Nocturnal Part 25

I pulled out of his grip, shoving my hands in my pockets and focusing intently on Arnold's wry conversation with Ken. Though I was surprised to see that in the short time I'd looked away, Jack and the other White Hats had left the room. The only people still in the crowded kitchen were Joe, some of the people from the dressing rooms, the security guards, and the trussed-up AOA members. The tingle of ozone in the air made me wonder if Arnold had something to do with their little disappearing act.

"I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

John leaned in close, keeping his voice low. "I'm sure this must have been upsetting for you. Can I get you a drink to settle your nerves? Maybe take you someplace a little quieter?"

I couldn't help it. I laughed.

"How's this for an answer?"

Pushing off the counter, I walked over to Arnold, cutting him off midsentence as I yanked him down to press my lips to his. He was startled at first but soon reciprocated in kind. I poured every ounce of relief and pa.s.sion into the gesture that was left to me after the crazy night we'd had. He cradled me against him, the hard lines of his muscles arching and sliding under my fingertips, and I sensed a matching desperation and relief in his touch. The electric tingle on my arm matched the sensation of our lips crushed together, thrills of pleasure tracing wicked fingers along my spine.

It took awhile for us to finish, and this time it was to the sounds of catcalls and a few cheers. Joe was laughing, a rough guffaw that no longer grated on my nerves. When I looked up, John's envious expression was soon replaced by resignation.

I barely noticed. For that moment, with Arnold holding me so tight, nothing else mattered. Not the dead people left behind by the AOAs. Not the people in the room with us. Not even the prospect of dealing with the police in the near future or having to explain what happened tonight could bring me down.

The worry and fear of getting hurt, of dying, of losing him-all of it was washed away in that simple, ardent kiss.

Chapter 15.

We waited about a week to visit Shiarra in the hospital again, giving excuses about work and "an unexpected emergency we didn't want her to worry herself over."

Arnold was skilled at defensive magic, but he claimed not to have his brother's gift at healing. Unskilled or not, thanks to his help, the swelling and bruises on my face faded remarkably fast. It took longer for the worst of the aches and pains to die away.

By the time we saw Shiarra, every outward sign of the fight was gone. She was suspicious-no PI worth her salt wouldn't be at our lame excuses-but since we were being cagey about what had happened and she was still abed, there wasn't much she could do to investigate. Thank G.o.d.

"So, when did that start?" Shiarra asked, gesturing at our entwined fingers with the hand that wasn't wrapped in bandages.

Arnold smiled and lifted our hands to brush his lips over the backs of my knuckles. "A few days ago. It just sort of happened."

"Right," she said, rolling her eyes before giving me a pointed look. "Does this mean Officer s.h.i.thead is out of the picture for good?"

I answered without the slightest hesitation. "You bet."

A knock drew our attention to the door where a nurse held a large bouquet of white roses. Judging by the twinkle in her eyes and her cherubic grin, she'd been star struck by whoever talked her into delivering them. "A gentleman just dropped this off for you. Mr. Royce sends his regards. Make sure you read that card. It's very sweet."

Expression darkening, Shiarra gestured vaguely at the mountain of flowers overflowing from the furniture to the floor. Most had been dropped off by the myriad well-wishers she'd saved, directly or indirectly, from the crazy sorcerer. "Thanks."

The nurse placed the roses prominently before the other flowers, briefly fussing with the arrangement before leaving us alone. Shiarra cursed once she was gone.

"Will you please take that with you when you leave?"

"Nope," I said, grinning at her. "They're all yours. Anyway, we should get going. I'll come back tomorrow."

"Bring me some chocolate next time! This hospital food is killing me."

Laughing, I agreed, and Arnold and I got up to go. Shiarra called out one more time before we made it out the door. "Arnold?"

"Yeah?"

"If you make her cry, I am so kicking your a.s.s."

He placed his free hand over his heart, an unusually solemn expression crossing his features. "Shia, believe me, that's the last thing I want to make her do. Don't worry, I'll take good care of her."

Shiarra gave him the stink eye. When he didn't break under her distrustful look, keeping the serious mien, she eventually broke into a grin that brought new life to her pallid features.

"Good. I think I owe you too much to beat you up anyway."

We all smiled at that, and Arnold and I walked out into the hall with a lighter step, though our good cheer faltered at the sight of Alec Royce at the end of the hall, waiting patiently by the elevators.

With a last look over my shoulder at Shiarra's room, I led the way to where the vampire stood with his head bowed and hands clasped together at the small of his back. His black eyes gleamed with some strange emotion when he lifted his head to regard us, staring at me. It took me a moment to remember to avert my gaze.

"Ms. Halloway. You're looking well."

I inclined my head, leaning into Arnold's warmth. "Yes, I'm doing better. The club reopen yet?"

"No. The police need a little more time before I can send in a cleaning crew." He straightened, glancing in the direction of Shiarra's room down the hall. "Did she accept the flowers?"

"Sort of."

"Hmm. Well, I do hope she'll be back on her feet soon. We have some matters to discuss."

Both brows shot up toward my hairline. That didn't sound good. Arnold's grip around my waist tightened, his muscles stiffening. Royce smiled at our reactions, some tension in his frame easing away.

"Don't worry, Ms. Halloway. I don't intend to draw her into my affairs the way I did with you. We simply have some unfinished business," he said, his mild tone at odds with the wicked gleam in his eye. "Speaking of which, I've made the arrangements for the hospital bills, and to ensure all of my people know that your sister is off limits to them. I do hope that is satisfactory."

Relief surged through me, and I might very well have sunk to my knees if Arnold hadn't had his arm around my waist. Janine would be okay. John would stay away from her. It made the whole crazy business worthwhile.

"You have my grat.i.tude, Ms. Halloway, and that of my people. You did a far better job than expected, and I feel I owe you a debt for going above and beyond what was asked of you. Call Angus if you need his services or my connections."

Still weak with relief, being handed that bit of news was too much for me to roll with. I simply nodded and did my best not to gape or stare. Royce turned to Arnold, laughter edging his words.

"If you see him, be sure to tell Jack that Ken was disappointed at his rapid exit. The invitation still stands."

Amus.e.m.e.nt colored Arnold's response. "I'll do that."

Royce nodded and turned his attention back down the hall to Shiarra's room, clearly dismissing us as he resumed his earlier stance. Though it was unnerving how intently focused he was, I had the feeling he was here out of a sense of obligation. I'd seen him hovering around the halls and waiting rooms in the hospital several times before, but he never actually approached my partner. Whether he was worried about what Shiarra's reaction to his presence might be, or simply felt it best to give her time and distance before seeing her about that "unfinished business," there was an undeniable protective air about his demeanor. No crazed sorcerers, angry werewolves, or rogue vampires would be bothering her with him hanging around, I was sure.

Arnold and I continued past him to the elevators. Once inside and alone, he rubbed my shoulder, bringing my attention off my thoughts about what Royce had said and up to green eyes glinting with mischief.

"Hey, the night is still young. How about that date we were supposed to go on? Just you and me, remember?"

I replied by yanking him into a kiss, stealing his breath as I pulled him down to meet my lips. A hot, electric tingle raced over the places our skin met, matching the somehow pleasant fire quivering along the runes etched into my arm. When we finally broke apart, I waggled my brows, the two of us grinning foolishly at each other. "Answer enough?"

"Oh, yeah."

MY SOUL TO TAKE.

By Clare Willis

Chapter 1.

"Oh yeah, and the guy in 148 is possessed." Rashad Simpkins yawned so wide I could count the silver fillings in his molars. His eyes squeezed shut and his forehead wrinkled halfway up his shaved pate. Stubble peppered his almond-hued skin.

"Possessed by what?" I took a sip of my venti mocha as I flipped open the medical chart. It was seven a.m., the start of my shift at the inpatient psychiatric unit at Pacific University Hospital, and the end of Rashad's. He was giving me the overnight report, filling me in on the new admits.

"I don't know, Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean? Pirates of the Caribbean?" He gulped from his aluminum go-cup.

"You mean he sounds like Keith Richards talking through a mouthful of marbles?"

He shook his head. "Not the accent. The look."

Rashad smelled of disinfectant and coffee, but all in all he'd had a good night, judging from the spa.r.s.e stack of charts in front of me. He might even have gotten a couple of hours of shut-eye.

The nursing station was a beehive of activity, bleary-eyed nurses and techs on their way out exchanging small talk and official business with their neatly coiffed and fresh-faced replacements. Ambulatory patients in regulation hospital gowns wandered past, some talking to nurses or family members, others conversing with invisible companions. Phones rang, fax machines buzzed. My heart rate ratcheted up as I prepared to leap into the whirl of activity. If this day was going to be like all the others, I would barely have time to pee before the night shift came on again.

I scanned Rashad's notes on the possessed man. It had taken three years of shared residency for me to decipher the chicken scratch he called writing. "He's a suicide attempt? 5150?"

"Yup. Mr. Fielding will be our guest for seventy-two hours of spa treatments and organic gourmet meals. His parents are around here somewhere, by the way."

Between yawns and sips of coffee, Rashad filled me in on the rest of our guests as I flipped through their charts. There was a forty-five-year-old female manic-depressive who'd gone off her meds, and a teenager whose parents had caught her cutting herself when they went into her room to tuck her in. We had a frequent flyer, a homeless man by the name of Slice who wound up either here or in city lockup a couple of times a month. The Chronicle Chronicle had recently reported that Mr. Slice had personally cost the city of San Francisco $150,000 in the past year in hospitalization and ambulance costs. This news had caused a spirited discussion in the break room about the obligations of government to its citizens, which I steadfastly refused to join. Decisions about the rationing of health care were way above my pay grade. had recently reported that Mr. Slice had personally cost the city of San Francisco $150,000 in the past year in hospitalization and ambulance costs. This news had caused a spirited discussion in the break room about the obligations of government to its citizens, which I steadfastly refused to join. Decisions about the rationing of health care were way above my pay grade.

"A good night's work, Rashad," I said. "Now get some rest."

"I will," he replied, popping his pen into the breast pocket of his wrinkled white coat. He smoothed his hands over his shiny head. "I have a date tonight, gotta be fresh."

"Who would date you? you?" I was joking. Rashad was young, handsome, buff, and gay, and this was San Francisco.

"Oh, there's plenty of fish in the sea." Rashad elbowed me in the side. "Even for a shark like you, Maggie. When was the last time you went on a date, by the way?"

Rashad's cool, clinical gaze forced me to a.s.sess myself as an impartial observer might. My long brown hair was clean, but it was pulled back into a utilitarian ponytail that emphasized the sharpness of my chin rather than my large hazel eyes and shapely dark eyebrows. Speaking of eyebrows, how long had it been since I'd had them waxed? I rubbed my dry lips together. The only makeup I was wearing was SPF 15 moisturizer. When had I dropped my customary lipstick and mascara? Probably somewhere around the second year of a grueling work schedule that left me so tired I was constantly rubbing my eyes, leaving rac.o.o.n rings. Makeup was another thing I had decided to put off until I graduated, along with sleeping, buying clothes, and having a decent s.e.x life.

I squared my shoulders and returned Rashad's stare, eye to eye, as we were almost the same height. "I'm busy." I hoisted the charts to emphasize my point. "I'm chief resident, in case you hadn't noticed."

Rashad smiled. "Seriously, Maggie, you need to get laid."

"Amen," said a voice from the nurses' station. I recognized its alto pitch as belonging to Wanda, one of the longest-serving nurses on staff, but she never looked up from her desk or slowed the tapping of her fingers on the keyboard.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I snapped.

Wanda's shoulders lifted in a slight shrug.

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," Rashad said. "Haven't you seen The Shining? The Shining?"

"You bring that up when I'm about to go see a patient who says he's possessed?"

I read the rest of Mr. Fielding's chart on the way to his room. Rashad had made an initial diagnosis and ordered meds. Derek Fielding was the right age and gender for the onset of schizophrenia, and his clinical presentation was indicative of that diagnosis. The parents, who lived in Oakland, had come to the hospital last night, and Rashad had written up his interview with them. According to the parents, Derek Fielding had no previous psychiatric history. He had the foresight to buy medical insurance. He was a successful folk musician about to go out on tour to support a new alb.u.m. This suicide attempt was a complete and shocking surprise to them.

I felt a wave of sympathy at the thought of another life lost to the all-consuming wildfire of mental illness, but I pushed the feeling away. After seven years in the medical profession I was getting better at putting my emotions in a box. I always intended to take the box out later, because I knew from clinical experience that pent-up emotions were harmful, but the right time never seemed to come. I had seen so many patients crash and burn that if I paused to mourn them all I would never get anything done. Mr. Fielding didn't need my sympathy; he needed my expertise. I tucked the chart under my arm, spilling coffee on my white coat in the process, and opened the door.

I heard him before I saw him. A tenor voice of unearthly beauty was singing a lullaby, one I knew intimately but hadn't heard in years. In an instant the pale yellow hospital walls fell away, replaced by fading wallpaper adorned with roses and creeping vines. I was in my childhood bedroom, on the second floor of a shotgun house in the Garden District of New Orleans. The window was open to catch any breeze that might blow in to relieve the stultifying August heat. The setting sun tinted the room rose gold, a color I could see even through my closed eyelids.

Lying on my narrow iron bed, with Aloysius the teddy bear under my chin, I tucked my light cotton nightgown between my sweaty legs to keep them from sticking together. My sister Eva tossed and turned in her matching bed, trying to find a cool spot on the sheets. Between us was a rocking chair, creaking as it moved in time to the lullaby. Mama was on the last verse, one I rarely heard because I was usually asleep. But that night it was too hot to sleep, so I listened to the words, which were beautiful but frightening.

Hark, a solemn bell is ringing Clear through the night Thou, my love, art heavenward winging Home through the night.

Earthly dust from off thee shaken Soul immortal shalt thou awaken With thy last dim journey taken Home through the night.

Just as Mama reached the last, trilling note, a bird flew in the window. It fluttered, confused, near the steeple ceiling of our attic bedroom. Mama launched into another tune, this one about birdeens birdeens singing a fluting song. My sister and I jumped out of bed. Laughing and tumbling over each other, the three of us managed to shoo the bird out the window. singing a fluting song. My sister and I jumped out of bed. Laughing and tumbling over each other, the three of us managed to shoo the bird out the window.

The hospital room went silent. Like a pebble dropped in a pond, I tumbled through my insubstantial memories, back to the hard ground of reality. I turned eight that summer, and that night was one of the last times I heard Mama singing. She died the same year, two days before Christmas.

I pulled the door shut and surveyed the room. The bed was empty. The heavy old visitor's chair was turned to face the back wall. Nothing to look at, but that was where he was. His head drooped onto his chest as if he was asleep. I walked around the chair to face him and felt a tiny shock at seeing his eyes open and staring.