by Andrea Speed
“Freak?” he suggested.
“Hybrid,” she replied with an evil scowl. “If you were at all an optimist, we could say you were the best of both worlds.”
“My mother was a human and my father was a virus,” he replied sarcastically. Before she could tell him to knock it off, he held up the IV line. “So what’s this, then, if I’m fine?”
“Fluids. You were dehydrated and, believe it or not, mildly malnourished, and probably exhausted considering the way you slept. You’ve got to remember the way your metabolism changes even during partial shifts. It’s playing holy hell with every system in your body. You probably need ten hours sleep on days of change, and fuck knows how many calories, maybe ten thousand or so. You can’t act like it’s just a normal day, because it’s not.”
“Could it have been a migraine?”
She shook her head but then shrugged. “Can’t actually rule that out. We don’t know for sure how the change affects your migraines, so it’s possible there could be a trigger mechanism. But dehydration is definitely a trigger, so keep your fluids up, damn you.”
He dry washed his face, trying not to notice how hot and itchy his beard was, and wondered why he was so mad. What was he mad at? Her? Himself? His virus? “Am I in danger from aneurysms anymore?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I think you started having one, and it stopped.”
“Stopped?”
She nodded. “Makes no fucking sense to me either. Maybe it was just some weird kind of seizure. I can’t rule that out either.”
“It hurt like fuck.”
“No reason a seizure couldn’t.”
That was a fair point. “But you don’t think it was.”
“No. I think you almost had an aneurysm, and your body fought back. But since that’s illogical and can’t be proven, that’s pure speculation on my part.”
This was frustrating and threatened to make his head start hurting all over again. He noticed that there was one of those reusable shopping totes sitting on the floor beside the chair—Tank had accidentally been blocking his view of it. (Goalies made better doors than windows, even off the ice.) Were there clothes in it? He was pretty sure there were, as he thought he recognized the color of his zombie T-shirt (burnt orange). Dylan brought clothes, and Tank brought beer. He knew some great guys. If Dylan had also included his cell phone (he seriously needed to call Holden if he’d lost a day), he’d have to marry him later today.
“You’ve already tuned me out, haven’t you?” Rosenberg asked. It wasn’t accusatory, just weary.
“Am I going to drop dead of an aneurysm or not?”
“I don’t know. You could live until one hundred or die in sixty seconds; there are limits to adaptation. That’s why I want to get you into Willow Creek and scan the shit out of you.”
He got out of bed, taking a moment to steady himself, and then hauled the IV stand across the room with him as he walked to the bag of clothes. Yeah, he was wearing a stupid paper gown and his ass was hanging out, but Rosenberg had pretty much seen every inch of him so it didn’t matter. As he stepped into his jeans, he told her, “I have a case to finish. Once I’m done… fine, Willow Creek. But only to find out how much of me is still Human.”
“Don’t be an asshole. You’re Human.”
“Yeah, a Human who can change into a lion and stop his own aneurysms.”
“Speculation on my part,” she replied archly. “Don’t go on a self-pity trip.” He ripped off the paper gown and tossed it aside before pulling on his shirt. “Holy hell, when did you get so many tattoos?”
“A weird side effect of my self-pity trips. What did you say to Dylan? He looked upset.”
Here she paused, long enough for him to feel a warning spasm in his gut. What had she said? “I might have mentioned the thing about not knowing if you were all right or on the precipice.”
“So he thinks I could drop dead any minute. Terrific. Did you have to scare my boyfriend? Was it emotional blackmail to get me into Willow Creek?”
He got the evil scowl again, but probably for a good reason. Doctor Rosenberg could be a huge pain in his ass, but she usually wasn’t that manipulative. “I was thinking aloud. I’m worried about you, you stupid prick. And I’m not alone.”
He had to give her that. He was kind of worried too. In theory, this should have been good news. Maybe he wasn’t about to drop dead, maybe his head wasn’t going to implode.
So why didn’t it feel like good news?
14
Diamond Dogs
Roan pulled out his IV and then excused himself to sneak into the bathroom, mainly because he had to take a piss, but he also wanted to have a look at himself in the mirror. He held a wad of toilet paper to the IV exit wound until he forced a minor change, and got the skin to heal up enough that he didn’t have to worry about it.
Yeah, his beard was way too thick, and frankly it made him look a bit crazier than usual. But the worst part was his eyes. His blood vessels had healed, so his eyes were normal white, shot through with a couple of typical red capillaries. They looked fine, normal, except he knew they weren’t. His eyes were a lie, hiding a nature that was inhuman and inconstant. “Stop being such a freak, freak,” he muttered to himself, quietly so no one else heard and had him committed.
When he stepped out, Doctor Rosenberg had gone, and Dylan and Tank were back. It was like an odd version of visitor musical chairs, except no one was sitting. Dylan did have the now-empty tote bag slung over his shoulder, though, and Tank was holding the flowers. “Ready to go?” Dylan asked, trying to be chipper.
He nodded. “I’m starving. Can we stop somewhere on the way home?”
“Of course. What do you feel like?”
“Good question.” Roan held out his hand toward Tank, and he handed him the bouquet. Roan took the beer out, and handed it to Tank. “Hold on to that for me ’til we’re out of the hospital, okay?”
“Sure.”
Dylan eyed it in shock. “You brought him a beer?”
“He likes beer.”
“I like beer,” Roan echoed with a nod.
Dylan rolled his eyes and shook his head, and as they headed out into the hall, he asked Tank, “Is he a member of the team now? Did I miss a press conference?”
“He’s an honorary member,” Tank told him, struggling with the pronunciation of “honorary” for a moment. That was a hard word for those with pronounced French accents. “We expect him to jump on the ice and participate if there’s ever a bench-clearing brawl.”
They were walking down the hall, more or less shoulder to shoulder, but Roan could tell Dylan wasn’t overly pleased with this. “Do you expect any?”
“No, but it is hockey, so it could happen. And I hope it happens when we’re playing the Wheat Kings. I’d love to unleash Roan on this center, Constantin Bourdin. He thinks he’s Sidney Crosby, but the only thing he has in common with him is whining like a little puss. He needs to be beaten like a piñata full of Krugerrands.”
That made Roan stop to laugh, and it was one of those overwhelming, hard laughs that almost paralyzes you. It took him a moment to get himself under control, to find Dylan and Tank waiting for him, Dylan looking mildly concerned and Tank faintly, absently smiling. “That is the best metaphor I have ever heard. Can I use that?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Awesome.” He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, and as they started down the hall again, he held out the flowers toward a passing nurse. “Can you give these to someone who needs them?”
The nurse started at them and then him, but after a moment seemed to recognize him. “Oh, Roan, sure.” She took the flowers and moved on down the hall.
“Who was that?” Dylan wondered.
Roan shrugged. “No idea.” Dee seemed to know so many nurses and paramedics, Roan just assumed they knew him until it was obvious they didn’t.
They said good-bye to Tank in the parking lot, where he gave Roan the beer, and, much
to his shock, a slightly clumsy hug. Roan patted him on the back and thanked him, letting him know he could visit him and bring him beer any time.
As soon as he and Dylan were in the car, he opened the beer and took a swig and told Dylan, “I’m not going to drop dead any second, so you don’t have to worry about that. I’ve adapted.”
Dylan gave him a steady gaze that Roan had learned to interpret as “What the fuck are you on about?” It was close enough. “What does that mean?”
“Fuck if I know. Rosenberg told me I most likely had an aneurysm, but it stopped because I continue to adapt.” His mysterious anger returned, and he started to rant like a crazy person on a bus. Tears blurred his vision, but he wasn’t sure if they were sad or angry—probably both. “I’m gonna be the longest living infected ever. I’m gonna outlive them all, maybe as a human, maybe as a cat, maybe as a huge fucking bipedal virus—”
Dylan cupped his cheek with his hand, and that’s all he did, but it startled him into silence. He then leaned over and kissed him softly on the forehead. “I love you, no matter what. You know that.”
Roan rested his forehead against his and put a hand on his chest. Sweet man, one he didn’t deserve. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“The insanity that is my life. Me.”
“Hey, I signed up for this ride. I knew from past experience that sexy men were always trouble, and it wasn’t like your reputation didn’t precede you. I have no one to blame but myself.”
“You think I’m sexy?”
“Don’t fish for compliments.” He gave Roan another kiss, then sat back in the driver’s seat. As he put the keys in the ignition, he asked, “You’re one hundred percent certain that Tank is straight?”
“What are you implying?” He took another swig of the beer. If it was this good warm, it must have been a thousand times better cold. He looked at the label, but alas, it was in French. It had a picture of a sword and shield on it, though. What the hell was it, Gladiator Beer? (Motto: “For Those About To Die, We Beer You.”)
Dylan shrugged a single shoulder and shook his head, but as he started his car he just sat and stared at the windshield for a moment. “He’s fascinated by you. It’s definitely a man crush in one sense or another.”
“At least it’s mutual.” Dylan raised an eyebrow at that. “C’mon, he’s fucking cool. Anyone who can catch a thrown bottle before it smashes me in the face and stop a fight simply by scaring the shit out of the opponents is in my good books.”
The surprised look turned alarmed. “He did what now?”
He patted Dylan on the shoulder. “You should be glad he was there. When he does his intense crazy man act, no one wants to fight. They just want to run away and hide.”
“The fact that he has an intense crazy man act is alarming.”
“He’s a goalie. He’s gotta do something to defend himself.”
“They have big sticks.”
“If they hit someone with it, they’re penalized.”
“Oh. Is it because they could decapitate someone?”
Roan shrugged. “No idea. But you’d think.”
Once they were on the road, Roan turned on the radio, which was on one of the alternative stations (ah, Western Washington—there were a couple of “alternative” stations, but what it was the alternative to he had no idea), and they were playing Modest Mouse. When he heard the line “It coulda been, shoulda been worse than you will ever know—” he almost laughed. That was his medical diagnosis for the day.
They discussed where they’d stop for a bite to eat, and they decided on a nearby bakery, as Roan felt like sugar. He also asked Dylan if he’d found out about all that domestic partnership registry bullshit, and he said he had, which was good, as Roan figured they’d need to get that done before he disappeared into Willow Creek to be scanned within an inch of his life, in case something went wrong or the CDC decided to lock him up as a public menace.
Dylan hadn’t brought Roan's cell phone, but he’d brought his own, so he borrowed it to call Holden. Dylan was off at the glass-topped counter, ordering pastries and a green tea, while Roan sat at one of the tiny corner tables, feeling as gay as he had ever felt. Even when he married Paris, he didn’t feel this gay. It was probably all the lace tablecloths and the delft teapots with flowers on them. He suddenly wanted to camp it up like Pat Robertson was in the room.
He fought back the urge and called Holden (the gay hustler—well, this was a pretty fucking gay thing to do). The phone rang four times, and he thought he was going to get shunted to his call messaging when he finally picked up. “Hey, Roan, I was gonna visit you later,” he said, sounding slightly breathless.
“Did I interrupt something?” He felt intensely weird calling during one of Holden’s “dates.” It seemed like a grotesque invasion of privacy that he wanted no part of, even from a distance.
“No, I was just doing my crunches,” Holden said, audibly taking a drink. “Hundred a day. Can’t get six pack abs, but I still have to work to keep the flab away. It’s fucking unfair.”
Roan grunted an affirmative. As much as he found flat stomachs sexy, he actually felt working toward them was too much bother and not worth it. Which was why he’d probably lucked out in having his wonky metabolism, which sometimes made it difficult to keep weight on (especially when he transformed all the time). But wasn’t he just partially hospitalized for undernourishment, even though he’d eaten a whole pizza? It was a fucked-up world, and he couldn’t see eating like Mr. Creosote just to keep the pounds on. Life was too short (more in some cases than others), and frankly, he probably didn’t have the budget for it. If only being a superhero paid. “I was afraid you’d gone to meet snuff guy without me.”
“Oh hell no. I’m just bait, the sidekick who gets kidnapped and has to be rescued. You’re the macho hero who rides in and kicks ass.”
“Says the guy who stabbed the two asshats who assaulted him.”
“I never said I was completely helpless. I’m just not the demolition man that you are.”
“Ha.”
“So you out?” He could only mean out of the hospital, as he’d been out forever.
“Yeah. It wasn’t bad as it could have been, I just pushed myself too hard.”
“Wow, that’s new,” he replied sarcastically.
“Don’t you start.” Dylan came to the table, bearing a tray of pastries and a cup of mango-scented green tea. Roan gave him a nod of thanks and reached for the gooiest pastry, the one coated in what looked like chocolate icing with almost tarlike consistency. Of course, nothing here was a doughnut, everything had a French or Italian name, but damn it, it was a doughnut under an assumed name. He took a bite and enjoyed a minute of sugar-coated bliss. Here were those ten thousand calories that Rosenberg wanted him to eat in a single pastry.
“Snuff guy hasn’t gotten back to me yet,” Holden admitted, with a disappointed sigh. “I don’t know if I’m not the type he was looking for, too professional, or too old.”
“Old? Come on, you’re not old.”
“Yeah, I am. In hooker years, I’m like eighty. So I’m trying to get someone else in on this. I’m thinking Phoenix will be up for it. He’s a tough kid. He did a gig or two with Coyote so he’s good for the revenge angle, and he’s twenty-three but looks seventeen, so I can’t see them ignoring this bait.”
Roan scowled down at the neat lace tablecloth. He didn’t like exposing someone he didn’t know to a bunch of murderous assholes. He didn’t feel good exposing Holden to them either, but at least he took some consolation in the fact that Holden was a much harder target than he looked. He could play up his lisp and seem super-harmless, but people really had to not be paying attention to the look in his eyes, which was hooker hard and merciless. Everything had a price. “We don’t even have a workable plan. How can you bring someone else into this?” He was careful not to look at Dylan, as he knew the look Dylan would be giving him.
“I don’t like it either, but letti
ng them get away is not an option.”
Well, he had to give him that. They’d killed three people that they knew about—who knew how many more that hadn’t been found? If they’d found one body for every two killed (a low estimate), that still put the body count at six.
“Oh, there was something I wanted to show you. You on your phone?”
“I’m on Dylan’s phone.”
“Web enabled?”
He checked. “Looks like it. Why?”
“I’m gonna send you a screen capture. I’ve been trying to comb through the films, trying to spot any recognizable faces. I’ve heard from a couple of girls working the street that Ebony has just dropped off the map, so I’ve been looking for her, and I noticed this kid and he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I thought you might know him.”
