s me.” I stood, straightened my shirt, and followed her in.
* * *
I spent the rest of the day in bed, trying to sleep up ahead of my night. As I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, it should have been easy, but anytime I slept I had nightmares about oceans, either real ones or ones made of tarry black. And when I was awake in between dreams I kept thinking about Asher’s number, and when and/or if I ought to call. Minnie wasn’t helping—her paws seemed to have organ-seeking powers and she paced across me at least once an hour. Like so many afternoons/evenings before, right after I began to feel like I was getting real sleep at last, my alarm went off, and it was time to go in.
“You’re extra help tonight,” Meaty said as I walked in the door.
“Really?” I said, surprised. “I mean—sure thing!”
Meaty grinned at me. “The action’s in room four. Hold down the fort out here, and we’ll call you when we need you.”
I stood a bit taller behind the nursing station. This was an amazing turn of events. I was being trusted with the entire floor. You didn’t get to be extra help nurse without actually being known as helpful. Meaty was in room four with Charles doing something—most likely talking to all the visitors that I could see in the room from here—and Gina was around the corner with her patients. It was just me and the charge desk. I sat down and felt downright official.
“I’m in charge, I’m in charge,” I sang to myself. “Meaty’s goooone, so I’m in charrrrge.” I heard a snicker from the were-corrals. “I’m in charge of Gina tooooo,” I continued, and there was an outright laugh.
There were labs to be ordered, and carts to be refilled—I tried to do whatever I remembered seeing Meaty do, industriously. This took about thirty minutes. “Need any help, Gina?” I called out, when all the carts were full.
“Not yet. Thanks!” she called back.
“Well, then.” I straightened my lanyard like a tie. And then my badge began to glow.
Oh, no. I looked around.
There was a kid in the doorway of room four, staring at me like a creepy kid from any number of Japanese horror films. He had a dark suit on, cut perfectly for his four-foot-nothing form, shined shoes, and a bow tie. I waved. “Did you need something?” I asked, hopefully. He continued to stare.
A Persian woman poked her head out, luscious dark hair bound up high atop her head. She looked at the boy, then me, and then smiled.
“Gaius, she is protected, she cannot hear you.” The boy stared up at her and she patted his shoulder. “Go on, tell her what you want.”
He—Gaius—opened up his mouth to speak, with no sound. How long had it been since he’d had to talk? “I—I would like a glass of water,” he stammered.
I grinned at him, and rose. “Ice, or no ice?”
“Ice. Please.”
“No problem.” I went to go get ice water, and when I came back I peeked into room four.
Room four was one of the bigger rooms, by about a ten-by-ten area—our ward was curved, and it was on the bend. There was a crowd in the room, milling quietly between several gleaming IV poles. All of them were dressed upscale casual, like they’d just stepped away from business lunches that might have taken place at a luxury golf course. All of them were also completely ignoring me. I’d have said something, about them or to them—visitors were supposed to be only two at a time—but I could hear the whoosh-click, whoosh-click of all the IV pumps strapped onto their poles running at full blast.
Overhead—dear God. We did tons of transfusions here, our patients being who they were. But I’d never seen a transfusion of such magnitude. There were twenty blood bags hanging from sky hooks on the ceiling, the pumps shuttling their contents at full speed into the patient on the bed. I couldn’t see the recipient yet through the crowd but it looked serious. I knocked on the door for attention— “Should I call the doctor?”
The visitors nearest me started visibly. Meaty looked over to me from the patient’s shoulder where he was starting a fresh line. “Gown up, and start more peripherals.” I hopped out of the room to do as I was told, then rushed back in and pushed my way through all the people wearing Armani.
The man was already a maze of IV tubing—like a plastic spider had descended from the ceiling and started to wrap him up. Hands, forearms, elbows, jugulars, feet—I couldn’t see a single place to start a line that didn’t already have one going. For needing this much blood, he had to have an internal bleed, a huge one—but his stomach beneath the gown was soft to touch.
“Where?” I asked, finally giving up.
One of the men behind me started talking in a language I’d never heard before. Charles gestured to me from the head of the bed, after setting another IV pump to high flow. He made a zippering g
esture across his lips, and pushed his hands out at me. I took a corresponding step back.
The patient seized. I hadn’t noticed the restraints before. He was in four point, but not tethered too tightly. His hands thrashed against cuffs and his tied legs kicked in the bed, before his entire back spasmed, bowing him up before dropping back down.
The visitor who’d begun speaking continued. I looked around the room—their clothing matched one another, but not much else did. They were attractive, one and all, and some appeared Latino, or other variants of non-European. One was black, three were elderly, and the woman who’d spoken to me earlier kept a hand tight on Gaius’s—the only child present—shoulder.
The man speaking had dark hair going gray at both temples and a medium complexion. His thin lips curled around each rough syllable, and the other people in the room repeated him at intervals. They all knew the routine—it felt like a call and response. Since this wasn’t a political rally, I figured they must be at prayer. Who would a vampire pray to, though?
Meaty and Charles now stood by the head of the bed. The patient began writhing like he was demon-possessed. His eyes rolled back, flashing white under his lids, and he started frothing pink. Either he’d bit his own tongue while seizing, or he was having some sort of sudden left-sided heart failure. I looked over to Charles for guidance, who firmly shook his head.
The prayers rose to a fevered pitch as the blood drained in. I’d never seen blood given so fast—usually you had to watch for reactions, rejection, clotting issues. He definitely was reacting, his whole body thrashing, threatening to tip the whole bed frame over, but I had no clue what it meant. The bags emptied one by one, their pumps hissing to a stop before beeping complaints as the prayers rose in volume and were almost shouted, then—
Silence. Complete. Eerie. The only sound was the ragged breathing of the man on the bed. He spasmed again, sending the bed frame skittering sideways on the floor, locked wheels and all, before coming to a rest. Then the prayer leader drew a knife out from his breast pocket.
Nightshifted es-1 Page 8
