Blood Song

The receptionist reappeared after only a minute or two. That she came to me instead of others who’d been waiting longer raised a few brows. I didn’t care. I was too raw, the pain too fresh for me to bear being in public for too much longer.



“Dr. Scott will see you now.”



I followed her down a long wood-paneled hallway lined with impressionist paintings in gilt frames until we reached a heavy set of mahogany doors. Despite their apparent weight, the receptionist pulled one of them open and held it for me with silent ease.



I stepped over the threshold and took a long look around.



To say Dr. Scott’s office was spacious was an understatement. The house I grew up in probably would’ve fit inside. Although the house had a bathroom. Come to think of it, there probably was one behind one of the pair of doors on the north wall.



The entire west wall was windows, so that even through the thin film of cream-colored drapes I could see a wide expanse of ocean, a spectacular sunset coloring the clouds and water with shades of mauve, orange, crimson, and purple. It was just the sort of sunset that Vicki and I had watched only a few weeks before in her room, sipping on chilled iced tea with a hint of peach while breathing in the tangy ocean air.



The sunset expanded into this room, decorated to incorporate the view—the golden tans of sand with the blues and greens of the sea and sky. Dr. Scott sat behind a table made from glass and weathered driftwood. Instead of the traditional suit, he wore khakis and a melon-colored polo shirt that showed off his dark skin and the shining silver of his hair and beard. Loafers with no socks completed the outfit.



“Come in, come in.” He gestured toward a conversation grouping in an area far from any stray patches of sunlight. “Pardon my appearance. I’d scheduled the day off—”



He gave me a penetrating glance, taking in the red eyes, the chapped nose that was already healing. “I don’t need to tell you, do I?”



I shook my head, tears threatening again while my stomach wanted to relieve itself of contents, and mumbled, “No.”



He moved behind the desk, settling into the enveloping leather of a high-end executive chair. “Has word leaked to the press?”



“Not from me.” My voice sounded tight, not surprising. It was all I could do to force words past the lump in my throat. “I was on my way here for a visit when her ghost manifested in my car.”



“Considering how close you were and the strength of her force of will, I’m not surprised.” He shook his head sadly and modulated his voice. “I’m so very sorry for your loss. Please be assured we did everything we could. Unfortunately, based on her medical records, we always knew it was a possibility—”



I lowered myself into the enveloping chair without answering. I hadn’t known it was a possibility. I’d never asked anything about Vicki’s medical history. He could be telling the truth or lying through his teeth. I had no way of knowing.



“Which was why we had procedures in place to care for her in an emergency.” He continued speaking without hesitation. If he sensed my mood, he ignored it. Leaning forward across the desk, he addressed me respectfully, his expression earnest. “As is the case with any death of one of our patients, we’ve reported the incident to the authorities, and they will launch their usual investigations. I don’t expect them to find any negligence.”



Neither did I. Even if there was a problem, there was enough money floating around this place that I was betting it would be handled discreetly. But I wasn’t going to say that. It would be rude. And while I am more than capable of being rude when the occasion calls for it, I wanted information.



“I appreciate your concern. I know that Vicki chose Birchwoods because of its stellar reputation.”



“Thank you.” He gave me a gentle smile. “Can I get you a drink? I’d offer food, but the only guest we’ve ever had with your condition wasn’t able to process solids, so I’m not sure it would be appropriate.”



So, the closed drapes were no coincidence. Gerry must have called ahead, which also explained the receptionist’s lack of reaction. I found it very interesting that they’d dealt with someone with my condition … especially since my condition was supposed to be pretty damned rare. I was curious, but he wanted me to ask, so I perversely avoided the question and got to the point of my visit.



“Can you tell me what happened?”



It was a deliberate question, because I’m not part of Vicki’s family. He nodded, just the tiniest drop of his chin, and folded his hands on the tinted glass. “Ms. Cooper left the appropriate written permissions for us to speak with you frankly. You’re probably aware that, as is the case with many high-level psychics, Vicki frequently suffered from both migraines and severe insomnia.”



Okay, that I did know. Vicki was always trying the latest homeopathic treatments for headaches—from weird herbs to gadgets that would change the lighting in the room and even magic charms to change her “energy patterns.” And she was forever calling me on the phone at weird hours. But I never really related those things to her psychic ability. Lots of people get migraines and can’t sleep.



I got caught up in memories and nearly missed what he said next. “It was the late-shift nurse’s duty to check on her when she came on duty at eleven and again at two. If Ms. Cooper was having trouble sleeping, at two A.M. she would be given the option of taking sleeping medication.”



I nodded. This wasn’t news.



“The file shows that when the nurse checked at eleven, Ms. Cooper was fine. She was using the mirror you gave her to channel her visions and seemed quite happy and pleased with the results. Nurse”—he flipped to a page in the file to check the name—“Phillips states that Vicki indicated it was her best birthday ever, and said that she would be going to bed after a bit.” That made me smile. I’d worked hard to have that mirror made so it would respond perfectly.



He read from the notes on his desk, “‘When she saw the light still on at one forty-five, Nurse Phillips knocked on the door. When there was no response, she entered and found Ms. Cooper unconscious and unresponsive on the floor. She called in a code blue and immediately began CPR.’”



I was trying to listen to what he was saying. I heard the words. But I couldn’t seem to concentrate on their meaning. It seemed wrong, and I couldn’t figure out why until it hit me between the eyes.



“Wait. She died last night?” At nearly the same time as I did—? “Then why did she only manifest in my car a few minutes ago? And why hasn’t anyone contacted me until now?”



His brows rose just the slightest bit. “But we did try to contact you. Repeatedly. I presumed you were coming now because of my messages.”



Crap. So I’d been dealing with my own piddly problems while my best friend had been lying here, dead? For long enough that she had to come get me to make me notice. Another pain hit me in the chest and I felt my hands clutching the chair arms so hard the cloth began ripping under my grasp.



Dr. Scott kept talking. “Naturally, she’s only now able to manifest because it takes time for the soul to leave the body, reject the natural transition to the afterlife, and return to Earth. Actually, the process normally takes longer, but Vicki was an extraordinarily gifted person. She was already on a higher plane of consciousness, so it’s very clear why her return was faster.”



Clear? It didn’t seem clear to me. In fact, I was suddenly having trouble thinking clearly about anything. The final rays of sunlight behind Dr. Scott had turned that startling bloodred that spoke of clear sailing tomorrow. I found myself staring at the neck beneath that melon-colored collar, watching the pulse beat under his red-tinted skin. I could actually hear the blood pumping through his veins. My mouth started watering and my stomach rumbled audibly. I had to fight not to lunge across the distance between me and the doctor. I dug my fingers into the chair arms and felt them sink down, and down. An odd squeaking accompanied the sensation, making me twitchy.



Dr. Scott’s eyes widened and he began sweating. The scent of his sudden fear tasted salty on my tongue. My stomach rumbled again, but I didn’t move. That tiny part of my brain that was still me dug in with every ounce of stubborn will, refusing to give in to the overwhelming craving that had nothing to do with me, right here and right now. I moved my hands to my legs, forcibly holding them to the chair. I would not stand.



The last vestiges of glow settled into the ocean and the pale blue of the sky turned to new denim. Unexpectedly, things in the room grew brighter, as though each piece of furniture had an internal light. Brightest of all was Dr. Scott himself. He glowed and pulsed with healthy, vibrant life and I absolutely knew that he would taste as sweet and syrupy as the finest melted Swiss chocolate.



My eyes followed him with preternatural clarity as he moved with exquisite slowness to reach for the telephone extension on the end table next to him.



“Ms. Graves, can you hear me? Are you still in there?”



“Yesssss.” My voice sounded odd and strained.



“When was the last time you ate anything?” He started punching numbers … misdialed, and had to try again. But his voice was steady and he was keeping his wits about him. So long as he didn’t run, didn’t move, I was almost sure I could hold on. Almost.



“Before the attack.”



He swallowed convulsively. I watched his Adam’s apple move, saw the pulse in his throat speed up. I forced myself to close my eyes, taking deep breaths through my mouth rather than my nose until I was almost panting. If I didn’t see his pulse, didn’t smell his fear, maybe it would be easier to stay in control. I needed to do something, because every second frayed that last thread of humanity I was clinging to.



“Heather, I need appropriate nourishment for Ms. Graves. NOW.” He didn’t sound panicked, but the tone of his voice left no doubt it was an emergency. I had to admire his self-control. As a bodyguard I’ve seen men who seemed far tougher than he was crumble in the face of this kind of stress.